The Wanderer of the North

by Alaxsxaq

4. The Twin Goddesses: Part 19. The Battle for Equestria

A hundred feet were all the remained between them. Marshal Stellara and the sovereigns of her country stood in a broad line, armor donned and weapons girt. Looking across at them were the chiefs of the clans and tribes that had amassed far out west. A varied band of barbarians, these creatures scowled and glowered at their “hosts”.

Banners fluttering the wind, the two factions finally decided to stop exchanging looks and meet at last. Tall Stellara was matched with the Minotaur King, Aurýx. The scarred silver-blue bull held a glaive, blade down. His hand moved to the necklace of claws, teeth, and a single white horn. “Where is she?” he demanded, jingling the necklace.

Marshal Stellara simply stared at him with her heavy gaze. The bull snorted indignantly.

King Aurýx was joined by his comrades. Great Warchief Jasicus stood to his right, curved falchion at his side. A grizzled zebra, strange jewelry adorning his face in strange ways, stood at the minotaur’s left. And a thestral hovered above. It caught Stellara’s eye, its dark fur very much like her own, its golden eyes possessing a nightly beauty. But she’d only seen these creatures once in Mareposa; they were so exotic she couldn’t quite tell the gender of their supposed leader.

But those four were it. Stellara shifted her head a few times, “Where is Noblesse Oblige?”

The minotaur grumbled, “Fled. Lost the stomach for fighting.” Stellara raised an eyebrow.

Jasicus saw the incredulity in the alicorn’s face, “Do you expect anything less from a faithless traitor?”

“So he turned tail and ran? We’ll deal with Trottingham in time…,” brooded Princess Brynhilda, nursing a dark grin.

“Perhaps he knew best; your god is defeated,” declared the midnight Marshal, “Thrown down by the deeds of myself and my sister.” Stellara then nodded at Princess Nephele.

Taking the summons, the old pegasus flared her wings, “This war is over. Our terms are generous: abandon your treasure and conquests, and return home. Remain, and die.”

King Aurýx began to growl, half-tempted to crush the insolent mare’s skull right there. Jasicus noticed and gently raised a hoof at the minotaur’s leg. The aged tan stallion’s eyes dropped and his voice became low and solemn, “We’ve gone too far now. We will die if we turn back.”

“My warriors have come far with our beasts; to come back poor is a shame we cannot live with,” spoke the zebra chief, voice deep and with a certain rhythm to it. The thestral simply hovered above and stared, not speaking or making any kind of gesture.

“Then our words have failed, it seems,” King Hillwick sighed.

“Save your breath for battle, Friends!” Rufus of Fillydelphia sneered before turning back to the Equestrian camp. Soon the rest of the Lords joined him, leaving just Stellara and Nephele. The blue alicorn stayed still for a moment, finally spotting the vast array of enemies on the further field. She turned her head to her own forces, and felt her heart drop—would it be enough?

Princess Nephele smiled and draped a wing over Stellara, “We’ve spent quite a while on planning. Trust in our soldiers, in your commanders, and yourself. Tonight we’ll feast on ale and cake!”

“Or lie dead on the ground,” Stellara mumbled. She perked up, “Right! To your position, Your Highness.” Nephele spread her wings and flew off to join her unit, Marshal Stellara soaring towards her own position.

At the front-center of the Equestrian army, behind three lines of the assembled pikes Stellara assumed her command. In the deep formations Stellara could see some eighty-thousand ponies all equipped with the tools of war, their steel glinting in her sister’s Sun. The pegasi had cleared the skies for today; it was deemed more important to prevent speedy thestrals from using the cover than for any other advantage pegasi might derive from it.

Each Princeling was assigned a particular formation, all arranged with a particular maneuver in mind. A broad line, centered by Stellara’s own pikes including the Canterlot Guard, was supported in the rear by archers and other missile troops. Behind them were the famed Hoofington Battle-Mages, cunning and skillful casters who could use deadly weaponized magic. Their Prince Luminescent, armed with his ancient heirloom blade Evenstar directed them. They were positioned atop a rocky bluff, giving them a wide and high view and effective range.

The flanks would be the real deciding factor. The left one was spearheaded by Horsava’s Hussars, led by their fearsome Princess Brynhilda. Heavily-armored lancers, they wore iron mail and laced plates. Upon their backs the unicorn and earth pony soldiers donned flamboyant wings adorned with feathers. When they charged forward the sounds these wings made were said to strike fear into their foes’ hearts. Though long settled, the Horsavish remembered their wild days on the plains, and relished glorious battle.

Behind them heavy swords, maces and axes protected the rear. This left reserve of heavy troops was commanded by King Hillwick. If any of the enemy sought to overwhelm or outflank the Hussars, they’d have to contend with Poneva’s warrior-king and his blade Snowdread.

And a critical component of the left hovered above: Nephele’s pegasi. The thestrals represented a highly-mobile force that if unopposed could control the terrain. Nephele’s chief mission was to contain and eliminate these bat-ponies by any means necessary.

The right flank was very much like the left. First were the heavy knights commanded by Rufus of Fillydelphia, blood boiling for battle since the first raiders crossed his marchlands. Sir Grimheim of Canterlot and his Free Knights would fight with them. Behind, their reserve of soldiers was led by Wealthford of Detrot. And finally the other half of the pegasi, led by Princess Nephele’s most trusted lieutenant.

Poor King Auburn Flare, little left for him besides his own retinue of warriors, was granted a place in the center beside Stellara. But he took it with good humor, and his petty jealousy faded to a focused desire to reclaim his kingdom.

With the mighty host arrayed, the plan could be executed. Stellara had determined this place a good spot for battle. Looking westwards, a low ridge of hills stood to the north, and to the south was a river behind which was a birch-wood. The river flowed east to west; the Equestrians therefore were unable to control the advantage there, and the Horde had already advanced past where further downstream it turned southwards. The idea was to funnel the enemy into this comparatively narrow valley.

Stellara boasted that these savages were not so tactically inclined; this was a bit of an overstatement. They might have been brutish, cruel, and violent, but they were not without their own cunning. They would act with reason, and her gut told her they’d try and crush the center. If they broke through, the Equestrian force would be divided in two and easily surrounded.

Trying to match their frontal assault would only lead to stalemate, a battle of attrition that by mathematics the Horde would win. No, Stellara thought of something better. The pikes would do what they did best and hold the center while the enemy was harassed. The flanks would advance and try to beat the lightly-armored mustangs doubtlessly attempting to outmaneuver.

A double envelopment, the supreme achievement of any military commander. Stellara did not expect it to happen so smoothly, but if only a few decisive outcomes played out in various sectors, victory was all the more feasible.

The Supreme Commander of the Equestrian Host adjusted her armor, ensuring it fit snugly and comfortably. There were to be no chaffs, no pinches, no unexpected complications. To her left, sitting upon his haunches, was her temporary squire. Veroche, the green earth pony, cradled her crested helm in his forelegs. Wearing a coat of mail and a short sword, he nonetheless still looked frightened.

Stellara caught the helmet in pale blue magic and placed it upon her periwinkle mane. Tying the strap just right, she looked back at the squire, “Stay close to me, and you’ll be fine.” He nodded and silently obliged, starring forwards at the formations. Stellara smirked, “Don’t worry, lad; my sister expects her squire back in one piece—I don’t want to disappoint her.”

At her right stood Henarion in full battle-dress, the God-Cleaver at his belt. He kept his good eye on his niece, reaffirming his sole duty to keep Stellara alive until the bitter end. “How are you feeling, Girl?” he leaned in and asked.

“Burdened, I think is the best word. That is…if I don’t win this battle, I might as well die in it.” Henarion frowned, but said nothing. “Do you remember that filly at the Vale? Orchard Blossom? She was so scared…and in her eyes I saw betrayal. She had trusted me…I sometimes still have nightmares about it. And now there are eighty-thousand Orchard Blossoms here, all depending on me.”

Henarion did remember that pegasus, and he knew very well the type of dreams Stellara talked about. “Nightmares like that come and go over the years, but they’re a sign that you still have a good heart. But do you remember what happened after she was killed?” Stellara turned and raised an eyebrow. “You took charge, and won. One’s regrets can weigh heavy on one’s mind, but they can also become a source of strength.”

Stellara did not smile, but she did not frown either. A slight nod, “Thank you, Uncle. Still, I’d wish Nikól were here…but we couldn’t wait any longer.”

“She’s gonna miss one hell of a good fight,” Henarion grinned, stretching and popping his joints.

“Indeed.” Swallowing her nerves, Stellara charged her horn and enchanted her voice. Spreading her wings, she took to the sky and lorded over the soldiers of Equestria. One deep breath began it, “Friends! Lords, Knights, and common folk alike! Words are for poets; I do not intend to bore you with empty speeches. Our actions shall speak louder than any voice every could!” Already that familiar clanging of swords and spears echoed. “We are eager, we are ready! Sheer destruction stares us in the face, so what I ask you all free people is to fight! Fight as though it were your last day! Fight as though immortality were the prize! Fight as though your children, your homes, your country were in peril!”

The roar was massive, a wave of fervor spreading across the field. Marshal Stellara’s magic drew her blades as she narrowed her teal eyes at the advancing horde. “These barbarians have come this far into our country; let them come no further!” Touching down onto ground, Stellara rose Ailéránen and swung it forward, “All formations! Advance!”

And the hooves of thousands of soldiers began to stomp, trampling the grass and weeds beneath. Overhead the two pegasi wings flew forth to engage their targets, and from behind the archers were nocking arrows and the battle-mages beginning their conjurings. Marshal Stellara spared a glance at King Auburn Flare, regal and willing for combat. From what she could see, both flanks were beginning their marches, the knights and hussars at the front.

Being so tall, Stellara was able to use her keen vision to see above the pike formations. Through the forest of raised spears she saw the head of the incoming foe; the mass of minotaur warriors, the lumbering shapes of greater warbeasts behind. “First line, deploy pikes!” she commanded, and soon the first three ranks of the first line, the most elite pike forces of all the realms, lowered their long spears. “Forward march!” and Stellara’s center continued.

High above in the sky, Princess Nephele flew beside her warriors and the other pegasi. Ninety-three but astoundingly still hale enough for war, she drew her ancestral greatsword Thundermaul. She spotted the incoming south thestral wing and called to her warriors to ready for sport. Her vanguard was the pride of Cloudsdale, the Wonderbolts. They had been raised centuries ago, and lived and breathed flying. If they were not fighting in the air, they were performing great feats of aerial prowess. They had become popular for their shows and displays, but the Wonderbolts were at their core warriors.

“Strike like thunder and lightning!” Nephele belted, charging headlong into the incoming thestrals. Within seconds Thundermaul had cut two of these dark flyers out of the sky. But their reputation was well-earned; thestrals were incredibly quick and agile, and confounded some of the weaker flyers amongst the pegasi. But Nephele and her Wonderbolts were in a different league entirely.

Above the river, Cloudsdale pegasi performed one of their favorite tactics: the sky-ribbon. Nephele and her officers gathered at the front of a large wedge formation, and once they broke through to the rear of the poorly-organized thestrals, the wedge-point broke into several single-files. With their precision the Wonderbolts curved back, creating a kind of net around the thestrals. The bat-ponies contested by the other pegasi, these Cloudsdale elites were able to fly back to their starting position before crossing over the opposite route.

Thus dozens of pegasi formed this basket in the sky, darting faster and faster as they grew more familiar with the current situation. Any thestral that tried to break out was attacked in a rapid succession of strikes. Enveloped on all sides, the bat-ponies were now at the mercy of the pegasi.

Nephele began the slaughter and hundreds that could not escape were mercilessly slain in sprays of blood and severed limbs. The Princess’s strikes made good on her blade’s namesake, striking fast as lighting and hard as a sledge. Thestral after thestral fell to the ground, lining the riverbank with gruesome corpses, but through the slaughter she could not find their leader. Princess Nephele could not give their chieftain a name or even a gender, but she knew its face.

What more glorious combat could there be than between a pegasus Lady and a thestral Lord? Yet this pony could not be found. She grumbled, and then realized: their leader was fighting in the north wing, across the field! With sharp eyes she managed to find the dark clouds battling opposite her own. There! Her next objective was clear.

The thestrals sought to retreat, and then that turned to a rout. Thousands of pegasi began to pursue, crying out in victory. Princess Nephele however gathered her horn and blew. The Wonderbolts knew the sound and returned, but the rest weren’t familiar. “To me!” she chased after them, “To me! Halt!”

Precious seconds were slipping away, but soon she managed to wrangle her warriors back into formation. The Princess had saved the left flank from encirclement by the bat-ponies, but the right remained in jeopardy. She swung off the blood on Thundermaul and resumed her position in wedge formation, ready to soar over the battlefield when she noticed something down below. By the river, in the woods, a new challenge arose.

She called a messenger immediately, “Send word to King Hillwick behind the Hussars! We need to reinforce the river!” The courier obliged, but some of her officers raised misgivings, claiming their orders were to contain the thestrals. The Princess exercised her great authority and corralled them back to her command.

“We have no time to lose! To the woods, or all is lost!” and her Wonderbolts and pegasi wing flew east.

Stellara saw this. She saw it well; her eyes were just as good if not better than a pegasus’. And she did not like this; it confounded her plans. She turned her head due north, to the other pegasi wing. Their fight had been lost—she saw a scattered swarm fly back to the Equestrian camp and the second swarm descend towards ground. The right wing of pegasi had been overwhelmed by the skill of the thestrals, and now would doubtless help the mustangs overwhelm in turn the entire Equestrian right flank.

“Where are they going?” she asked aloud, frustration heavy in her voice, “No! No, no, the Princess needs to go south!” She summoned one of her several pegasi messengers, “Tell that old mare to reinforce the right! It is in danger of becoming surrounded!” The pegasus nodded and flew off. Stellara now could focus on her immediate danger.

Two mustang flanks had formed, one on each side as she predicted. They were currently engaged with her own flanks, but in the center the greatest weight fell upon the Equestrians. At first, it appeared the battle-hungry minotaurs would charge headlong into the pikes—to their credit they were smarter than this. Several hundred feet from the pike wall, they broke into two groups, each going for the pike lines’ flanks. That left the bold center to the zebras and the dragons.

And as if dragons weren’t fearsome enough, the zebras had brought elephants to the field. Giant hulking grey beasts, sharpened white tusks jutting from their fronts, stampeded forward. Most Equestrians had only ever heard about these terrifying creatures, and now they were barreling towards them.

Like a portentous heartbeat, the war drums of the zebras pounded atop their large mounts, their warriors on hoof whooping beside the beastmasters. Lacking for strong armor, these zebras opted for decorations of gold and silver and shells, fanatically charging at the pikes. Stellara however knew this wasn’t the first battle fought on Equestrian soil against zebras, nor their elephants.

She had read an old account of an old battle fought by a talented and ingenious commander who had devised a way to deal with these massive beasts of war. They were fearsome, true, but elephants were not stupid. They’d hesitate to charge into the pike wall, but with no outlet they’d still plow through, even to great loss for themselves and the Equestrians. Marshal Stellara had anticipated this. “Halt!” she ordered. Her pike lines stopped moments later, but she could feel their terror. The ground began to quake as the hulking giants stamped closer. Their small eyes narrowed in wrath, and some of the front elephants started swinging their heads and trunks, grazing the dirt with their massive tusks.

One raised its trunk and blared like a trumpet, the call of the king of whatever exotic land it hailed from. Stellara seized her own horn and blew, both alerting and inspiring her soldiers. The ground was closing quickly; “Channel Formation!” And as rehearsed, the pikes rearrayed into eight maniples, roughly ten feet apart. It was close, but when the first elephant foot reached the pike lines, there was enough of a channel for it to travel through. They took the bait, the creatures preferring to go down a spikeless route rather than be gored to death.

“All shots focus on the beasts!” Stellara called to her rear, her archers and javelins readying their next salvo. A swarm of arrows and spears and lead shots arced above and pelted the grey titans with chilling accuracy. But even so beset, the elephants did not die quietly. The enraged bulls swung and thrashed their heads as they charged through these channels, catching a few poor pikeponies with the blades fixed to their tusks. Still others ignored the channels, and ran anyway into the spears, crushing a few and throwing a few more before being stabbed to death by nearly a dozen pikes.

One, perhaps the largest elephant and topped with the most decorated of carriages, charged headlong towards the Marshal herself. The blue alicorn’s heart pounded, but she steeled her nerves and took stance, staring down the great beast. Henarion stood beside her with his greatsword, “Go left, I go right; they’re weak on the flanks.”

With a hurricane-like flap of their wings, the alicorns jetted in two opposite curves. The mottled steel of their blades burrowed into the ribs of the bull elephant, its cries of pain resounding across the field. In its final throes it tried to gore any living thing with tusks and crush them with is mighty bulk, managing to kill some pikeponies who broke rank and hungered for their own glory. “Hold! Hold!” Stellara yelled, committing another strike against the animal.

As the light faded from its eyes, the bull began to rear back and unsettle the zebras in its carriage. One jumped to the ground, furious and drawing his blade. He bellowed a cry in his native tongue; Stellara recognized him as the Zebra Chief himself, insolently thinking he could have won with that elephant charge. All around moved out of the way as the bull breathed its last and collapsed, nearly cracking the earth below it. Stellara looked upon the felled creature with a deep pity; taken from its home far south for the bloody business of war only to die.

The zebra chieftain continued to boast and shout angrily in his language; dead noise to Stellara. She gave him a deathly glower and stamped a hoof—she accepted. He charged, whooping and waving his blade. Stellara growled; she was more than a head taller and wielded two magical weapons. Three motions were all it took. The first with Ailéránen cleaved his sword in two, its mundane iron broken by that of millennia. The second saw her hoof ram into his chest, cracking the wooden armor he thought could protect him from an alicorn. And the third drove her axe into his skull.

She pulled her magic and drew the axe upwards, the dead chieftain still attached. Slamming him back onto the ground, she wrenched Nocadecoë from her defeated foe, snorting as she did. Henarion stood stunned, not quite expecting such a fierce and brutal display. Stellara merely gave him a harsh look and turned back to the battle, “Come on, you bastards! Is that all you’ve got for Nightwrath?!”

Her pike soldiers cheered, and finished the business of goring the elephants that remained. As more missiles soared overhead, a large ball of magical energy careened and found its mark right at one of the last elephants. The battle-mages of Hoofington were experts in pooling magic, producing giant orbs by the input of several casters. They all had different effects, this particular one mimicking the caustic properties of quicklime.

This warbeast and its riders were burned to death, wailing in agony as their final moments dragged on. Stellara took it with a quiet dignity: the vicious cost of victory.

By now, the elephants were either all dead or had turned back around, driven to panic and wreaking havoc on the zebra warriors. But those and the dragons remained to challenge the front line. “Pikes! Reform the line! Hold them back!” the Marshal ordered as the hoof warriors advanced in the wake of their elephant attack. “Second line, defend the first’s flanks! Third, protect the archers!”

Her troops marched briskly to their stations, ultimately creating a protective box around the missile units just as the flanking maneuver of the minotaurs was closing in. The wall of spears held for the time being, the squelching and spurting of minotaur and zebra blood proof of this.

But the dragons were another matter. Many of the flying drakes had fallen at Canterlot, but the crawling wyrms remained to crash into the lines like the elephants, and their scales were too hard to pierce easily with arrows. The mages did what they could, and shot several flying dragons from the sky, but Stellara had to think quickly. Without the intended pegasi support, she would have to be creative. The call was made for every pony not engaged with holding the line to strike above and skewer the softer underbellies of the creatures or if possible their open mouths.

Taking her blade she grinned, “Uncle, perhaps it’s time for ‘Dragonsbane’ to earn his keep?” The old orange alicorn smirked back. The two leapt forward and took flight, goading the dragons into taking on a challenge more to their liking; battling alicorns. Two drakes rose and lunged at them, teeth bared for the bite. Stellara dove underneath her shiny blue dragon, luring it to the chase. She curved back, and stabbed through the scutes of his stomach. He fell out from the sky, crashing upon one of his kin and breaking her back.

Henarion got a little more vicious with his attack. The crimson drake preying after him opened its maw wide. Henarion channeled magic into the God-Cleaver until its mottled steel glowed white. He then thrust the sword deep into the dragon’s gullet, unleashing a wave of the stored energy and blowing apart the creature’s head. So quick was the alicorn’s move that the dragon had no time to realize its error.

With swords able to cut through dragonhide and their massive strength and mobility, it seemed the two alicorns would have to play a major part in clearing the field of dragons—not that the task seemed less desirable than any other. Stellara observed her surroundings before moving to engage another dragon, noting that the defensive formation was holding for now. Bitterly though she spotted the right flank, now nearly surrounded by thestrals and mustangs.

She had no troops to commit to reinforce the flank. For whatever reason the Hussars had been abandoned on the left, and her own troops needed to stay, lest the center collapse. She saw no sign of the pegasi or King Hillwick’s troops. Stellara clenched her teeth and growled in a terrible rage. The first dragon to try its luck was stabbed directly through the heart in a show of lightning and magic.

This tipped off the messenger, returning from the left flank. “Marshal!” he cried, swooping towards her.

“Where are Princess Nephele and King Hillwick?!”

“There!” the messenger pointed, “At the river crossing near the wood. The Princess and King have noticed another entry to the battle!”

Stellara focused her eyes on that area, and finally saw that banner; a sable field with a rainbow of stars. “Trottingham…,” she murmured in shock. How could she have been so foolish? She had accounted for it all, but not for a chess piece that was not on the board. “How many soldiers did he bring?”

“Several thousand. The Princess wished to assure you once Noblesse is routed, she’ll return to the thestrals. She was afraid of an attack in our rear!”

“Taberanyn, you damned fool,” Stellara angrily muttered. “I want a report on the Hussars. If Brynhilda can break through, have her charge the rear of the enemy’s center!” The messenger left in a cloud of dust.

Stellara flew beside Henarion and unleashed her rage and frustration on anything that tried to kill her. Things were looking poorly, and her egregious oversight might have cost her dearly. She had no more reserves.

So Stellara decided her best recourse was to fight on and hopefully inspire the center enough to break the momentum of the enemy’s spearhead. “Oh Nikóleva, I wish you were here,” she sighed before swinging Ailéránen at another vainglorious dragon.

Marshal Stellara’s anxiety was well-founded. Noblesse Oblige, faithless and deceptive, had feigned his absence successfully and managed to hide his forces in the wood. And now it seemed to him his tactic had worked; precious forces from the left flank were diverted to deal with him, while the main battle would soon crumble for the Equestrians.

But treason and deceit were not things looked kindly in this country, least of all to a king. Hillwick of Poneva, wearing armor in the northern style of mail and a lamellar cuirass, had received the word from the Princess of Cloudsdale. As he watched her soar to the river overhead, he took his reserve of hoof-soldiers and set course for the ford. If this new entry could penetrate to Stellara’s position, all would be lost. With all haste he hurried to the crossing, seeing the sable banners of Trottingham before the treeline, Noblesse’s greatest warriors wetting their hooves in the water.

A hundred yards now from the incoming traitors, Hillwick galloped the breadth of his line and rattled his greatsword Snowdread. “Bring me their Prince’s head!” A roar erupted from his host, and the charge began, the heaviest ponies crashing upon Trottingham’s as they emerged from the river crossing.

It began to look like a slaughter for Noblesse, especially when Princess Nephele and her Wonderbolts joined the fray and harassed his rear. The slicing of the very air by the swiftness of those famous flyers echoed from the trees. Inspired, the warband of King Hillwick thrust into Trottingham’s line with everything they had.

At the forefront the Ruler of Poneva chopped his alicorn blade upon the head of an enemy knight, cleaving it in two helm and all. He knew little war-magic, but he could channel the power within Snowdread, and used such power to blow back a band of five knights, allowing his heavy swordsponies to hack away as their foes lied on the ground overturned. Hillwick himself delivered a fatal drive into the heart of one.

So the battle for the river turned brutal and vicious quickly, the true color of war made visible to all. Corpses fell into the water, their bones and entrails fouling it up; very soon the river began to run red. The stench of battle mounted, but in his fury and heat, Hillwick paid no mind. He parried, and dodged, uppercutted and guarded, dispatching each foe who dared challenge the Northern King. Hillwick was forced to leave the illustrious Hussars all alone and deal with Noblesse, and Trottingham would pay dearly for this.

The enemy ponies, sadly loyal retainers to a faithless lord, could not push further. They were stopped at the ford, and as the Left Reserve unleashed themselves soon Trottingham would be back at the bank, and soon driven running into the woods. Bloodstained, Hillwick appeared a terrible force, routing several levy-ponies with his mere presence and crazed look in his eye.

A dark smile curled on the king’s face—almost there. But then, a flash. Bright green it was, and soon the places to his left and right were blasted apart by a supreme bolt of green magic. Dozens were thrown upwards, landing only to wrench their bones in ways that could not be mended here. Hillwick was saved only in the final moment before the hit, generating a shield around himself and his nearest housecarls.

The dust settled, and a single unicorn began advancing across the river, eyes aglow that sickly green color, shadowed by a violet miasma. To his side a mottled blade was hung in magic. The stallion was dull orange, his dark mane topped by a crystal diadem. Hillwick could see the iridean diamond set within; a mockery that somepony so fell should own such beauty.

Noblesse Oblige’s eyes met that of the king, and he grimaced. Clenching his teeth, perhaps at the sheer force of energy he wielded, the Prince of Trottingham approached Hillwick, crushing the chest of some brave but foolish squire who tried to strike at him. “Remove your soldiers, or they will all die. As will you,” the traitor commanded, his voice deep and dark.

Hillwick said nothing, and continued to stand his ground, charging his horn for another shield. “Your army will fail; you Lords will come to ruin.” As he spoke, vulnerable though he seemed, Noblesse brutally killed any that interrupted, either by his sword Deference or with his unnatural power. “Surrender, and you will live to swear fealty to your new King of Equestria. I vowed to rebuild this realm, and I intend to keep my word.”

“I’m sure,” Hillwick groaned, spitting at the Prince’s hooves. He raised Snowdread and challenged Noblesse to combat. First came a shot from the Prince’s horn, drawn and absorbed by the alicorn steel of the king. But the shock fatigued him slightly, and left him vulnerable to Noblesse’s move. A forceful strike came, and only barely did Hillwick deflect with a hanging guard.

A new tactic then; Noblesse ensnared the Ponevan in his magic, restraining his limbs. Thrashing and snarling like a trapped dog, Hillwick battled his own magic against the cosmic variety pouring from Noblesse, his strong alicorn blood resisting as best it could. But soon he felt the pressure on his bones as the Prince tried to crush him as he had others. Their two swords locked in combat, matching strike for strike, Hillwick was running out of options.

But a serene grace had remained for him. Seeing the mighty flash of Trottingham’s ruler, Princess Nephele took herself and several of her strongest bodyguards to the river. Raising Thundermaul, the elder pegasus aimed for Noblesse’s skull. The unicorn noticed just in time, blocking with Deference. But his concentration had been broken, and he lost control over the dark magic. As it threatened to burst from his horn and consume his body, he closed his access for the time. Angrily he roared and proceeded to unleash his sword prowess upon the two lordlings who stood in his way.

Parrying Nephele then blocking Hillwick’s strike, Noblesse leapt upwards and spun his sword thrice against the king, the third breaking the Ponevan’s guard and leaving him vulnerable. Thundermaul came to save Hillwick again, but was once again blocked by the Prince. Noblesse tired of this, and charged his horn, disappearing in a flash of magic. He teleported behind her, and was prepared to drive Deference through her chest. But the pegasus Princess flapped her great wings once and leapt fifteen feet in the air. Though old, her large and strong frame could still plummet onto the unicorn Prince, her hooves clanging on his armor.

Noblesse yelped, nursing his bruised side. Another teleport to a safer distance, one where he could reevaluate. Yet when he emerged, the soreness came, and through his pants he glowered at his foes, both ready for more fighting. But now the ache in his mind was gone, and he called upon the cosmic magic once again. Flaring green, the unicorn slammed his forehooves into the dirt, channeling magic into the rocks of the riverbed. The quake took many surrounding warriors off their feet, easy prey for Trottingham’s banner.

Another charge from Noblesse’s horn unleashed a green shock wave, directed at the Princess and the King. Nephele was thrown backwards some thirty feet before she caught herself in the air, but the king fell into the water. And when the Prince of Trottingham led a countercharge into the Equestrian ranks, his soldiers followed in a mad gallop. Poor Hillwick of Poneva was trampled.

For a time his armor kept him safe, but under each stomp he took in more water, and was unable to get his head above the surface of the river. Defiant to the end nonetheless, the King swung around his sword and tried to clear a way for him to rise up, but there were too many hooves. Soon each strike became weaker and less focused, his thrashing and struggling ever more in vain; dozens crossed that river where he had fallen, unable to stand to his hooves.

Princess Nephele, once she recaptured her bearings, rushed to save her comrade, but there were simply too many, and even dead a pony can still crush and stomp. Expelling her energy until her limbs grew sore and her vision blurry, the old mare finally managed to divert the crossing soldiers away from Hillwick.

But when she pulled him from the bed, it was too late. In her long life, Nephele had met healers who could save drowned ponies with magic. But she was no unicorn, and he had stopped breathing, his face bloody. She cursed and bellowed in rage, cutting down anypony she could find that wore colors of the enemy.

And more, she saw in the distance Noblesse Oblige firing off a great beam of his dark magic, burning alive a whole file of soldiers. Soon that flank began to break and flee, and when others saw the Princess cradling the limp body of the King of Poneva, the rest of the Left Reserve threw down their weapons and lost all hope.

The battle for the river had been lost, and now the entire left flank could collapse.

So Nephele did all she could, and rallied her pegasi above. They had done damage to Noblesse’s troops, and now they would pursue them all the way to the center, and crush them. Marshal Stellara was no doubt upset that the Princess had ignored her orders, and doubtlessly would be even less happy now. Nephele would deal with that later—all she cared about was putting a grisly well-deserved end to that damned orange Prince.

Princess Nephele ferried Hillwick’s body to a nearby tree in the wood and gently set him against it. There no was time now, but when the enemy was destroyed and the battle won, this stallion would be properly buried. She stuck Snowdread, Valedóreva in the Sea-Borne tongue of old, in the grass beside him. She sighed deeply—this was no proper end for a King. “Misha córlanilion, Cardún.(Rest now, my Friend.)”

She wanted to do more, spare more time; the Princess could not. Taking up Thundermaul again, she thrust herself towards her pegasi and grit her teeth for more bloody and gruesome deeds.

While the fight for the river was waged and ultimately lost, Princess Brynhilda and her Horsavish Hussars had to carry on alone against the southern mustang flank. When her support had left, the wild nomads were at a swift gallop, soon to close the distance. The small pink warrior did not know why her comrades had deserted them; perhaps something important had come up—Brynhilda didn’t believe it, and consigned them as cowards.

Several of her hussars began to stir, worrying at the loss of the soldiers behind. The Princess shut down all this dissent with a fierce and fiery glare. “Saddle lances!” she cried, the hundreds of spearpoints lowering in preparation for the charge. “Break them.”

The Princess was not one for speeches. She simply spotted an approaching mustang and singled him out as her target. Then, half the size of all her fully-grown hussars, Brynhilda bellowed and crashed her hooves upon the dirt, leading a trickle that soon became a raucous cascade. The thunder of the stampede mixed with the mustang herd, rumbling the earth.

And then the two made contact. The lances of the hussars gored through hundreds of mustangs, the splintering shafts spraying shards of wood at the less-armored ponies. Brynhilda’s lance hit true its mark, spearing the mustang straight through his body. He struggled and twitched for a moment before collapsing in a bloody mess. Without her lance, the Princess drew Rectitude her greatsword and began to hack and chop through the enemy ranks. Her fellow Hussars did the same, longswords clashing with the curved falchions of the nomads.

Brynhilda was small but quick, and with unnatural strength she could swing and draw back her sword with a blinding precision. The mustangs fought bravely and with a grueling tenacity, but ultimately their cloth armor and war-braids were no match for cold steel. Swaths were cut by the Horsavish, dozens falling to their blades. Brynhilda slew so many of these nomads that her armor was stained red, her hooves forced to wade through warm blood. It was a brutal slaughter, and the Princess nearly lost herself in a fury of bloodlust and madness.

But all the same, there were too many.

The horde was vast, and the mustangs numbered many thousands against their Horsavish foes of no more than four thousand. The mustangs could spread their line thin and threaten to encircle the Hussars, but so long as Brynhilda led her soldiers they would never break. And they never did, but it took time to drive through the enemy.

Several minor chiefs or heads of clans tried to challenge the ferocious Princess—ending no different from their lowly kinsponies. Perhaps one of them was leading the entire southern flank of mustangs, as upon their death the nomads began to waver. Crushing more and more of the enemy, Brynhilda at one point received a message coming from Marshal Stellara: to engage the center once she’d overwhelmed her flank.

And to the mustangs’ credit, it took longer than the Princess thought to finally convince them to rout. They were nearly every bit as fierce and steadfast as her own ponies. Their numbers dwindled, but only slightly did the mustangs give ground. Only once nearly three-quarters had been killed or wounded did this flank give up the fight and begin to flee. Brynhilda, ever the lover of a good brawl, allowed her Hussars to chase for a hundred yards or so, running down any mustangs more concerned with escaping than fighting back.

Once she’d had her fun, the Princess raised her signal horn and blew, reversing her Hussars’ formation towards the backs of the foes towards the center. From the looks, there minotaurs were assailing the side while dragons impaled themselves on Stellara’s pikes. Brynhilda caught notice of two small points periodically glowing hot and parrying away drakes. With a smirk she led her gallop to rescue the center from collapse.

Even without lances, this next charge would be devastating. Brynhilda had gotten her fill of mustangs—minotaurs now seemed more interesting. Off to her right, the Princess saw another group racing across the battlefield, pursued by flyers overhead. So that’s where her support had gone…

While the left flank had been vying for supremacy at the river and the fields, at the foot of the ridges northwards the right flank was hard pressed. Their pegasi support routed by the thestrals, the knights and reserves would soon be surrounded. The bat ponies darting around the formation, the northern mustangs were charging to crash at the knights.

Prince Rufus of Fillydelphia at its head, the noble warriors of Equestria saddled lances and mirrored the gallop of the Hussars. But the Horsavish soldiers were elite beyond compare, and this force of mustangs was led by the Great Warchief.

Jasicus was growing old, but in his day he was a great fighter. There was a reason the clans and tribes of the prairiefolk had chosen him. His personal presence was an electrifying factor, instilling deep morale and fervor in his kin. As the lances of the knights shattered and that first shock of the clash subsided, the mustangs gained the advantage. More numerous and mobile, the large cluster of them soon thinned to a line that threatened to swallow up the right flank.

And then the rear was attacked. The Thestrals, led by their own chieftain, served a similar purpose as Jasicus. The dark flyers then unleashed a vicious tactic: attacking in ranks, one would descend and harass Wealthford’s soldiers, fly away and then immediately be followed by another rank. The bat ponies, mountain barbarians though they seemed, had created a perpetual cycle of hit and run.

And with no help forthcoming from Nephele’s pegasi, the right flank was then completely surrounded, left with nothing but to fight to the death. “So be it,” as Sir Grimheim proclaimed.

His Free Knights of Canterlot bitterly held their ground, thrusting blades and swinging maces at the mustangs that tried to plow through their ranks. Grimheim and his band smashed heads and slit throats, claiming five warriors for every knight that was killed. Swords were notched, and Grimheim’s knights began to push forward, driving a wedge into the mustang line. The foe died back, overpowered by the nobles scorned and awakened. The Knight Commander and his soldiers cheered and yelled, terrifying the younger and greener mustangs.

But Canterlot’s knight had become too zealous and pushed too far. Soon that wedge that might have been able to break out and split the enemy line in two left their comrades behind, and the gap soon filled with the very ponies they were brushing aside. Surrounded, Grimheim sighed and raised his blade. He should have died at the Siege of Canterlot, defending his liege. It was great dishonor that Prince Peter should lie dead and buried while the Sir still drew breath.

Each fighting off three or four mustangs at once, the Free Knights began to fall, and soon perhaps only a dozen remained. The enemy closing fast, Grimheim smirked and recalled an ancient poem, “’For what death more sweet, what honor more sublime, can one call in the stead of his lord, for the tombs of his fathers, for the joy of his children?’” He rushed forwards and lopped off a pinto mustang’s head, parrying the retaliation from another. But a third caught him, a swordpoint piercing his mail.

Two more strikes; one hit. Grimheim grew weaker, but he continued: “’For if mortal kinds must tread so short a path, let it be paved in glory!’” And the great knight let loose his final slashes and cuts, taking a few more to where he was soon bound. Sir Grimheim died on that field, but only after succumbing to no less than eight mortal wounds.

The two Princes beset by mustangs and thestrals were not faring much better. Much of the reserve were not soldiers but levied peasants. Against certain death, they knew better than to stand and fight. Under the thestrals’ relentless attacks, the dead began to mount up. Losing hope and their nerve and growing ever fearful, some of the ponies surrendered and broke, trying to flee the field. Prince Wealthford tried to rally them, but his force was large and he could not race everywhere they were wavering.

A vicious chain-reaction followed, and more elements of the right reserve fled, breaking the cohesion that might have been able to hold off the foe. Soon only the professional and household Equestrian warriors remained in any great number, but they could not compare to the horde of mustangs and bat-ponies.

In the front, by the Equestrian knights, Prince Rufus did better, but in the face of a crumbling rear there was little hope. He saw the banner of Warchief Jasicus race through, the mustang’s greatest blood-warriors matching the knights for strength and ability. Soon the mustang leader broke through the throng of his bondswarriors. Tan and mane greying, Jasicus was one of the few nomads to wear iron armor—a mere coat of mail underneath the woolen shirt the prairiefolk wore.

The Warchief’s eyes met those Rufus. A silent pact was drawn, the honored duel to the death. Fillydelphia’s Prince advanced forward, the warriors around clearing a small ring while they continued to battle. Jasicus ordered his bodyguard to stand by before drawing his falchion with a curled hoof. Prince Rufus met the Warchief ten feet away, red beard adorned with beads and braids, a gilded crown riveted to his helmet. A unicorn, Rufus sparked his magic and took his blade.

Both craned their necks and then began. Rufus, his lines collapsing and the enemy closing in, had little to lose; he leapt and crashed his sword down on his opponent. Jasicus guarded and sidestepped, but he did not strike back. For Jasicus had a quiet wisdom, the patience to watch and listen; to read one’s adversary.

Crying out, Rufus swung upwards, again knocking steel as the two clashed. A thrust then, only to be parried by an old stallion that moved far quicker than appearance suggested. Prince Rufus was desperate, and soon resorted to pure aggression. Galloping ahead, he slashed and met the falchion, slid and withdrew. Three more times he attempted with more forceful and varied strikes, but each was caught. On the fifth charge, as Prince Rufus tried for a right uppercut, Jasicus made his move.

The Warchief swung down, knocking back the Prince’s blade by one simple fact: he was a strong and robust earth pony, while Rufus was a gracile unicorn. The mental shock to his opponent gave Jasicus that precious moment. A left uppercut into Rufus’ chest, his armor keeping the blade from slashing him open. But he was knocked upwards, allowing Jasicus to turn and buck with legs that had done little his whole life other than run.

Kicked onto his back, sword dropped, Rufus groaned in the dirt and realized he had been beaten. Jasicus knew not whether to slay his foe or take him captive as an honored opponent. His choice was made for him when another battle-cry came from the right.

Charging with a dark blue banner at his back came Prince Wealthford of Detrot. Broken in the rear, he tried to reinforce the failing knights, aiming to fight beside his comrade-in-arms Rufus. When he saw the fellow Prince lying in defeat, he could not allow a proud lord of Equestria to be killed in such a way.

So he galloped and cut down the one blood-rider that tried to stop him. Wealthford reached Jasicus and dealt his vengeance, swinging to severe a limb. He missed only barely, the Warchief jumping away. He suffered a small wound to his foreleg; nothing grievous but he could do no more heavy fighting for the rest of the day. Jasicus was furious, and called out to his blood-warriors and other kinsponies, “Kochadajırzagıl tsuvuduyaz! Nodzuyatsılayıt honayazıl!(They have dishonored the duel! Punish them!)”

Wealthford helped Rufus back to his hooves, but by then their fates were sealed. Raising blades, they spared a look of silent resolve. The two Princes bellowed and charged headlong into the mass of battle-mad mustangs.

They would slay some, but many remained, and it was not far into their charge, merely a few ranks deep, that those two noble and brave, but ultimately brash Princes of Equestria met their end.

They were butchered, hacked apart and made mere corpses lost amongst the thousands of others. They had thrown their lives away—if only on their terms. Truthfully the fight of the right flank had been lost some time ago, and most Equestrians paid no mind to the whereabouts of their commanders when they decided to break and flee. Some escaped, but many did not, and now the mustangs and thestrals were free to array themselves against the center.

Wealthford had dispatched a pegasus to tell Marshal Stellara, and offer a final goodbye. The alicorn received the message very poorly. No more flanks…she was now surrounded on three sides, perhaps soon four if the thestrals could take the hill behind and defeat the mages. A vicious rage, biting anxiety, and a primal urge to destroy and deal vengeance all boiled inside.

“Hold, damn you!” she shouted across the field with magic voice, surveying her pikes. So far they had held, and heaps of death minotaurs and smaller dragons stank before the Equestrian center. But they’d become tired, as she feared would have happened at Windhock Vale. Unfortunately, with no line to fold backwards, she could not repeat that maneuver.

She and her uncle had periodically flown forward to slay dragons trying to smash through and flown back to command and rally the troops. She was not tired, but she was running out of options—not even alicorns could carry the battle as it was going.

And now Trottingham’s force, victorious at the river, was rushing to join the left minotaurs. Arrows and javelins kept pelting the foe, large bursts of varied magicks throwing their rear into disarray. All this was buying time, but outnumbered there was still a limit.

All was not yet lost, however. Stellara could see the cloud of pegasi from the river chasing the sable banner of Trottingham; Noblesse Oblige would not be able to attack with impunity. And hovering above the battlefield, fresh from dispatching three dragons, the blue alicorn saw that daring and fierce Brynhilda had broken her mustang foes, and was now charging the southern minotaurs.

If, and only if the left were saved, the enemies there driven off, then Stellara could reform a line and maneuver it around to envelop the right. Her pikes had remained utterly steadfast, in far excess of expectation in the face of elephants and dragons, but now they were a shield that could not break. And to ensure that, Marshal Stellara would keep having to play double duty of commander and warrior—another pity that Wintermail were not here. A dark part of Stellara’s mind was beginning to think her sister had turned tail and fled, hiding from this battle that thousands of ponies had already perished in.

Stellara shook her head and growled—such vicious thoughts!

Henarion following, the midnight mare came back to the front and immediately was beset by the dwindling dragons of this Horde. A large violet drake, the skin between his wings a green color. He was unique, with a strange backwards-pointing crest and a thin bony build. This dragon’s preferred methods of attack seemed to be the spearing of his sharp tail at the pike lines and the lobbing of small bright fireballs.

Ailéránen bright with the nightly shroud and arcs of lightning, Stellara brought her magic up until her eyes glowed. She caught a fireball with the blade and threw it back like some sport, knocking the dragon backwards. He continued flying, screeching like some demonic bird, and tried to lash with his claws. A blast of the battle-mages then hit his chest, a mat of ice spreading. Breaking the frost from his taunt skin, the dragon lost focus long enough for Stellara to impale him through the heart, discharging the stored magic.

This purple fiend, quite like the rest who tried to challenge Nightwrath and Dragonsbane, fell dead onto the heap before Equestria’s line. Stellara’s rage faded a bit and she mused over the corpses scattered across the field; perhaps if the Horde did win it would be so drained of strength as to have been defeated. The alicorn then scoffed—that was the thinking of one who intended to lose!

But from her point in the air she could make out the racing mustangs in the north, positioning themselves to attack the rearwards pikes and ultimately her archers. And the bat-ponies were going to fly all the way around and wipe out the battle-mages. The loss of either, let alone both, was unacceptable. What to do? Options were few, as Stellara knew to take troops from one sector to another would risk leaving places exposed. She returned to her command post, barking out orders and trying to hold her soldiers together.

And then upon the north wind came a low bellow. It was a deep horn, strengthened by magic and of a sound she had heard before at the Vale. That was the Horn of Canterlot

Utter haste. Wintermail had spent every minute as effectively as she could, rallying her alicorn kin and training them in the arts of battle. Most were used to a life of hardship, and rose to adulthood already familiar with fighting; strength, size, and instinct could then make up the rest. Yet the alicorns were a greatly regressed people, and few knew any magic more complex than simple levitation.

Most unicorns could only ever do this much, and a bit more for their talents, but the High-Borne race were predisposed to much more. A pity, but nothing could be done about it now.

When the last of the gathered bands returned, Wintermail left before she was to raise the sun, going by moon and starlight. The winged ponies flew when they could along strong winds, cantered when terrain permitted, and rested only when needed. The Downfallen made great time, and made it to the rendezvous site of Equestria’s banners by that evening.

The white alicorn, their leader, was confused and disheartened when she saw a wide field utterly devoid of any army she’d heard of. The grass had been stamped flat, and there were signs of fire pits and other marks of warcamps. Some began to lose hope—the battle had been missed, and lost.

But Wintermail was not deterred. Years of wandering had given her a skill for tracking. Prints in the dirt and refuse dropped by marching soldiers suggested a path trodden westwards. The nearby river ran that way, and an army of the size Wintermail understood would certainly have traveled along it for the running water and an easy landmark.

With a flare of her wings the Alicorn Queen led her host, numbering some two-thousand of the fittest warriors the dispossessed race could muster. It was truly something to behold, the largest concentration of alicorns since the days of the ancient kingdom. And hopefully it would not miss the chance to be used.

High above the ground, Wintermail’s sharp eyes could see for miles beyond. She was leading them along the north bank when the land gradually widened into a broad fertile plain, the outlines of farms planted in the spring shooting up for harvest in autumn. Small hamlets dotted the hills further up, in case of flood.

Eventually, ten miles or so the hills graded into more precipitous cliffs and ridges, rocky and often barren of trees. Periodically an alicorn was sent to check the grass; again it showed signs of trampling. Confident that she was on the right path, Wintermail increased her speed, anticipation and anxiety welling in her stomach.

And then in the distance she spotted a cluster of something. Wintermail narrowed her magenta eyes and saw broad shapes, long and slender like…serpents. Dragons. Closer and closer the alicorns came, and Wintermail directed them towards the crest of the northern ridges. During their descent, she spotted banners, and under the purported knowledge of who flew what colors, she figured the Equestrians were under duress.

Atop the hills, she could see the creatures themselves better, and now it was fact that minotaurs, dragons, mustangs, and zebras had surrounded the Equestrian army, and were threatening to defeat her comrades. Her warriors were standing at her back, patiently and ready for a fight. That minotaur flank just down the hills and across the field looked tender, and Wintermail immediately knew what she had to do. She could save this battle yet!

A yellow glow took the horn on her belt, and she licked her lips. The brass Horn of Canterlot; upon its silver banding intricate effigies of alicorns had been crafted for something precisely like this. A spell was cast on the instrument, and Wintermail blew.

The sound carried for miles around, heaviest over the thousands of warriors brutalizing one another. Eónadin was drawn, and two-thousand other blades and weapons joined in the silent chorus. Wings splayed open, Regent Wintermail turned to face her kin.

A magical charge was set in her voice, “Most of my life has been spent wandering. I did not have a true home for decades, and true friends were few. But then I wandered to Canterlot, and there I met her Prince. He believed in me, in what I could become, and so he gave me a place at his court and command of his soldiers.” She paused, catching her breath and watching the alicorns, “I did not see what he saw, but all the same I did my duty.” Wintermail then flew off the ground.

“All his life he had heard the tales of our race, of the glories lost to time. The myths, the legends all captured him so. And yet how could a mere peasant like myself ever hope to join those bygone heroes?” Wintermail asked, but then her face grew stern, “He died, to the last trying to emulate the warriors of old he so admired; of Ponykind’s Greatest Splendor. Petrafyrm of Canterlot believed in a better tomorrow, for all of us.” Some of the tall ponies began to nod.

“We alicorns are few, we are scattered, we are waned—but we are not broken,” Wintermail intoned, eliciting some shouts from her audience, “That ancient Cataclysm may have claimed our home, and left us exiles in a foreign land, but it did not change who we are! There still is strength in our bones, fire in our blood!” The hooves stamped and the assemblage of the Triple-Kin flapped up in a flush of wind.

“There our younger kin fight against this Horde; should we not join them? In their stories and myths, we are their heroes and gods! Should we not show them why we earned such honor?" The cheers came, and some in the back began to growl and snarl like rabid animals. Wintermail turned towards the battle, sword raised, “Our time has come to once again stand in the sun and sing! By Lórian, let us remind the world why it once trembled before the Alicorns!”

Battle-cries resounded from the alicorn host, waiting for just the single word. Wintermail stared at the Horde, adjusting her helmet one last time. “I will not let the dreams and sacrifices of so many come to naught; charge!” And the wave rose, the host of alicorn warriors soaring down the hill in a spearing wedge.

The flying swarm of these giant ponies came closer to the battle, the air behind them blowing like a hurricane. Halfway along Wintermail began to gallop in midair, and her warriors did the same, all gracefully transitioning from speedy flight to an equally-fast run.

The earth had shaken when the elephants first charged, and later when the Hussars charged their foe. But both paled beside two-thousand fully-grown alicorns, giants of a bygone age turned to wrath. Equestrians and foe alike took pause when the tremors increased. Those that had heard and recognized the Horn of Canterlot anticipated this, and many were struck with awe when they found the Triple-Kin in their antediluvian glory.

It was like something from a temple’s relief, the image of gods in their primordial wars made flesh. Such was the Last Charge of the Alicorns, the final show of grandeur from this once-mighty race. And at their head many recognized their tallest, the white alicorn. Whether they knew her as a lone wanderer or as a soldier of Canterlot, thousands cheered and called aloud her name. Strong as a mountain, fierce as a roaring fire, the Wintermail appeared a goddess with grand armor and giant sword, ready to smite her foes as those in heaven would by lightning.

When the alicorns rammed the minotaur band, the first rank of bulls was trampled. The second was crushed by rearing hooves and blades. Marshal Stellara could not have been more relieved: the coming of her sister coupled with Princess Brynhilda’s victory against the left minotaurs allowed the blue mare to believe all was not yet lost.

However, the surviving thestrals had flown around to the battle-mages, and given them quite a fight. They were talented casters, but poorly suited for anything besides long-ranged support. Prince Luminescent fought off several of the bat-ponies with Evenstar, but against their swift hit and run tactics, the fight was hopeless. The white unicorn wanted to stay and fight, but only more dead mages would be his reward. When he saw the alicorns come, Luminescent decided his part in the battle was over, and ordered a retreat to fight another day.

Below the cliff where the battle-mages had been, Stellara’s pike wall was compromised when the mustangs under Jasicus and Trottingham’s soldiers under Noblesse broke through the weakened and distant rearguard. Stellara expertly maneuvered some reserves and back-ranks to protect her pikes’ vulnerable rear, but not before the nomads and the traitors pushed into the archer maniple. The fight did not last long before the weakly-armored missile troops routed, some running through the gaps in the enemy or climbing up the cliff, only to be killed by the thestrals.

Marshal Stellara’s orders were furious and forceful, “Hold the line! Maintain! Maintain!” Other soldiers might waver and flee, but the pikes would stand, and only yield when no life remained to stand any longer. Protected on all sides but stretched dangerously thin, Stellara would not have been able to continue. But then the alicorns came.

Now the enemy was being pressured on three sides by Nephele’s pegasi on Trottingham, Brynhilda on the dragons and remaining zebras, and Wintermail against the remaining minotaurs on the right. A counter-encirclement—messy, yes, and not what Stellara would have preferred, but she was grateful all the same.

At the head of her people, Regent Wintermail let loose upon the poor minotaurs who stood in her way. The pelt of a pony-goddess was enticing, but the first who had not been turned around when Wintermail approached chose poorly when his target happened to be the strongest of them. A blazing sword cleaved off his head. Another minotaur, silver grey, charged with twin swords at Wintermail’s legs.

Her shin guards deflected the blow, and then the white alicorn slashed open his chest, leaving him for dead. A third she trampled and crushed the throat almost without notice, for her true point of interest was the large and manic blue bull at the head of the formation. The line of minotaurs was broad but not terribly deep; she pushed onwards, unleashing rings of fire and blasts of magic to clear the path.

The heat, the flashes, the sound must have alerted him, for King Aurýx looked back behind and met the far eyes of his foe. He grinned wide and cruel, and then trudged his own way towards her. Time slowed, her heart with it. Wintermail was not interested in letting him run away, and now there was no Discord to distract her from the final blow.

Aurýx shouted something in Minotaurican, something along the lines of “the white one is mine”. Wintermail grimaced; he was certainly confident, and she’d respect him if there were anything else admirable about him. The alicorn studied her opponent-to-be: he was clad in mail and a helmet, his glaive clenched in his fist. But he was still missing one of his horns from when Wintermail had wrenched it off.

She smirked, lightly tapping her own horn with a hoof, “That’s right, yours won’t grow back.”

In an instant his face went from haughty to furious, a loud snort from his nose. Roaring as from the wild, he rutted a hoof in the dirt and ran full speed, his glaive tilted forward to skewer his hated foe. But Wintermail was no longer that same filly who’d been beaten and bruised by this bull; she took stance and prepared for a low guard.

Aurýx then leapt upwards and spun his polearm before thrusting it downwards, aiming for her head. Wintermail glanced away the glaive, and then the two continued their dance from Mareposa. Both were incredibly skilled and incredibly fast. Aurýx was a master of keeping the edge of his opponent’s sword from hitting his weapon, lest the black steel cleave his in two. With his greater reach, the King was also able to avoid the fires of Eónadin.

An elegant parade of footwork and sword-forms followed from Wintermail, trying to break his guard. Unfortunately he was too strong for her aggressive style to overpower as she expected. So she delved into more tricks. Sparking her horn, Wintermail enveloped Aurýx in a yellow aura, mentally holding his limbs in place. The minotaur was very strong, and thrashed and snarled to break free.

The strain was great, but Wintermail finally managed to stall the bull, and raised her sword for the final strike. But Aurýx was not finished, and summoned his will and rage to shatter his magic bonds, catching Eónadin with his hands. He tried it in such a way that the blade would not immediately slice his arms like a piece of firewood, but even so the edges made gashes and the fire burned his palms.

Aurýx screamed and cried out in pain, but he kept holding to the pure astonishment of Wintermail. Moments he had, but he used them wisely and removed a hand from the sword to ball into a fist. Aurýx then slammed it into the alicorn’s helmet, and then again. Seeing red, Wintermail turned and bucked, kicking her hind legs and throwing the minotaur twenty feet backwards.

With a pulse of magic, Eónadin was thrown after him. When he rose to retaliate, the blade had pierced his side, just below the ribs, completely tearing through his mail shirt. Falling to his knees, Aurýx slammed his fist on the ground. Wintermail withdrew her sword, earning a deep cringe from the bull.

“How?” begged the minotaur, his hand growing warm with blood where he clenched his side, “I am a King!”

“And I slayed a god; what does that make me?” spoke the Queen. She readied for that longed-for blow, but Aurýx remained defiant to the end. He reached upwards with a hand to try anything to stop what was coming, but the sword evaded his grasp, and instead was swung upwards through his elbow. Before we could realize, a second swing came through his neck.

Wintermail had finally done it: Aurýx the Minotaur King was slain, her great shame avenged. The alicorns and the minotaurs they were fighting, as well as the pikeponies nearby who held the line all saw the glorious and giant white mare, her sword raised in triumph. She let out a yell, a war-cry of victory before sending her host for further blood. Charging through the disheartened and routing band of minotaurs, bereft of their leader, came Cardúnón and Rhílë, cheering alike while sparing glances at their Queen.

Before she joined them, Wintermail looked down at Aurýx’s corpse, sneered and then pulled up his necklace of “trophies”. The prized ornament on it was her previous horn, smaller and weaker than the one she had regrown. Wintermail chuckled and tied it around her belt.

And there the battle turned, for when the minotaurs lost their king, they lost their nerve. And when the zebras saw the minotaur flank begin to flee, their own morale wavered. Against the onslaught of Brynhilda’s invincible Hussars, the warriors from the far south realized they’d lost.

The dragons remained, but their largest and grandest had either been killed at Canterlot or in the beginning of the battle. Two alicorns, one blue the other orange, had been assaulting them furiously, weeding them out. The dragons had been falling on pikes, true, but most only feared the mythical and vanished alicorn race.

And then a host had come, more than any thought were left. The drakes and wyrms would by and large stand and fight, but fail all the same. Firebreath could not compete with flying ponies that often had blades powerful enough to cut their hide. The dragon forces were now disordered and became mere obstacles to clean up.

So now the pikes were no longer being pushed on by all sides; instead they were forcing themselves into the thestrals, the mustangs, and Trottingham’s banner that had tried to take their rear. Wintermail and her alicorns were pressing into the nomads of Jasicus, Nephele’s pegasi keeping up their harassment of Noblesse, and Marshal Stellara swatting at bat-ponies like flies.

Against ponies twice their height, the mustangs’ fierceness was mitigated and ultimately defeated. After dozens were killed, their pieces cleaved and crushed beneath large hooves, Jasicus looked at the situation and realized there was no longer any hope. Thousands would be surrounded and slain, just as he had done to the Equestrian right flank. Amidst the cries and gurgles of dying mustangs their Warchief dropped his blade and prostrated himself before the pikes.

He cried out an order for the rest to do the same. Some obeyed, while some fought on preferring death to dishonor. Wintermail restrained her sword when she saw the herd surrender, and eventually came to their leader. “Mercy I pray,” Jasicus requested, head low, “Spare my warriors, for all that fought today are the bulk of the mustang nation.”

Wintermail suspected a trick, but after a few seconds of thought ordered some nearby pikeponies to apprehend the mustangs’ dropped weapons and keep them under custody. Another band of the Horde had been dealt with. The mare knew it was not over though, and spotted the thestrals in the sky. Spreading her wings, the alicorn led the others high above to their next objective.

But there was not to be anymore great fighting in the air, as the Thestral chieftain saw their comrades throwing down arms and allowing themselves to be captured. The Chief had met Jasicus and respected his wisdom, so therefore the Thestrals too would exercise such restraint and prudence.

The bat-ponies fluttered to the ground and gave up whatever weapons they had. Their leader expected the same equitable treatment as the mustangs received, and Wintermail and Marshal Stellara were true to that expectation. Already elements of the surviving and remaining Equestrian forces were celebrating, cheering and stamping at the defeated Horde. And indeed the Horde was defeated, but not the entirety of the enemy.

Prince Noblesse Oblige saw his allies flee or surrender, and was soon surrounded. Alicorns, those hated relics of the past, had actually managed to assemble themselves into something that he could respect. The primal part of him, driven by rage and hate, wanted so badly to unleash his army on those ponies, but he knew it would be folly. They may have been deplorable, but admittedly they were large and powerful.

The Equestrian pikes were advancing, piercing his front line. Over the formation flew two more alicorns: that blue Lady Stellara and her orange associate he’d met at Mareposa. With green eyes and violet auras rising like smoke Noblesse was not difficult to find, and soon both alicorns were hovering above him.

Stellara spared no time for words or talk of parlay; she careened down towards him sword in front. Deference caught Ailéránen, but a lightning-quick swing from her axe nearly took his right foreleg. Rather than remain locked in some struggle, Stellara disappeared in a burst of blue magic, reappearing behind the unicorn prince. Channeling the power of the cosmic well, Noblesse countered and fired a beam from his horn.

Using her greater strength, Stellara broke the guard and absorbed Noblesse’s blast with her ancient sword. She then opened her own mind to the same power source as the Prince. What followed was a vicious onslaught of swings, thrusts, and chops that the Prince had more difficulty countering each time, until finally his mental hold on his sword gave up. Deference clanged to the ground, while Noblesse Oblige stood helpless against a roused alicorn.

And not since Discord had bullied the princeling did the orange unicorn look so frightened. “This is your one chance,” intoned Stellara, “Surrender yourself and your soldiers.”

His heartbeat quickened and he began to sweat. To his right appeared Wintermail at the head of her alicorns. She looked angry and ready to slay him on the spot, a courtesy for all the grief and death he’d had a part in. To his left Princess Nephele landed with her pegasi, still burning with vengeance for the death of King Hillwick. To Stellara’s side came her older companion, the orange alicorn. His face let Noblesse know that if he tried to attack the blue one, the Prince wouldn’t hit the ground before he was dead.

The Prince would not endure the shame of capture, and therefore had only one option. He levitated up his horn, confusing those leering at him. He then blew, and called “Retreat!” Before his potential captors could act he unleashed a giant green shield before cutting his connection to the dark magicks. Against magical swords the barrier did not last but a second, yet that was enough time for Noblesse to run.

At full gallop, he and his soldiers managed to break through the grounded pegasi, trampling some in the process. The chase began as alicorns and pegasi alike flew after them, but Noblesse charged magic into his legs to carry him ever faster. Without regard for anypony else, he tripped those beside him to slow down the chasers, firing bursts of magic to shoot them from the sky.

“Pursue and bring him to me!” cried Stellara to all who could hear; she would not let this criminal get away. The pursuit continued until the ponies involved grew to small points to eventually disappear over the hill. Marshal Stellara, still primed for battle, readied her sword and axe for the next application of force. Scowling, eyes narrow and fiery, the blue alicorn raised her high neck, only to find no banners of the enemy left standing.

The zebras, dragons, minotaurs, mustangs, and thestrals had either all fled or surrendered. “I believe this means we have won,” came the soft voice of Wintermail. Stellara stared at the calmer battlefield, calmed down herself, smiled and lowered her guard.

The white sister then removed her helmet, letting her mane once again breathe in the open air. Stellara cocked an eyebrow, “Did you…do something to your mane?”

“Hm? No, not that I recall. Why?”

“You have colors other than pink in it.” Wintermail gave a coy look, a cross between incredulity and humor. Polishing her helmet with a fetlock, she studied her reflection. Sure enough, she could see small streaks of green and two shades of blue.

Wintermail looked up stunned just as Stellara took off her own helmet. “You’re one to talk, Sister.” The elder alicorn gave the younger her helmet, and when Stellara saw the “addition”, her eyes bulged. A dark streak of blue accented her normally periwinkle mane.

"Where did these come from? We’re a bit old to be changing like this,” mused Stellara, still studying the reflection. Before Wintermail could voice any theory she had, cheers came from off to the side. The Royal Sisters turned and saw thousands of their fellow warriors. Parsed between different sections were the acclamations of each’s name, yelled loud and proud by a grateful host.

Neither felt worthy. Stellara had led the battle, and therefore shouldered the responsibility of all the reverses that occurred—and yet it was her victory. Wintermail had arrived late, after the worst had befallen—but her charge broke the enemy and turned everything back into Equestria’s favor. The two could have protested, and chastise those that were overcome with joy and relief.

But it was far more sensible to simply give uncomfortable smiles and waves; the sisters tried their best to hold the dignity they’d been given.

A few columns of pikes shifted, opening a pathway through the ranks. There two of the sovereign lords approached, bloodied from the battle but alive. Brynhilda of Horsava and Auburn Flare of Mareposa came to the hooves of the sisters, craning their necks downward. Behind the Wintermail, her squire Veroche came bearing the blade that Noblesse had dropped.

Wintermail took it in her magic and presented it to the Mareposan King, “This belongs to you; Hordebreaker isn’t it?” Auburn Flare was stunned, finally reunited with the sword torn from his father by those barbarians; now in his rightful possession.

The King smiled and accepted the gift from the alicorn. Then, beside her comrades, Princess Nephele touched down. “Apologies, Marshal Stellara,” the old pegasus began. By now her joints were sore and her breaths shallow; she’d pushed herself more than a nonagenarian ought to have, “Noblesse and his cohorts ran into the woods whence he came; our flyers lost him and our runners got caught in the underbrush.”

Stellara shared a wrathful look with her sister—perhaps they should have chased after that traitor themselves. Wintermail understood the frustration, but cooled her heart, “Tomorrow is the day for finding him; today we celebrate our victory!” Her last sentence was boomed across via magic, and the cheers were given with reckless abandon. Wintermail examined the lords, admiring the signs of battle, the signs of a good fight given. But then she frowned, “We are light; where is the rest of our command?”

Nephele of Cloudsdale started quiet, her face telling Wintermail quite clearly, “King Hillwick fell at the river.”

Wintermail’s eyes glossed over for a moment; she’d known his father and by all accounts the King of Poneva was a good stallion. “A proper burial, then, for a warrior-king. And the rest?”

“I can answer,” came the brooding voice of Warchief Jasicus, restrained by two unicorn pikeponies. They tightened their magic shackles on him for such insolence, but Stellara raised a hoof and commanded them to let him speak. The aging mustang cleared his throat, “Two leaders, Princes as you know them—both bearded, fought against my band. They won great honor and glory, but fell on the field.”

Igniting like tinder Wintermail’s eyes bored down on the captive earth pony, but he did not recoil in fear; instead Jasicus showed a dignified acceptance. “Such is the way of the Mustangs, be they warriors noble or common. If it is the way of the Equestrians to punish this…”

The white mare calmed herself, “No, not today.” She returned to the Lords; Rufus and Wealthford could now rest and enjoy their earned deeds in the Halls of Allfather, in the Host of Lionheart as Tulicë myth dictated. “And the last one? Luminescent, yes?”

“If he was not killed by thestrals,” Stellara said, “Then he must had fled; do not begrudge him too hard, Sister, for he was left little choice; the battle had become desperate.”

“Indeed, but it was won in the end,” Princess Nephele declared, “And I think you two deserve great credit. For it was you, Dame Wintermail, who inspired the late Prince Peter to gather us.”

“And it was you two who journeyed west to Mareposa for proof, a mission of peerless danger,” Auburn Flare announced, a slight twinge of shame on his face. Henarion scoffed from behind with the alicorns—they must have forgotten his name.

“And you, Wintermail, convinced us to raise our banners!” Brynhilda said, always eager for a fight.

Nephele smiled in her grandmotherly fashion, “You found the long-lost Elements of Harmony, defeated Discord, and led us on this day. The Royal bloodline has remained true after a thousand years, and now there is nopony on this field that I would rather call ‘My Queen’.” The old pegasus, long living in a world without a kingdom, and long thinking she’d die in a world without a kingdom, was now seeing a dream fulfilled. “The Age of Princes has passed, a time of heroes, and now follows a new age of kings, a time of Goddesses!” And then she bent down her long neck, a homage not seen in nearly a millennium.

The other lords followed, even the petty-king. The bows were slight and dignified, but enough that these sovereign lords long free of a liege found a special humility. Their soldiers followed, and then the alicorns behind, their new Queen found.

Stellara spotted Cardúnón and couldn’t help smile, then laugh, and then cry. When circumstance and dignity allowed, she’d spend some time with him, perhaps go for a nice flight. Rhílë noticed their looks and grinned, rolling her eyes—Wintermail mimicked the action.

And then both sisters found their uncle, neck lowest of all and a tear trailing from his good eye. Under his breath, he muttered a solemn whisper to his deceased father, “I did it.”

Almost moved to tears, the two sisters broke their gazes from their uncle and then looked at one another. Trembling, full of nerves but also joy and accomplishment, they slung their hooves around each other and embraced as only sisters could.

“Our parents would be proud, huh?” Stellara asked, wiping her nose.

Wintermail sniffled, “At this point they’d think we were showing off!” Stellara knocked her sister’s shoulder with a hoof.

Time had slowed down, but when they broke from their embrace only a few seconds had actually passed. Accomplished, proud, and triumphant the alicorns stood tall, their manes gently waving in the breeze. Wintermail’s imperious gaze surveyed the field; the dead were to be buried and the soldiers given their due plunder.

And so it was done. The Lords each broke to their respective forces and led the search and proper care for their felled comrades. Great grave-pits were dug and the deceased piled up as respectfully as could be done. The rites were read, the songs of praise sung.

Stellara tended to Canterlot’s forces, her vassal commanders—those that survived, collecting the discarded weapons and armor of the Horde. A traditional tithe was given to their liege, but as he was only a colt, and Regent Wintermail had invested command in Stellara, she received that portion.

Wintermail had leaned into her sister and whispered coyly, “A commander can become very wealthy on plunder alone.” Stellara smirked and set aside some nicer items before dispensing the rest to the bloodied and wounded soldiers who’d held fast against elephants and dragons.

The hours waned, and soon the battlefield had been cleared of Equestrians. The thestral and mustang chiefs had petitioned that even in their peoples’ captive state they too be allowed to tend to their dead. Wintermail and Stellara allowed it only under the close supervision of armed soldiers, with explicit permission to run down and kill any fugitives.

There were only a few; most were earnest and dutiful, carrying on their solemn work without a word. Amongst the mustang corpses the armors of two fallen Princes were found and granted to their respective banners to be returned to their realms for entombment. King Hillwick, resting lifeless yet peacefully against a tree in the wood, was carried by weeping Ponevans for embalmment—a northern King belonged in the North.

Wintermail, Cardúnón, Rhílë and the rest of the Triple-Kin looked for their fallen brethren. Some two-thousand alicorns had charged that day; perhaps a third had been killed by all manner of foes. Indeed, perhaps as many as half of Equestria’s host had either died or been wounded in the fighting.

The Sun was low when the work was finished. The army broke apart into varied pieces and each set back to the camp a mile or so eastwards. Here, with the stores of rations and provisions the true celebration could begin. Kegs of ale and beer were opened; pastries of all flavors and styles were cut and feasted upon. Songs for heroes living and dead were sung, the most cheerful of ponies dancing while their friends laughed and made merry.

At the massive tent in the center where the Lords gathered and discussed business the remaining Princes and King sat and drank, holding their own form of festivities. But one matter remained before Wintermail and Stellara could lose themselves to the field of mirth in the Equestrian camp: what to do with the defeated?

Jasicus and the Thestral Chieftain were called before the Lords’ table, hung in shackles and worse for wear. Wintermail told them quite simply, “I do not intend to play a wet nurse to both your nations. Enemies remain: those that have escaped or gone elsewhere before we met in battle.” The white alicorn had thought about the best method to defeating these tribes…perhaps not by mere shows of force or violence. “What reason did your peoples fight for Discord?”

“For a home, a place where the mustangs could settle and not fear the wild,” confessed old Jasicus, his eyes heavy with a deep tiredness, “Does not an alicorn understand?” Wintermail shifted her wings and felt her heart soften. She then turned her magenta eyes to the thestral.

Its golden cat-like eyes darted back and forth, a naturally suspicious and paranoid creature. Finally it sighed and spoke, “We too wish a home.” The voice was female, speaking in heavily-accented Equestrian. Stellara in particular looked at this bat-mare with a growing curiosity.

“There is much empty land in our country; Muska lözhekijiketsilek röjüpetsilben midenezil ghunabırayıshı forajımıl.(A piece will be yours when you’ve helped us vanquish the last of the enemy,)” the blue alicorn said in the Warchief’s language.

Jasicus smiled and grew less guarded, “We followed a vicious serpent who made promises he would not keep; I believe I can trust you Equestrians however.”

“And what guarantee do you offer us?” asked the Wintermail, growing comfortable with her looming and regal presence.

The mustang knelt and held his head low, “Only the full faith and honor of the mustang nation; our word is our bond.” Wintermail gave a slight nod.

“We mountain-folk stand by our friends until death,” the Thestral boasted, pounding her chest. Stellara grinned and looked at her sister. A little mercy would go a long way; indeed it yielded fruits very quickly.

Jasicus revealed that at the now-abandoned Horde camp he had stowed a very special weapon given to him by Noblesse. When couriers found and returned with it, Wintermail was shocked to find that it had been in fact the Southern Keen, the sword stolen when Prince Peter fell at Canterlot.

Wintermail was greatly impressed by such a show of good faith; a measure of her apprehensions faded.

So the first test was given: the two chiefs’ irons were loosened and they were free to join in the party to stretch deep into the night until perhaps dawn. When they behaved well enough for a time their compatriots could also be relaxed from their holding pens.

Wintermail for her part had a tall mug of ale poured, her first real drink in a long damn time. She knocked cups with her Uncle and the other lords; it was likely that some form of contest would ensue before the festivities were done. And of course there would be no question she’d have her fill of a warm, delicious, moist cake.

But the white mare noticed the long shadows from the openings in the tent, the growing oranges and purples of the sky. She grinned and turned to Stellara, “Oh Taby, I do believe that nightfall fast approaches. Perhaps the light of something else might help everypony better enjoy themselves.”

Stellara giggled and stood up, making her way towards the entrance. A few of her retainers followed, along with a number of lords and of course her beloved family. Outside, the cool air rustling through her changing mane, Stellara spread her wings and closed her eyes. The gentle nudge of the Moon came, like a dog wanting its owner’s attention, and soon the midnight mare ignited her horn and caught the silver body in magic.

Wintermail retired the Sun while its gentler sibling rose above the horizon, bathing the black sky in a cool blue glow. Soon tiny points of light emerged, the dark field of the firmament decorated by thousands of stars. Stellara had only begun to understand the canvas that lay before her; perhaps one day she could paint great pictures with the multitude of stars as had not been done in a very long time.

Everypony around took a time to admire the haunting beauty of the clear night sky above. Henarion looked so proud seeing his nieces grown and already bending the heavens to their will. Cardúnón though was awestruck, captured both by the glory of the night and the beauty of its mistress.

Her white sister noticed the curious look in that green stallion’s eyes and made a note to assign a guard to watch him, lest anything regrettable transpire. But those feelings quickly faded and she returned inside beside Stellara.

The lot of them, dozens or more, drank and feasted as though the battle were the next morning. And indeed, soon enough they’d all have to return to the field and fight the remaining enemies as well as the ones who’d escaped. But with the Horde broken, the bulk destroyed, their most vicious of leaders and banners slain, and with hopefully two new allies in tow, Equestria’s future was now brighter than it had been in many, many years.

Two alicorn sisters had striven past limits and accomplished feats worthy of myth, and by these they had rallied thousands and pulled Equestria from her darkest days into a new light. For won upon that field some journey west of Hoofington in the greatest battle of the age the Kingdom had risen again, her Queen returned.

He grit his teeth, panted and seethed. Noblesse Oblige, beaten and forced to lick his wounds, stood on a lone rock in a distant forest. He and his retainers had run as far and as quickly as they could. Losing the runners and the flyers in the woods had been tricky, but with no small help from vicious black magic their pursuers had been stopped.

But the terrible fact remained: Noblesse could no longer draw from his realm. His allies were vanquished and he could not return—the whole of Equestria would be arrayed against him.

“My Liege,” asked one of his personal guards, a light blue unicorn mare, “The ponies worry we’ve run out of places to hide. Where shall we go that we will not face capture or death?”

Noblesse’s face contorted into a hateful sneer. The alicorns, all those alicorns had frustrated his designs, his ambitions; all his goals come to naught. He snorted and stamped a hoof, but then calmed slightly; there was a way. No more honor was left to lose in fleeing, no more realm to fear abandoning. He had vowed to restore his kind’s ancient glory, cleansed of that exiled and debased race.

“Far away, far beyond their knowledge,” the Prince finally answered. He recalled what he had read in old books: a land of crystal and strange magic. “We shall let them search, all in vain, while we rebuild our strength in safety and secret. North, past the wilds; there we shall survive.” He levitated off his crown-helm, the bright iridean diamond staring back.

“Our patience will be reward; in time we shall return and bathe all Equestria in that cleansing fire they managed to douse today. All of them, the weak, the foolish, the traitors—all of them will cry for mercy, but they had their chance. The forest burns to ash, but only then do new trees grow; we shall be the Sword of Reckoning. The past shall be swept aside, utterly.”

The armored mare beside him began to smile darkly, “Then, my Prince, should we leave at first light?”

Noblesse Oblige’s red eyes watched the changing colors of his crown’s diamond. “Indeed. But,” and soon that green flash came to his sclera, the violet shroud rising like the smoke from a pyre. He moved his crown back over his mane. “I am now a King, and one day I shall reclaim my throne.”

The unicorn placed the helmet atop his head, and a shudder of magic traveled from his head to his hooves, leaving a stallion whose fur was darker and more fell than before. “When the time comes that we strike, Equestria left decayed and decadent by the same poison that destroyed the alicorns, our people will stand in awe at the ones who come to save them from their own iniquities. Then they will know the name of their savior.”

The unicorn’s grin was wide, and it almost appeared like his teeth were growing sharper and more like that of a beast, “Noblesse Oblige has served his purpose, but I rise anew. I…am Sombra."