//------------------------------// // The Cadet // Story: The Princess and the Kaiser // by UnknownError //------------------------------// The griffon flapping towards them was in a tattered Reichsarmee uniform. One of the gray sleeves was torn away around his arm, and both of his paw boots were missing. He panted raggedly with uneven wingbeats, clutching his stomach midflight. “Could be a trick,” Eagleheart whickered in Aquileian. “Definite lack of discipline,” Altiert concurred. The gray griffon took off her blue cap and braced her claws on the sandbags atop the trench. “Halt or be fired upon!” “I doubt he knows Aquileian,” Eagleheart said idly beside her. Cerie poked her beak out of the top of the sandbags to watch. The griffon landed hard and kept stumbling forward, shouting something lost in the wind. He had flown all the way from the northern low valley. Smoke poured from it now; the wind from Canterhorn carried it back west. The griffon yelled something and kept moving towards the trenches. “You have a shot on him?” Eagleheart asked to Lionella on her right. The sniper nodded and raised her rifle up to her beak, squinting through the scope. “Give him a warning shot.” The rifle cracked and a patch of frozen dirt to the Reich soldier’s left kicked up. He screeched, then broke into manic laughter and kept approaching. He said something in Herzlander. Commander Altiert shouted something back, and the griffon broke into more wild squawks of laughter. “Oh, Aquileian!” he spat in an atrocious accent. “No matter! All bad!” Lionella lowered her rifle and gave Cerie a look to her left; she rolled her eyes. “Probably served at the front against us.” The sniper worked the bolt and took aim again. “Wait,” Eagleheart held up a hoof. The golden-furred unicorn climbed up a box and leaned her hooves on the sandbags. “What’s going on?” she shouted in Aquileian over to him. The griffon screamed something, but he was too far away and his voice was too hoarse. He staggered onto his paws and raised his claws above his head. Cerie flinched; the gray uniform around his stomach was a sickly dark red, stained with blood and gore. He staggered forward using his wings for balance. “You are dead!” he screamed at the entrenched soldiers in Aquileian. “Dead! Dead! Fly!” “Is he close enough for you to cast that spell?” Altiert muttered out of the side of her beak to Eagleheart. The unicorn shook her head. “Why are we dead?” she asked back. “Where’s Thundertail?” “Dead!” the griffon screeched. He waved bloody claws in the air. “They kill all! Kill all!” “If he’s not a changeling, he’s doing their job for them,” Eagleheart spat into the frozen mud on the trench floor. She eyed the soldiers up and down the line, sweeping over Cerie with a dark blue eye. “He’s broken,” Altiert answered, “and dying. That’s a fatal wound.” “Might as well help him along, then,” Lionella grunted and squeezed the trigger. The griffon’s head snapped back as the bullet impacted and he fell onto his wings. The body didn’t erupt into green fire. After a moment, most of the soldiers lowered their heads back into the forward trench. Cerie stayed, watching the paws twitch in the air. “If anygriff asks,” Lionella quipped as she cycled the bolt again, “we thought he was a changeling.” Eagleheart descended onto all fours. Her boots were muddy. “Sounds like they broke through.” “They’ll go around the north and hit here,” Altiert nodded along. Her golden eyes landed on Cerie, suddenly narrowing. “Cadet…” Cerie blushed and tugged on her purple armband. The Imperial Snowflake was claw-stitched by an older Aquileian back in Weter. Unlike Altiert and Eagleheart, her uniform was a simple homespun blue jacket under a dirty white shirt with blue sweatpants. Her boots were too big for her paws, having belonged to her father, so they were laced tight. Cerie’s rank was stitched onto the collar of her simple jacket. It was only a blue bar. “Yes, Commander?” she asked. She reached a muddy claw up to rub her beak, but stopped herself. Altiert pointed to the heavy box of ammunition Cerie had balanced herself on to look over the sandbags. “Bring those forward to the anti-tank rifles, then get back to forward command.” “Yes, ma’am,” Cerie answered quickly and picked the box up with a huff. Lionella flapped down and folded her wings beside her, carrying her rifle under her right wing. She offered the cadet a claw and they held the box between them. “I’m headed that way, anyway,” Lionella nodded. Cerie backed down the trench with one end of the box while the sniper carried the other end. “Looks like you’re going to earn that pardon today,” Altiert muttered to Eagleheart. “You should tell the Kaiser you’re due for a promotion.” Eagleheart rolled up a sleeve and tested her hoof blade. The knife extended with a flex of her frog, so she left her boot off and gave Altiert a withering glare. Cerie backed around a bend in the trench before she could hear the reply. “You’re the Princess’ friend, right?” Lionella asked. “That’s the nicest I’ve ever seen Commander Altiert chew some griffon out.” “You weren’t in Evergreen,” Cerie connected. “Nah, but we all heard the story,” Lionella said blithely. “The Princess is pretty forgiving.” “You think the Changelings think that?” Cerie asked. Lionella shrugged. “How’d you become friends anyway?” When Cerie closed her eyes, she could still see Gavin Stormfront’s desperate, pleading look just before she pulled the trigger. He didn’t die instantly. She should’ve shot him again and finished him off, but she just sat atop her old receptionist’s desk and watched him bleed out for five minutes, still tied to her old chair. “I don’t want to talk about it,” Cerie answered. “I worked in Weter Radio.” Lionella nodded and adjusted her claws on her side of the box. Cerie turned her head to look behind her as she walked backwards. The trench wasn’t very wide, and both sides were lined with sandbags and cubbies with spare ammunition boxes. The griffons lining the first trench prepped their heavy machine gun nests. Aquileian unicorns worked beside them to hasten the process. An earth pony trotted the other way, running a hoof down the earthworks with a box of anti-tank rounds tied to his back. Cerie and Lionella brushed up against the opposite wall to give him room. “Merci, comrades,” he apologized and continued. “Are you a communist?” Lionella asked with a wry look. “I serve the Princess,” Cerie said back. “That doesn’t stop you, apparently. I’m a Republican.” Lionella turned her arm to show off the Imperial Snowflake. “She’s pretty inclusive.” Cerie finally found the emplacement with the anti-tank rifles. The griffons clearly expected her; a male was waiting with claws tapping on the wooden boards sunk into the trench floor. Cerie jerked her head to the other boxes along the wall and she heaved the box into place with Lionella. “Good,” the waiting male griffon huffed. “I don’t how they expect us to disable tanks without enough ammo. Lionella, get on your gun with Team Four.” He stalked back to the wall of sandbags. Lionella offered Cerie a clawshake. “Good luck, cub.” She preened a wing at Cerie’s indignant squawk. “You’re a cub. How old are you? Eighteen?” “Old enough to enlist,” Cerie countered. She grabbed the sniper’s claw and twisted it as hard as she could in the shake. She brushed against a scarred knuckle. Lionella clacked her beak and held up the claw afterwards with smirking cheeks and a swishing tail. Her right claw was missing the ring talon. “Lost it in Flowena with Prince Shining,” she laughed. Cerie couldn’t help herself. “You were there? What was he like?” Lionella blinked. “You don’t know?” “The Princess doesn’t talk about her father.” I don’t talk about mine. He lost everything in the evacuation from Aquileia and died of the feather flu during the first winter. “He had a terrible accent,” Lionella chuckled, “and he was a good pony.” “Altiert killed him,” Cerie snapped. “Why’d you even ask about it?” Lionella stopped laughed and looked askance. “Listen, cub. I was there. That city was going to fall no matter what. The only thing keeping us in place was that shield.” She placed her claws down and walked towards her heavy anti-tank rifle. The metal barrel and large scope looked even larger in Lionella's claws; she hefted the weight with puffed cheeks. She picked it up with a huff and grabbed one of the magazines stored on a dirt shelf beside it. Lionella blew on the bullets before loading the rifle. “Maybe she ran, but it didn’t make a difference.” Cerie’s tail whipped and she stalked back behind the forward line. The radio command center was three trench lines deep, behind the buried anti-tank guns, the machine gun emplacements, and the anti-tank rifles. Eliza, a white-furred griffon with nearsighted gray eyes, squinted at her presence. The command center was lower than the other trenchworks, dug deep into the ground for shelter from incoming bombs. “Cerie, dear? Did they make you deliver ammo again?” “Yes,” Cerie responded. Eliza was adamant that her rank was unnecessary. The other dozen griffons in the room nodded at the newcomer and resumed listening to their headsets while marking up several maps or lists. Cerie leaned against a support pillar and waited, scuffing mud off her talons. “Cadet!” a griffon pulled off his headphones and held out a piece of paper. “Deliver this to Commander Eagleheart!” Cerie walked over and accepted the folded paper. She moved to open it, but the griffon’s angry glare made her reconsider and leave quickly. Eliza spared her a sympathetic glance, but the other griffons were too busy. I’m the Princess’ friend, but I can’t do anything or know anything, Cerie thought as she flapped her wings. Rather than walk through the trenches, she flew over the earthworks back to where she last saw Eagleheart. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the wind soaring through her feathers for a brief moment before landing several trenches over. Altiert was still in place, looking forward with binoculars through a gap in the sandbags. She heard the wings flap and gave Cerie a dark look. “Cadet, you’re going to catch a bullet doing that,” she said sourly. “Where’s Commander Eagleheart?” Cerie asked back, not even bothering to hide her disdain. “Further down the line,” Sophie answered and set the binoculars down. “We share command. What’s the message?” Cerie held out the folded note. “I don’t know, ma’am. I’m just a courier.” “Good,” Altiert said absently as she took the note. She opened it with a claw and her eyes traveled over the page. “How old are you, anyway? Seventeen?” Old enough for Gavin. “Does it matter?” Cerie deflected. “The Princess is seventeen.” “She shouldn’t be fighting her parents’ wars,” Altiert answered. “Her father is dead because of you,” Cerie said before she could think. Altiert lowered the note. Sitting on her haunches, she was larger than Cerie, a proper adult instead of a teenager. Her eyes looked past the orange griffon before her, somewhere far away. Her discarded binoculars began to rattle along the sandbags. Cerie looked down at her bare claws. Loose flecks of dirt jittered on the ground. One of the ponies nearby listened with perked ears; they pinned back suddenly. “They’re coming up the valley to hit our line,” Altiert said blankly. She checked her watch. “Thundertail couldn’t even hold for two hours; he hit our line in Aquileia, you know. I hope he’s dead.” Altiert tucked the note in her pocket. “It’s going to be loud. We need couriers to run messages along the trenches. Not everyone has a radio. Get moving, cadet.” Cerie turned tail and pushed her way through a frantic collection of creatures taking position along the forward line. She traveled on paws and claws; the trench was suddenly too crowded to flare her wings, not without climbing out and above, and she no longer wanted to do that. She made it back to Eliza and the radios. Another two couriers rushed past her in the narrow doorway. The room was frentic with activity; the shared map in the middle of the radio room was rapidly being overwritten with guesses on the Changeling strength. “Cadet!” another griffon squawked. “Up the line to Battery A! Tell them to adjust forty-five degrees southwest and set range-” she cut herself off. “It’s in the damn note!” Cerie accepted it and turned. “Wait!” another griffon shouted. “Take this to Battery B!” He held up another folded sheet of paper. Cerie accepted that one as well, then hesitated at the two identical notes, one in each claw. She walked on her hind paws to the large map table. “What are you waiting for!?” the first griffon screeched at her while holding a claw over her headphones. Cerie placed the notes down, stole a pencil from a griffon mid-sketch, then wrote ‘A’ and ‘B’ on the back of the notes before tossing the pencil back at the drawing griffon. She shoved the notes in her pockets and ran out the room. More frenetic activity filled the trenches. Cerie was knocked against the wall by an Aquiliean unicorn with a glowing horn. He didn’t apologize as he carried a two boxes of bullets over his head. She checked her pockets before continuing. Battery A and Battery B were near each other, the entrenched anti-tank guns in wide, furrowed pits. Cerie’s claws were muddy from the churned-up trench floor by the time she reached them. She twisted her head back and pulled both notes out of her pockets with the tip of her beak. The officer was in the process of trying to align the guns. “What?” he squawked at the mute griffon. Cerie tilted her beak to the left and offered the note with ‘A’ scrawled on it. He pulled it from her beak and wordlessly turned back to the crews. “Move, Maar-damn it! Roll them up! We need to shoot over the forward line!” Cerie repeated the activity with Battery B and returned to Eliza. The grandmotherly griffon was in the middle of a harsh argument with one of the radios; she didn't notice Cerie's arrival. One of the griffons at the center table was shoving a radio pack onto her back. She turned as Cerie entered. “Cadet!” she huffed. “You’re my mule! To the forward line!” That’s offensive to mules. Cerie wiped her claws down on the support beam and tugged the radio on, balancing it between her wings. The griffon raced ahead of her, bowling down another courier on her way out. Cerie stopped to help the courier, but he rolled in the mud back to his paws and rushed back into the command center without even glancing at her. Cerie followed the griffon to a watch post with a gap in the sandbags between two anti-tank rifle emplacements. The griffons had braced the heavy rifles against the sandbags and ripped open the ammunition boxes to get to the large-caliber bullets inside. Cerie could hear the magazines lock into place. “What are we doing?” Cerie panted once the officer stopped and raised her binoculars. The officer looked insulted to be even asked by her radio pack. “You’re holding the radio while I spot for the Mage Units,” the officer ground out. “Set it down in front of you, Cadet.” Cerie did so; her ears prickled at the rumbling in the distance and looked in the gap in the sandbags. A line of black-plated armor was moving up through the valley. The officer stepped in front of her and raised her binoculars. “Hold the receiver to my head,” the officer ordered. “Be ready to put the pack back on and move with me.” Cerie flipped the radio on and adjusted the switches before holding the green phone up. At her angle, she couldn’t see out of the trench; the clunky radio pack and sandbags were in the way. “Ah,” the officer clacked her beak. “You need to flip the dark red switch-” “I set everything up,” Cerie deadpanned. “You’re connected.” The officer listened to the phone. “This is Spotter Three,” she said in Equestrian into the receiver. The radio squawked something in reply that Cerie couldn’t hear. “I’m in position,” she answered. “I worked at Weter Radio,” Cerie provided. The officer raised her binoculars to her yellow beak and scanned the horizon. “I know the Princess-” “Quiet!” she snapped. “Spotter Three, bugs moving into grid four-epsilon,” she said into the radio again. Cerie and the officer waited. She continued to give updates into the radio and listen to a squawking reply. The treads and engines growled with menancing rumbles as they closed in. Cerie watched a grain of sand vibrate across the nearest sandbag. Guns fired to the west. Cerie thought it was their own at first, but the officer ducked down with a squawk. The cadet copied her and sheltered the radio with her wings. The first volley spattered dirt across the visible forward line. Cerie and the officer were sheltered from the worst of it by the canvas roof above their dugout. The officer grabbed the radio and hauled the phone back to her beak. Cerie struggled to move the back into position. “Bugs have range at three-charlie!” the officer squawked. “Fire for effect!” Nothing happened. The guns fired again. Tank turrets. She remembered the sound from Aquileia. Cerie flinched as another wave of dirt crashed over the trench. Why aren’t we firing? And then the magic washed over her. She was in a covered position, but she heard the fireballs tear through the air from the mountain base around Canterhorn and crash down into the valley. Her feathers prickled, like when the detection spell spreads in a wave. “Negative impact,” the officer answered after a moment. She listened. “Copy, we have to disable the tanks before the shots can land. Acknowledged.” The spells move too slowly from the mountain. Thousands of anti-tank rifles joined the entrenched guns as they unloaded on the advancing panzers. Cerie risked the officer’s wrath to peek out. The tanks were close enough to make out the turrets and chassis. Shells rained down in front of them. The valley the northern trenches were stationed in front of was already narrow. The black panzers tried to spread out and fire onto the trenches, but the angle was wrong. They needed to advance to near point-blank range. Which they looked to be doing. “What are they doing?” Cerie asked aloud. “The trenches are too wide anyway.” “Soften us up for the infantry behind them,” Eagleheart answered as she raced through the dugout. The unicorn's golden coat was frothy. “I’m at the forward line with the mages in case the bugs try anything. Altiert’s in the rear,” she said to the officer. “Call it in.” The officer nodded as Eagleheart galloped out in a muddy blue uniform. “You need to set it to-” “Already did,” Cerie preemptively answered. Her claws danced over the radio pack. “Call it in, ma’am.” The officer frowned and listened to the radio, then did so. Shells continued to crash down on the forward line as the guns fired. The rumbling grew closer, loud enough for Cerie to flinch at the booms while magic washed over the frontline. The anti-tank rifles, hundreds of them, fired from their positions. Machine gun fire joined them while the officer screamed into the radio. Cerie was close enough to peck her beak, and she could barely hear the howling coordinates. The officer screamed coordinates into the phone until her voice gave out, then kept going in a rasp. Lasers and low-arcing fireballs descended from the east. “Delta-three, fire!” “Epsilon-nine!” “Beta-seven!” Gunfire began to sound from the west. It joined the booming from the turrets. The officer stopped to gulp down water from a canteen, and Cerie risked a look through the gap in the sandbags. Maar’s Hell. The entire valley was aflame, scorched clean with fire of every color. Red, green, yellow, blue, the flames spread to everything and melted down the panzers. They were far closer than Cerie thought, and several turrets still moved on the disabled tanks, even as the armor visibly warped from the inferno. The Changeling Heer advanced into hell. Armored half-tracks sprayed machine gun fire that kicked-up along the trench and tore through the sandbags. The Changelings inside flinched from the fire and the flames, but they kept pushing. The anti-tank rifles punched through the weaker armor like butter as the drivers were killed or the treads disabled. An anti-tank shell blasted apart a half-track less than three hundred meters away. The Changelings screamed as the survivors were cut apart by peals of heavy machine gun fire. Cerie finally saw a true Changeling, not one of Throax's or the Princess', sheltering behind a burning half-track and trying to fire their rifle under the destroyed treads. An armored Jaeger appeared through the fire around them and tried to shove the cloth-uniformed soldier forward, but took an anti-tank round to the helmet. The Jaeger’s entire head vanished in a spray of gore. The soldier beside the body screamed and flung their rifle away. Cerie was too frozen in shock to scream, replaying Gavin’s dying gurgles in her head again and again. The Changeling curled against themselves, shaking behind the burning wreck. They’re like us. “Cadet!” the officer shouted. “We need to move to another position!” The griffon shoved the radio against Cerie’s orange feathers. “Get moving!” Cerie clumsily picked up the radio pack and folded her wings. She turned around to follow the officer. “Where are we going?” The officer didn’t reply. She saw something over Cerie’s shoulder through the gap in the sandbags and her eyes widened. Neither of them ducked in time. The blast impacted the front of the sandbags and Cerie was flung against the back of the dugout. She slammed her beak against the wooden supports as the hole partially collapsed. Her vision swam as she tried to refocus. An eye stared back at her on the muddy ground. Only an eye. Half the officer’s head was gone. The body was crumpled next to Cerie. She staggered upright, feeling the radio tug on her back and tore through the straps with a talon. Her ears rang. The backpack was mangled with shrapnel. The interior circuitry sparked and smoked on the muddy ground. Cerie felt herself over with muddy claws and flapped her wings. She was alive. The radio saved my life. The griffon stumbled out of the half-destroyed spotting position as griffons along the trench fired over the sandbags. A Changeling dropped dead in front of her, tumbling over the wall with a shotgun. She couldn’t hear anything; everything was a dull drone. She stepped over the body and wandered down the trench. A shell kicked up dirt in front of her and rained bits of sandbag and body parts all around. Cerie walked through the crater placidly as she kept moving down the line. The Princess’ voice echoed through her mind. “You’re going to die. You have no experience fighting changelings.” Cerie fluttered her wings. She found Commander Eagleheart in the middle of a machine gun emplacement. The griffons inside were firing point-blank into the advancing Changelings. Several had drawn sidearms after their heavy machine guns overheated. Eagleheart rammed her hoofblade deep into a changeling’s throat as they struggled over a gun in their magic auras. Cerie kept walking. Ponies and griffons and changelings seemed to ignore her. Maybe I’m already dead, Cerie thought. The ringing in her ears sounded like a choir. She was never that religious, but it sounded right to be ushered into Boreas’ embrace with singing. She stepped over a dying changeling in the mud like she wished she ignored Gavin Stormfront. Cerie tilted her head to the side as she realized that she was near Lionella's position. The anti-tank rifles were overrun. They had taken several direct hits and the walls had collapsed. The field beyond was covered in smoke and fire. A Changeling panzer, still moving and intact, roared up against the top of the trench to her right. The machine guns on the front fired as the turret rotated downwards to heave shells into the rear line. It didn’t seem to notice her. Cerie turned to the destroyed anti-tank position and spotted a heavy rifle laying in the mud. She placidly walked over to it with the choir in her ears. Bodies were strewn everywhere; griffon, pony, changeling, all equal in death. Cerie picked up the rifle. It was empty; she spotted the ammo shelf where Lionella had loaded her own rifle. The shelf had collapsed, but one spare bullet stuck out of the mud. It was the size of two of her talons. Cerie copied the sniper's earlier movements with numb claws and pulled the bolt back. She slid the bullet into position. The rifle was too heavy; she nearly dropped it once she tried to heave it up onto her shoulders, and laughed silently. The panzer fired next to her and the choir sang even louder in her ears. Cerie laid on her back and braced the rifle against a collapsed wall. The sandbags and dirt formed an incline to brace the bipod and aim. Cerie eyed the back of the panzer. One part bulged out very slightly. She smiled. I bet that’s the fuel tank. She pulled the trigger and the world erupted into glorious light. Cerie felt the heat wash over her as the choir sang even louder, and then a sandbag glanced off the side of her head. Some time later, the orange-feathered griffon snapped back into herself with a gasp. She coughed, spitting out mud and struggling to roll over. Several sandbags had landed atop her, and her entire body screamed in pain. She rolled a sandbag off her left wing and tested it, then unfolded her right wing with a hissed protest. Am I alive? Cerie hurt too much to be dead. The heavy rifle laid next to her, barrel wrecked and twisted. She looked up to the top of the trench. The burnt-out wreck of the Changeling tank rested above her, and the trench was quiet. Cerie didn’t have a watch, but the sun had shifted position above her. Noon? she guessed. Her purple jacket was covered in scorch marks and her pants were half-blasted away. She stagged onto all fours, grabbing the wrecked rifle. The choir had finally faded from her ears, but Cerie now heard a new one. A chorus of moans and calls for help faintly echoed from the crumbled earthworks. “Hello?” someone called out in Equestrian nearby. They coughed with a squawk. Cerie picked up the heavy rifle and dragged it through the mud in front of her. The griffon stepped over a pile of fallen sandbags and boards with a heaving breath and pointed the rifle threateningly at the source of the voice. “Wait!” Lionella implored. She was pinned underneath a collapsed support beam and covered in mud. Her uniform had been blown off. “Lionella?” Cerie asked. She set the rifle down. The other griffon looked terrible and was clearly injured. “I’m pinned,” Lionella coughed. “Help me.” She raised her right claw towards Cerie. Cerie stared at the intact talons and counted them. All four. Lionella stared pleadingly at Cerie with desperate eyes, just like Gavin. She tried to push the beam off, but her claws were too weak. Cerie grabbed the rifle and twisted it around, holding the stock up. Lionella said something in Herzlander with a squawk. She writhed in the mud, looking pathetic and harmless. “We’re Aquilieans,” Cerie replied in her native language. “You stole her face,” she said in Equestrian as she heaved the rifle above her head. Her claws shook from the effort. Lionella’s eyes flashed green. “Please,” she begged, “I surren-” Cerie brought the stock down and crushed the Changeling’s head. She brought the gun down two more times until the body flared with green fire and the head came apart. The cadet flung the bloody weapon onto a pile of debris with a squawk of effort. One of the fallen boards dislodged and Lionella’s shattered beak poked up from the gap. Cerie regarded her, then closed her open eyes with a soft talon. She stepped away from the forward line, and away from the Changeling she just murdered. They’re not like us. The fires in the valley slowly died out as the magic faded. Cerie passed by two bloody griffons struggling to reload the one remaining machine gun in their emplacement. Commander Eagleheart laid beside a dead Jaeger, knives in each other’s neck. She died bearing her teeth in a feral grimace with a smoking horn. Cerie walked back to the forward radio center to receive new orders. A few ponies and griffons rushed by with medical supplies, but none stopped to examine her. I suppose if I’m walking, I must be alright. There was no command center. It had taken a direct hit. Most surprisingly of all, Commander Altiert was still alive, blue uniform covered in mud and dust and blood, but unharmed. She stood in the trench with flared wings, tugging on another broken radio pack. “Come on!” she screamed in Aquileian and held the phone to her head. “You stupid piece of shit! Work!” “It’s broken,” Cerie answered hollowly. Altiert whirled around to Cerie. “Cadet! Have you seen Commander Eagleheart?” “She’s dead.” Alitert paused. Her eyes were dilated. “I see,” she said quietly. “Oh, thank Boreas!” a mare exclaimed from the top of the trench. She lowered her binoculars. “Reich reinforcements moving in! I never thought I’d be glad to see the Reichsarmee.” Sophie Altiert climbed atop the trench and accepted the binoculars. She looked through the smoke pouring off the valley to the west. Her wings twitched. “That’s not the Reich,” she stated flatly. “The Reich is gray and brown, not black.” The pony trembled in her uniform. A stain spread across the back of her trousers. “Listen up,” Altiert squawked over the surrounding soldiers. “If you can hold a gun, get on the front line! No matter how injured!” “We…we need to evacuate the wounded,” the mare tried. “No time,” Altiert tossed the binoculars back and reached into her blue jacket pocket. She pulled out a muddy notebook and tore through the pages until she found one that was almost clean. She wrote a frantic series of scribbles with a shaking claw and tore the note off. “Cadet, do your wings work?” Sophie asked urgently. “Mage Units need to adjust their fire to buy us time. You have to fly to the base.” Cerie tested her wings and flapped up to the top of the trench. Her left wing joint probably had torn ligaments, but she could fly. “Yes,” she nodded. A shell slammed into the forward trench after a distant boom. “Aquileians!” Altiert screamed, “Suppressive fire! Fire now!” The surviving anti-tank guns opened up, along with the machine guns as the survivors poured fire down into the valley. Sophie shoved the note against Cerie’s chest, then suddenly grabbed her and pressed their beaks together. “They fire on those coordinates,” she hissed. “Those coordinates exactly. Nod if you understand.” Another shell crashed down. Cerie nodded. “Fly, cadet!” Commander Altiert ordered and leapt back down into the forward trench. She ran towards one of the intact machine gun nests with twitching wings. Cerie launched herself into the air and gained altitude. The Changeling advance was still coming up the valley, and there was little time. Cerie flew as hard as she could. Her left wing screamed in protest the entire time as she flapped back southeast, flying low. The gunfire from the north receded into the distance as the lonely mountain loomed closer. She spared a glance upwards; Canterlot sprayed anti-air fire into the sky, joining with the flak positions around the camp. Cerie banked around the north face to land at the artillery camp. She dove towards with a spasming left wing, but spotted the tents and artillery stationed to hit the trenchworks. Some of the pieces were turned up towards Canterlot. Pegasi flew up to greet her. “I have a message from the Aquileians!” Cerie breathed raggedly. “From Commander Altiert!” The first pegasus was armed with a shotgun and pumped it. “Countersign!” he spat in Equestrian. “Buckball?” Cerie’s mind went blank. She spun down below him and his squad, flying directly towards the camp. A spray of pellets fired behind her, barely missing her tail. “I’m Aquileian!” Cerie shouted. “Why would I know that!?” The shotgun fired again behind her. Cerie made it to the first line of tents, down the mountain from the artillery, before a pegasus slammed down from above and knocked her to the ground. Cerie barely managed to recover before landing, sprinting on paws and claws through the abandoned camp to make it to the artillery command. The few ponies left leapt to the side or took up weapons and chased her when she crashed by. Cerie’s claws twisted as she churned up the ground, holding her wings tight against herself. She leapt over a table and charged for the Mage Units. The pegasus sideswiped her and she rolled through the frozen grass. Cerie still crawled forward, panting, and the pony straddled her and shoved her beak to the ground. “You move again and you die,” he hissed. The rest of his squad landed beside him. Cerie felt the gun barrel press against her head feathers. Ponies were already scattering, rushing east and gathering their equipment. They didn’t seem to realize what was happening. “Buckball. Last chance.” They’ll know I’m real after I die. “There’s a note in my pocket,” Cerie answered in Equestrian. “Coordinates for mage spells in the northern line.” The pony pumped the shotgun above her. Cerie closed her eyes. Magic washed over her. “I’m right here boys,” a caustic mare said dryly. “You can ask.” Cerie opened her eyes and twisted her beak to see an amber unicorn approach in a gray dress uniform. Her horn tip smoked underneath a cyan aura that faded quickly. The unicorn snorted. “She’s clear.” “Colonel Shimmer,” the pegasus stepped off Cerie, “she failed the countersign.” “She’s half-dead,” the Colonel nickered. “Spellfire got intense. What’s your message?” “We lost the radios,” Cerie panted in rough Equestrian. She held the message out with a bloody claw. “Another wave coming. From Commander Altiert.” “Duskcrest is holding well,” the unicorn said idly. She plucked the note from Cerie’s claw and wrinkled her nose at the bloodstain before opening it. She laughed after a moment. “These are the wrong coordinates, cadet,” the unicorn chuckled. “No way that-” Another pegasus landed heavily. “Colonel! Barrel Roller is reporting Changelings heading down the east road! They’re coming down from Canterlot!” “Shit!” the unicorn cursed. “Sorry, cadet.” She turned to the new pegasus. “Pull reinforcements from Mistly Fly’s flight crew and the Thestrals. Reinforce the road-” “Let me see.” Heavy hoof stomps sounded from behind Cerie. She pushed herself up onto her elbows, laying spread-winged on the ground. An armored hoof landed in front of her face, and Cerie followed it to the pony above. The mulberry unicorn was terrifying. She had black plated armor like one of the Changeling Jaegers, except a sun and moon was crudely carved into the chest plate over some insignia the griffon didn't recognize. Cerie stared at the broken horn above her scarred eye. The newcomer swept her severe opal eyes over the gathered ponies. “I’m disappointed she made it this far if she failed the countersign,” she snarled. “Let me see the note.” The colonel floated it over the broken unicorn. Taller than the amber mare with another head of height due to her mohawk, the armored mare tilted her muzzle down and looked over the paper. “They are right. I swear it,” Cerie pleaded. “Exact.” The mare hummed and closed her eyes. “Use balefire,” she sighed. “Go, Sunset.” The other unicorn reared back. “Fizzy, have you lost your mind!?” The armored mare turned to the pegasus. “Fly to the artillery and tell them to open up on Canterlot and the road,” she said in an emotionless tone. “Go now, then join the defense.” The pegasus hesitated and looked between the two unicorns. “Go, Sunset,” the broken-horned unicorn repeated. “Balefire. Flood it.” She jabbed an armored hoof at the pegasus courier. “Tell the artillery to start the bombardment.” The hoof swept to the other scouts that stopped Cerie. “Go with her, then join the defense.” The ponies hesitated. Cerie noticed the ELF armbands around all their hooves. The six Elements of Harmony were bright on the fabric. Her own snowflake was covered in mud. “Fizzy,” the amber unicorn shook her head, “I am not going to-” The armored hoof surged forward and punched the amber unicorn in the gut. The Colonel fell to her knees and vomited across the dead grass. The pegasi surrounding Cerie flared their wings in surprise. “We are not Duumvirs. I am in command,” the broken unicorn snarled, more like a beast than a pony. “Final protective fire, now!” The unicorn heaved one last time and pushed herself up to face the armored mare. She looked at her and her muzzle trembled. “Please, Fizzy,” she begged. The broken horn sparked with electricity. “Field Marshal,” the mare corrected. "Burn them." She turned to the pegasi. "Tell them to shell the fucking city. Do it now." Something in the other unicorn’s eyes died. “As you say, Field Marshal,” she nodded and limped over to the Mage Units. The gathered unicorns quickly rushed off to the north. The Field Marshal snarled at the gathered pegasi and they flapped towards the artillery guns. A yak rushed by with two boxes of heavy shells strapped to his side. He moved like he wasn’t carrying anything at all. Cerie pushed herself onto all fours and watched the crews begin to load them, heaving the shells into place and rotating the guns. The artillery turned up the mountain. “Thanks,” Cerie panted. She struggled to lift a claw and salute, but the Field Marshal had closed her eyes and stomped down on the discarded, bloody note. It blew against her hoof in the wind from Canterhorn. The first line of artillery boomed. The shells sang through the air, flying high up the mountain. Cerie looked up at the impacts. She blinked as they slammed into the mountain around Canterlot. One flew true and debris fell from a building near the edge. “They’ll hate me for this,” the Field Marshal said in Aquileian. She had a surprisingly pleasant Vinovian accent. “We can shell the road, but the breakout starts in Canterlot. We need to hit it there. Keep them from reinforcing.” “I have to go back,” Cerie replied. She struggled to flap her wings. “Balefire’s an intense spell,” the Field Marshal continued. “Sunset won’t die from the strain, but some of the others will. She’ll hate me, too. The fire will flood the valley, but it fades quickly. We’ll need to keep casting it. We'll lose ponies.” “With your permission,” Cerie said in Aquileian. “Thank you, Marshal.” The mare finally opened her eyes. A tear ran down the scar on her right. “She ordered spellfire on her own position, cadet. They’ll die with the Changelings.” Cerie stared blankly at the mare, then turned and flared her wings. An electric jolt slammed through her feathers and the griffon fell, spasming on the ground. An armored hoof pressed down lightly at the base of her wing joints, pinning her to the ground and preventing her wings from moving. Cerie wriggled under the hoof. “Let me go!” she screamed in a broken voice. “I have to go back!” “You can’t warn them,” the Field Marshal responded above her. “You won’t make it in time. She knew anyway.” “I have to go back!” Cerie repeated. “I have to go back! I’m not flying away!” “You had orders to fly here, cadet,” the mare said. “What were your orders afterwards?” There wasn’t any, Cerie thought. Altiert's wings were fine. She could’ve flown. She sent me. The orange-feathered griffon thrashed on the ground. “No! No!” “Cadet!” the mare barked harshly above her. “What else can you do? You want to be useful to the Princess? Or just die?” Cerie refocused and stopped struggling. “W-what?” “You want to go back and die, or do you want to be useful?” the mare continued. The hoof pressed down between her wings. “Can you just fly, griffon? What can you do?” “I know radios,” Cerie sobbed. “Radios.” The hoof lifted off her back. “Good. Serve the Princess in the radio tent.” The hoof brushed against the muddy, bloody Imperial Snowflake on Cerie’s jacket before tugging her upright. Cerie swayed and leaned against the armor for a moment before the hoof shoved her straight. The Field Marshal had stopped crying herself, and the scar running down her eye gave the unicorn a violent gleam. She did not wear either armband on her armor, not the Elements of Harmony of the ELF, nor the Imperial Snowflake. The mare was taller than Cerie, and her broken horn nub crackled above her hard eyes. “What’s your name, cadet?” she asked in a short nicker. “Cerie,” the griffon sniffed. The guns boomed and another burst of artillery fired up the mountain. Cerie saw a green flash of light out of the corner of her eye, and turned to watch a massive, roiling fireball soar through the sky like a small sun. It burned with green and purple magic as it flew north before arcing down into a low valley. The unicorn watched it with her. The green reflected in her opal irises. “My name is Tempest.”