“Lord Clement.” Weston’s clipped tones woke Clement from a foggy dream. “It’s dawn.”
“Thank you, Weston.” Clement rolled off his bedroll, standing and shaking away sleep. He felt butterflies float in his stomach. “Help me put on my armor, if you would.”
Silently, his squire helped him buckle on the shining steel plates. The gleaming white plates shone softly in the sunlight filtering through his tent. They were as polished as the day he’d bought them. He could see his reflection in the pauldrons as Weston buckled them on. Clement tried to imagine the celebration tonight after their victory, but all he could see was a line of spears pointed at him. He swallowed.
The last clasp snapped into place, and his horn glowed as he lifted his billowing blue cape to fasten around his neck. His helmet nestled into place over his horn. He breathed out softly. “This is it, Weston.” He pulled out the bundle he’d carried since Norharren. Unrolling the cloth, he revealed a shining war axe, made from steel as fine as his armor. He hooked it onto the side of his armor, where it hung like a dead weight.
“Are you nervous, my lord?”
Clement swallowed. “Yes.”
“Good. Hold on to that.” Weston’s face was humorless. “It’ll keep you alive.”
With a shiver that had nothing to do with the morning chill of early winter, Clement left his tent. He strode through the misty camp, making his way to the command tent. As he passed, he saw soldiers waking up and eating breakfast. His stomach swam at the thought of food. He didn’t think he could keep it down if he tried.
Arriving at the largest tent in camp, he pushed inside. “Knight-Commander Volund.”
“Ah. Lord Clement. Good morning.” The Knight-Commander was fully armored as well, his battered plate standing in sharp contrast to Clement’s. None of the other officers were inside the tent; they were all likely preparing themselves. “Major Dengar will be expecting you at the flank in an hour. Have you eaten?”
“No.”
Volund’s face softened. “I remember my first battle. I couldn’t even hold down a bagel.” He looked at Clement with a smile. “You’ll do fine, my lord. Just keep your head down, and follow your orders.”
“Yes, Knight-Commander.” Clement tilted his head and took a seat at the table. He looked down at the map. The blue and the yellow flags in Norlund were touching, now. Soon, those flags were going to turn into real soldiers, trying their hardest to kill him.
He felt his eyes drawn southward. A wave of red flags covered the lower reaches of the map. Clement traced the Great Road with his hoof, from the leading edge of the red to the crossroads he now stood at. The distance was disturbingly short. He looked down at Whitetail Forest, and the tiny flags that were the only remaining troops of Celerity’s once-proud army. They were doomed, plain and simple. He could almost hear his father rejoicing.
Your first duty must always be to the whole of Equestria.
“I know,” he snarled.
“Excuse me?” said Volund, confused. Clement shook his head and stood.
“I’m going to find Dengar. Goodbye, Knight-Commander.” As he turned to leave, a horn sounded. Both he and Volund froze as the long wailing note stretched out through the air. At last it faded.
“To your position, soldier,” said Volund, flipping down his helmet’s visor. The two rushed from the tent, heading for the field.
* * *
Half an hour later, Clement stood in the midst of a vast throng of armored ponies. They waited atop a hill that overlooked the crossroads. They were only one of the flanking groups, but there had to be at least four hundred soldiers pressing around him. Clement had managed to squeeze himself into the front section of the army. He was only four or five rows back from the first line. He tried to calm his breathing.
In the distance, the Canterlot lines were marked by their waving white banners that bore Celestia’s sigil. The yellow suns seemed to dance in the wind. Even the real sun seemed to join them, piercing down from the east into the eyes of the Norharren ponies. They had planned to wait longer in the day before attacking, to circumvent exactly that, but the Canterlot ponies had marched during the night, and now stood ready on the field before the crossroads.
“They got the jump on us,” said the pony to Clement’s right. “I don’t like it.”
“You worry too much,” said the soldier to his left. “We outnumber ‘em three to one.”
“Yeah, but what if they have the Firewings with them?”
“You idiot, the Firewings all went south, to Trellow. Doubt any of ‘em made it out of there.”
“Some of them did,” said Clement. “The last few are holed up in Whitewall.”
“And who’re you?” asked the first pony.
“Lord Clement Blueblood.”
“Ha! Good one. I like this guy, Scrubs.”
“Strawbuck, you idiot, he’s tellin’ the truth! This ‘ere’s our very own duke-to-be! I saw ‘im at ‘is knighty-thing.”
Clement smiled, despite himself. “Well, today I’m just a soldier, like you two.”
“You hear that, Scrubs? He’s just like us, he says.” Strawbuck clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, any duke who’ll get down in the muck with the grunts is okay in my books. Stick with us, milord, we’ll keep you alive when the blood starts flying.”
“Aw, you’re scarin’ the poor feller. Don’t mind Strawbuck, m’lord, he’s a right prick, he is.”
“Oi, you keep that up and I’ll prick you.” Strawbuck rattled his spear.
Their bickering was silenced by another blast from the horn. Clement, naturally tall, peered above the heads of the other soldiers. From their position on the hill, they had a clear view of the battlefield below. The forces of Norharren were on the move. The central mass of troops was marching forward to meet Canterlot. Weston was somewhere in that morass of steel. Clement felt a pang of worry for his squire.
Another horn sounded. Dengar’s forces, including Clement, turned to their right. They began marching down the eastern side of the hill. Clement marched in rhythm with his fellows, holding his head high to try to catch a glimpse of the battle to the north. He could faintly hear the clash of metal over the pounding of a thousand hooves.
The mass of soldiers turned again. They were now on the side of the hill, overlooking the melee below. Clement felt a sense of vertigo. He hummed a few bars from an old ballad about a knight, who had led a glorious charge like the one that now waited below. For a brief moment, he forgot his nerves.
“Ready, milord?” asked Strawbuck, his voice serious. “Stay close to us.” Clement nodded. He hefted his axe in his mouth. He waited for the final blast of the horn. The seconds stretched out.
DWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
The signal sounded, and they were off. The Norharren soldiers charged down the side of hill, picking up speed like an avalanche. Clement’s hooves thudded on the ground as he raced forward with the throng of armored ponies, wind whipping at his face. The enemy line drew closer and closer, until he could make out the individual rays of the sun on their banners.
The Norharren line smashed into the Canterlot army’s flank like a tidal wave of metal. The ponies ahead of Clement vanished into the fray, and suddenly he was in the thick of the capital’s troops. A spear thrust from the fore and took Strawbuck in the throat, splashing blood backward over Clement’s face. What? Shocked, he blinked the blood out of his eyes, before being pressed forward by the mass of soldiers behind him.
A pony wielding a spear came at him, and his training took over. Clement’s horn blazed, and the pony’s spear angled into the ground. Clement closed the distance in a second, whipping his head forward and burying the head of his axe in the pony’s neck. Blood sprayed like a fountain from the severed jugular, splattering his armor. The shining white plates were stained with crimson.
From the side, he felt an impact as a hoof-mace smashed into his armor, and the steel plates bent and absorbed the blow. He whirled around and slashed at the pony with his axe, but his weapon soared over his opponent’s head. Clement took a step back as the enemy soldier reared up to swipe his hooves out.
“M’lord!” Clement’s head whirled around to see a spear coming straight for him. Scrubs dived forward, knocking the spear aside, and plunging his own into the soldier’s chest. It pierced the armor easily, thrusting out of the pony’s back. The Canterlot soldier let out a puff of air, and collapsed.
Clement turned back to see a hoof-mace flying at his head. With no time to dodge, he simply cut in with his axe, embedding it in the pony’s leg with a squelch. The soldier cried in pain as Clement ripped the axe back out. The Canterlot pony fell over, out of the fight. Clement looked around for Scrubs, only to find him lying entangled with another soldier. A broken spear haft protruded from his shoulder. Then a new foe was on him, swiping with an axe.
Clement lost track of time. There was no room to think. His instincts and his training carried him forward, propelling him through the melee without conscious decision. The battle blurred together in his mind. There was no blood haze, no berserker rage, only clinical repetition of his exercises. Retreat, advance, slash, retreat, advance, slash, retreat, advance, slash. It was no different than felling wood.
He hacked again and again, his weary legs threatening to give out on him. Blows glanced off his steel plates, but his mirrored armor reflected them without injury. The rhythmic swinging of the axe became his world. The noises and smells of battle faded away as he sank into the act of fighting. Eventually, he stopped noticing the blood.
The battle ended as suddenly as it had begun. Clement found himself surrounded by Norharren troops once more, as they surged forward after the Canterlot soldiers fleeing over the hills. The fear, held at bay by the desperate concentration of battle, rushed back in a flood, and he sank to his haunches, gasping. His bloodied axe fell to the ground.
Clement’s breath heaved, his neck and legs ached, and his body was dripping with sweat and other ichor. He felt somepony grab his shoulder. “Don’t worry, milord, you’re safe now. We’ll protect you.”
“Straw—” he looked, but the soldier was nopony he recognized. Of course. Strawbuck’s dead. The pony nodded to one of his compatriots, and together they dragged Clement to his hooves.
“Come on, milord, we’ve got to get you to the back of the line.”
“I can still fight,” said Clement, dazed.
“Not with that head wound, milord.”
Clement reached a hoof up to his forehead, discovering fresh blood. His helmet was dented. He couldn’t remember taking the hit.
“Come on, milord, we’ll get you back to the medical tent, and they’ll patch you right up.”
Only half-conscious, Clement allowed the soldiers to drag him away from the field, where the battle had devolved into a rout. They passed the bodies of Strawbuck and Scrubs, the stench of blood beginning to set in the air. Broken banners and spears littered the battlefield. The bodies were innumerable.
Clement passed out for a brief moment, regaining consciousness as the soldiers hauled him into one of the medical tents, where the medics were triaging the wounded. The blood room, it was called. A medic rushed up to him. “My lord!” He looked to the soldiers. “Where is the wound?”
One of the soldiers indicated Clement’s forehead. The medic stuck a leg in front of Clement’s face. “How many hooves am I holding up?”
“One,” said Clement hazily.
“I think you’ll be fine. Just a minor concussion. We’ll bandage that head wound up and you’ll feel better in a few days. I’ll see to it personally.”
“No.”
“My lord?”
“Help the wounded. I can get the bandage myself.” His tongue felt thick in his mouth. He spat blood on the ground, to the medic’s dismay. “Don’t worry. It’s not mine.” He lurched to his hooves, stumbling over to the tables of medical supplies, where he secured a roll of bandages. One of the soldiers unbuckled and removed his helmet while the other wrapped the bandages tightly around his head. The blood seeped through, staining the white fabric. He was lucky the hoof-mace had missed his horn. A shattered horn could be lethal.
He left the blood room, and dismissed the soldiers. They gratefully nodded and left in the direction of the battlefield, likely to look for more of their fallen brethren. Clement walked unsteadily through the camp, finding the way to his tent through luck or providence, and collapsed inside on his bedroll. Sleep took him.
* * *
“Wake up, Clement.” He blinked. Above him, Weston looked happy.
“How long was I asleep?”
“Not long. An hour, at most. You shouldn’t sleep on a head wound like that, anyway. It’s a good way to never wake up again.”
Clement pulled himself upright, wincing as his muscles complained. “I assume we won?”
“Yes. The Canterlot ponies have retreated to rejoin their main host in the east.” Weston offered him a slice of bread. “Here. You need to eat something. I retrieved your axe, by the way.” Weston set it down at the foot of Clement’s bed. “Let’s get that armor off.”
He began unbuckling Clement’s plate. The dented pauldrons came first, bearing new dings and scratches. The white steel was darkened with splashes of dark red. Soon it lay in a pile on the ground, tarnished and bloody. Clement munched on his bread listlessly. “We did it, then. The crossroads are ours.”
“Yes.” Weston’s cheer faded. “How was the battle? It got pretty bad inside the main push. I’m glad you weren’t with us; our casualties were far too high.”
He swallowed a bite of bread. “You were right.”
“About?”
“The other side of glory.” Clement let the bread fall to his plate and pushed it away. “I don’t feel happy, or sad, or anything. Just... tired.”
Weston spoke apprehensively. “And the other thing?”
“My father? I don’t know, Weston.” He shook his head, his eyes lost in space. “I don’t know.”
The tent flap burst open to reveal Volund, his armor adorned with fresh dents and scrapes. “Well, if it isn’t the conquering hero himself! They say you killed a dozen soldiers all alone!”
“They exaggerate,” said Clement dully. “Perhaps five.” He hadn’t been counting. He’d intended to count, but somehow, it didn’t seem important anymore.
“Still, for your first battle? Impressive.” Volund was beaming. “I must admit, having you in the fight was an excellent morale boost. Word’s started spreading around that you took the front lines. The troops are falling in love with you, my lord. Keep this up, and they’ll follow you anywhere, even into the capital itself.”
Clement looked up sharply. “And just where are we going next?” Surely his father would not be so bold as to assault Canterlot.
“To crush what’s left of the dogs. Their main force is gathering in the east, and we’ll meet them in battle again. This time, there won’t be any of them left to stand against Norhart when we’re through. We’ll need to discuss the specifics tomorrow, at dawn, in the command tent. I formally request your presence, my lord.”
The effort to include him seemed genuine, but Clement felt no elation. He simply nodded. Volund bowed again, and with a flourish of his cape, left the tent.
Weston sat down next to Clement. “Hearing him say that two days ago would have had you puffed up like a rooster. What’s wrong?”
He wrestled with himself. “Weston, I… I feel like I’ve failed.”
“My lord. By all accounts, you fought splendidly. Your father will be proud.”
Clement shook his head. “I don’t mean the fighting. There were… two soldiers. They said… they said they’d protect me. Keep me safe. But they couldn’t even keep themselves safe.”
“They died protecting their lord. There are few deaths nobler than that.”
“Does it matter? They’re still dead.” Clement scratched the ground with a hoof.
“Clement. It’s not—”
“I know,” he interrupted. “It’s not my fault they’re dead. This is war. Soldiers die. But Weston, someday it will be my fault. I’ll be the one ordering these ponies into that meat grinder. And I just…” Clement closed his eyes in pain. “I don’t want to do that for such a worthless cause. That’s how I’ve failed. By leading these ponies to their deaths for nothing.”
Weston remained silent. Clement took a breath and continued. “What do we gain from this? A crossroads? Trade? None of it will matter if the griffons burn the south to the ground. And fighting the Princess’s troops? This is madness. We should be allies, not enemies over some numbers on a tax ledger. My father…” His voice caught. “My father is so dead-set on regaining Norhart’s lost glory that he can’t see he’s destroying Equestria.”
They were quiet for a moment. “So what are you going to do?”
“What can I do, Weston? He’s still my father. I love him, with all his flaws. I’ve sworn to serve him, and I can’t break that oath.” Clement put his head in his hooves, anguished. “I just… I just need time to think.”
His squire nodded. “As you wish, my lord. Get some rest, but don’t sleep right away. It doesn’t look like a bad scrape, but best not to take chances. I’ll wash your armor tonight.”
“Thank you, Weston.” Clement pulled his bread closer and took a bite. Thoughts spun around in his mind. Voices whispered in his ears. He lifted the chain of his knighthood and gazed into the bloodstained steel, trying to find answers.
Your first duty must be to the whole of Equestria.