Clement stood on a new hill, on a new battlefield, with a new press of ponies surrounding him, but he could not shake the feeling of deja vu. In the distance, he could make out the shine of armor that bespoke the army of Canterlot. They were vastly more numerous than the force Norhart’s troops had engaged two days previously. Around him, he could feel the soldiers’ nervousness.
“Take heart, ponies,” he said loudly. “We’ve beaten them once already. Stick together, fight hard, and we’ll make it through the battle alive.” He heard whispers.
“Is that the duke’s son?”
“I think so.” The soldier’s voice rose. “It’s Lord Clement!”
“Yes,” said Clement. Volund had been right about the effect his participation had on morale, and he was going to milk it for all it was worth.
“Lord Clement fights with us!” There were more whispers.
The soldier at his right bowed. “Beg pardon, milord, but what are you doing here? Weren’t you wounded in the last battle?”
“Just a scratch.” Clement pulled his helmet up slightly to reveal the bandage beneath. “My place is with my troops.”
The pony looked at him with awe. “Thank you, milord. I’ve never known a noblepony to fight with the enlisted.”
“What’s your name?”
“Pennyforth, milord.”
“Today, Pennyforth, we’re all nobles.” Clement rested a hoof on the soldier’s shoulder. A cheer went up around him.
I wish I were half as confident as I sound. Clement smiled for the troops and returned to his position. The soldiers, emboldened by his presence, pulled their formation tighter. The horn sounded over the field, and they began their march.
Thousands of hooves tread the grass in unison. The pace quickened to a trot, as the troops of Norharren pressed forward. They lowered their spears and raised their shields. The army of Canterlot drew closer. Clement felt chilly anticipation. He breathed in deeply.
The blare of the horn echoed through the ranks. Clement roared at the top of his lungs.
“For Norhart! Charge!”
And the battle was joined.
* * *
He kicked aside an orphaned helmet. The field was a scene of carnage. Bodies littered the ground, both with blue and yellow standards. The grass was damp as he strode amongst the corpses. The sun had set an hour ago. The moon now cast its ghostly light over the ruin.
“My lord!” Behind him, he heard Weston’s familiar voice.
“Hello, Weston.”
“I see you’re unharmed.” His squire gave a sigh of relief. “I was worried when I didn’t see you at dinner.”
Clement kept walking through the bodies, his helmet tucked under one leg. His bloodied axe hung from his flank, tapping against his plate with every step. “I’m not very hungry.”
Weston matched his pace. “Maybe not, but you still need to eat.” Weston reached into a bag draped over his back and pulled out an orange. He tossed it to Clement, who caught it automatically. “You made quite the impression out there, today. I passed at least three toasts to your name on the way here. You’re becoming something of a hero, my lord.”
Clement just stared off into the dark sky. “It’s good to have heroes,” he said absently.
His squire stopped. “What is it, my lord?”
“I saw Jauffre Bolgar today.”
Weston laughed. “Little Jauffre? The twit who always wore his helmet backwards in sparring matches at the manor? I thought his family moved out east; I didn’t realize he’d enlisted with Norharren.”
“He wasn’t with Norharren.” Clement seemed to be looking at something very far away.
“Ah… then when did you see him?”
“When I put my axe in his throat.” Clement resumed his steady walk.
Weston had to run to catch up. He searched for something to say. “Clement… I doubt it was Jauffre.”
“Oh, it was. I checked, after the battle. He was quite distinctive.” Clement shook his head. “Wasteful. That’s what this is, Weston. Wasteful. Lives, money, horsepower, it’s all being wasted on this madness.” He looked at his squire with icy eyes. “It has to stop.”
“What do you intend?”
“I’m going to write to my father and demand that he end this insanity. Volund will back me up. We’ve both agreed before that the griffons are a higher priority than the Capital’s troops.”
Weston looked unconvinced. “I wouldn’t be certain of Volund’s support. And what makes you think your father will listen this time?”
“This time, I’m not going to let him overrule me. If he doesn’t listen, I’ll resign my commission.”
“Ah… Clement, I’m not sure that’s the wisest course of—”
Clement interrupted him with anguish in his voice. “What else can I do, Weston?” His face was filled with despair.
His squire looked away. “I don’t know.”
Clement stared down at the body of another soldier. Whether the pony was from Canterlot or Norharren, he could not tell; the armor gave no clue in the faint moonlight. He shook his head. “Very well, Weston. I’ve spent enough time among the dead. Let us rejoin the living, however briefly.” Clement turned away from the field and began trotting west. Weston followed him, subdued.
* * *
The two ponies walked through the field without speaking. Every few minutes, they passed a pony hauling the bodies of soldiers on a cart back to camp for later burial. The reek of battle had mostly faded, but the faint scent of decay was beginning to rise. Weston glanced at his lord with concern, but Clement’s face was a mask that revealed nothing. With a sad smile, Weston realized who the young lord reminded him of. He’d seen that same hard stare a hundred times in the manor at Norharren.
It’s good to have heroes, Clement’s words echoed in his thoughts. But when those heroes fall from the pedestals we place them on… He breathed out slowly. First the Firewings had abandoned their oaths and their princess, then the Knight-Commander had informally stripped him of command, and now Clement had begun to realize that his own father was a selfish fool. Weston’s heart went out to his young charge, but what could he do to ease the pain of so many betrayals?
They continued wordlessly on through the night, the flickering lights of campfires in the distance the only signs of life. His lord seemed as distant as the moon above, as cold as the bodies that lay around them. Weston thought of the vibrant, pompous pony in the smithy only weeks before, and felt a pang of loss.
Ahead of him, Clement pulled to a stop. “Weston, do you see that?”
“See what, my lord?” Weston peered into the blackness.
“On the outskirts of the camp. It looks like something’s stirred up the watch.”
Weston shrugged. “Probably just some soldiers who’ve had a few too many beers.”
“Perhaps,” said Clement, his eyes narrowing. He replaced his helmet atop his head, and began trotting toward the commotion.
When they reached the edge of the camp, they discovered a group of watchponies confronting a lone pegasus. The pegasus was shouting angrily at them, but the soldiers had spears trained steadily on him, and stood calmly between him and the camp. They weren’t budging.
“What’s going on here, ponies?” asked Clement with a tone of curiosity.
“Milord!” The soldiers bowed in surprise. “He’s an intruder, milord,” said one of the watchponies, throwing Clement a nervous salute. “We caught him trying to sneak into the camp.”
The pegasus gave an angry yell. “I’m not an intruder, I’m a messenger! I’ve told you, I have a letter for—” He was cut off by one of the soldiers, who smashed the butt of his spear across the pegasus’s face.
Weston winced in sympathy, and turned to his lord. “If he really is a messenger…”
Clement nodded with a disapproving frown. He turned back to the watchpony. “Why have you blocked his path?”
“He ain’t got no message,” said one of the soldiers, who then spat on the ground. “He’s one of those stinking southerners, trying to spy on us.”
Looking more closely at the pegasus, Weston could make out a quadruplet of diamonds on the back of his cloak. He blinked in surprise. One of Celerity’s?
Clement regarded the pegasus with a curious eye. “And what message could Whitetail possibly have for Norhart?”
“Oh, sorry,” said the pegasus, with a bleeding lip and an angry look in his eye, “I can’t tell you. It’s for the Duke’s eyes only.”
“You idiot,” said one of the watchponies, “The Duke’s miles away in the capital. This is the army camp.”
The pegasus looked crestfallen. “You mean I—I’m not even in the right—”
“Hold, messenger of Whitetail.” Clement put up a hoof. “I am Lord Clement Marverion Blueblood, son of Duke Emmet Tybalt Blueblood, and heir to his house. I will take your message.”
The pegasus looked at Clement with uncertainty. “I’m supposed to give this straight to the Duke, and nopony else.” He looked down at the ground, and suddenly stiffened his lip with determination. “But we don’t need the Duke, we need his army.” Looking up at Clement, he nodded. “All right, Lord Blueblood.”
All the watchponies stiffened and leveled their spears as the pegasus moved his head back, but relaxed when he drew out a scroll instead of a weapon. The pegasus held it out for Clement to take. The young noble’s horn glowed, and the scroll hovered before his face.
Weston waited while his lord read the missive. At last Clement folded it, and shoved it in his breastplate. He looked at the chief watchpony. “I need to speak with my officers. See that this pony is given food and drink, and a place to sleep. Treat him as you would me.”
The watchpony struggled to restrain his protests, but saluted and nodded. “As you wish, milord.”
Clement and Weston watched the small procession of soldiers re-enter the camp with their new charge in tow. Clement gave Weston a studied look. “I need to speak with Volund. Where might he be found?”
“I think he’s still in the command tent, my lord.”
Without responding, Clement turned and strode forth. Weston hurried to catch up. At last they reached the large, blue tent, breezing past the entrance flap and into Volund’s lair.
The Knight-Commander sat at the head of the table, reading a roll of parchment. He looked up as the two of them entered, smiling. “Ah, Lord Clement. Your timing is impeccable.” He gestured at the paper in front of him. “We’ve just received our new orders from the Duke. They came scant hours after our victory; the Duke must have had them sent yesterday.”
“I see,” said Clement, impassively. “And where does my father direct us?”
“I’ll let you read it yourself, my lord. Part of the letter is a personal message for you—don’t be alarmed, I haven’t read it.”
“Thank you, Knight-Commander.” Clement bowed his head. “If you would be so kind?”
“Of course.” Volund pushed the parchment down the table, before standing and stretching. “I’ll be in my tent, if you need me. I need to get some sleep before we march tomorrow.”
As Volund brushed out of the tent, Weston tried to catch a glimpse of the parchment before Clement lifted it. “We’re marching tomorrow? But where? Canterlot has no troops left in Norlund.”
“Weston, please wait outside. I want to be alone for this.”
Weston sighed internally, but bowed. “As you wish, my lord. If you have need of me, just call.”
“Thank you, Weston,” said Clement with sincerity. He looked into Weston’s eyes gratefully. “For everything. You’re the last pony I can depend on.”
Trying not to show his emotions, Weston forced a smile. “Whatever road you take, I’ll stay by your side… Clement.” He bowed and left the tent, still blinking away the wetness in his eye.
* * *
As his squire quit the tent, Clement sighed and sat down on Volund’s seat. He found himself filled with dread at the thought of reading that sheet of parchment. Instead, he removed the letter from the pegasus, unrolling it once more. He briefly paused, looking at the Duke’s orders, then shook his head and began to re-read the missive from Whitetail.
To Duke Emmet Blueblood, of the most esteemed house of Blueblood and ruler of the Duchy of Norhart, Lord of the North and master of Norharren:
As you have likely heard, the battle of Trellow has ended in disaster. Whitetail’s forces were crushed, our army routed, and our Duchess slain. I, Tymeo Bellemont, have taken up her mantle as the leader of Whitetail, but I find myself overwhelmed. The griffon horde surges north, devouring the riverlands and the plains. What few soldiers remain under my command are weary and wounded. We cannot stand alone against the invaders.
The last bastion of hope in Whitetail is the city of Whitewall. The griffons are coming for us in force, and they have great and terrible creatures at their command. I ask—nay, beg—for your help against our common foe. Though I know there was no love lost between the late Duchess and yourself, I implore you to consider the fate of our nation, and to help us in our time of need. Without assistance from the north, Whitewall will surely fall, and with it the entire south.
I eagerly await whatever aid you may lend us. Only you can save us from the coming storm.
Duke Tymeo Bellemont, Lord of Whitetail
Clement slowly rolled the letter back up. He tried to recall Tymeo Bellemont. They were distant cousins, and he had met the young lord before at various social functions. Tymeo was not even as old as he, and already had been thrust into Duchess Belle’s horseshoes. Clement exhaled softly. His father would never even consider lending help to his sworn enemies. The poor young duke was going to die. Whitetail’s last hope was no hope at all.
The other letter seemed to draw his gaze like a magnet. Clement closed his eyes and braced himself. He pulled the parchment closer and began to read his father’s writing.
Knight-Commander Volund:
Congratulations on your first victory against the Norlund occupiers. By the time this letter reaches you, I shall be expecting news of your second. You have done well so far, but the crossroads are just the beginning. Easthill still lies under Whitetail’s control, the symbol of Celerity’s treacherous secession. We are going to take it back.
Lord Helmfast has finally delivered the troops he promised me, and I am going to personally lead them to our newest battleground. Baron Aubren of Whitetail leads the troops in Easthill, but they are dangerously undersupplied and outnumbered by our combined armies.
The scouts report that Greenhaven has come under attack from the griffons’ far advance raiders, so passage through Greenway is denied to us for now. While the beasts from the south are busy with Greenway, you are to take your forces east. You will march through the Capital Province, skirting the southern border of the Cottontail. My own forces will follow you and divert south to the border of Easthill and Whitetail. We will come at Aubren from north and south, and with the hammer and anvil of our armies, crush him.
Attached is a personal missive for my son. See to it that he receives it—unread.
Lord Emmet Tybalt Blueblood
Clement removed a separate sheaf of parchment that had been folded inside the first. He had to pause to compose himself, steadying his shaking hooves. He unfolded it, taking in the painfully familiar quill strokes.
Clement, my son! They say you fought magnificently in battle, like a mighty warhorse from out of the songs! I wish I could have seen it with my own eyes; but soon enough we will stand side by side on the field of battle, and you can prove to all your true mettle. A duke must be courageous, valorous, and skillful, and you have shown yourself to be all of this and more. I have never been prouder to be your father.
I look forward to seeing you soon, my son. I shall count the days until we meet in Easthill.
With love,
Emmet
With an aching heart, Clement sat back from the table. He could not remember the last time his father had said the word “love” to him, not even when speaking of his mother. He’d finally accomplished what he had always wanted, and brought a victory worthy of praise to lay at his father’s hooves. The approval he had sought for so long was finally his.
He pressed his forehead against the table and wept.
* * *
“Weston!”
His ears perked up at the sound of his name. He’d fallen asleep on watch. Berating himself, Weston cocked his head, listening.
“Weston! Inside, please.”
He pulled aside the tent, stepping inside. “My lord, it’s nearly dawn. You should get some sleep.”
Clement looked tired, his eyes red. “I will, Weston, but I need you to do something for me first.”
“Anything, my lord.”
The duke-to-be looked Weston squarely in the eye, and with a voice backed by iron, said “Tell Volund and the other officers to meet me here at seven o’clock tomorrow morning. I need to explain our new orders to them.”
Weston bowed. “As you wish, my lord.” He paused. “But hasn’t the Knight-Commander already seen them?”
“No,” said Clement, his jaw set. “Volund hasn’t seen anything yet.”