//------------------------------// // 41. To the Whole of Equestria // Story: The Age of Wings and Steel // by DSNesmith //------------------------------// “Help me put on my armor.” Wheatie firmly stamped his hoof. “Captain, you’re in no shape to fight.” Windstreak glared at him. “The ponies struggling for their lives against their injuries are in no shape to fight. I am fine. Help me put on my armor.” Her last breastplate and shoulder guards had been ruined by their proximity to dragonfire and the scalding lake water, so Windstreak found herself using another set of Firewing armor borrowed from one who would never need it again. She had not been as lucky as last time, for it was a poor fit and very loose around her back. She had Wheatie slather her with more of the ointment, and then allowed him to buckle on her breastplate, backplate, and shoulder guards. Somepony had recovered her helmet from the library, and it settled comfortably over her head. Her movement was stiff and numbed by the ointment, but she could still walk and possibly fly. Whether she could fight or not would likely not matter, in the long run. * * * “Any survivors from the outer circle need to be brought inside the inner walls. The outer wall is useless after the dragon attack. Have the mages booby trap the gates if they can, but make sure they’re inside by the time the griffons arrive.” The Whitetail officer saluted and left to deliver her orders. Windstreak stood upon the inner wall, looking down at the northern treeline. At her side was Tymeo Bellemont, his face set with quiet despair. The griffons had circled the city, coming from the north instead of the south, in order to make a more direct path to the gate. Lines of them were advancing from the trees, their armor shining in the afternoon sunlight. Their footsteps thundered like an echo of the storm. Directly below her, ponies were rushing to get inside the inner walls. The secondary gate began sliding shut as the last of the mages entered. She could see the first of the griffon lines reach the ruined outer gate, stepping over the broken door and into the city. Magical flames erupted all around them, and the advance troops screamed. Several of the griffons fell aside, rolling in the mud in a futile attempt to extinguish the spellfire. Behind them, more griffons pushed forward into the gap. The flames did not reappear; the trap had been expended. They’d gotten perhaps thirty with the fire ward, but thousands of griffons continued to pour from the trees. The lowest ring of the city began to fill with them. Windstreak could see the banner of Grypha waving below as the griffons continued to mass. At the secondary gate, the griffons cleared a small space. A single griffon stepped forward, looking up at the ponies. His wings flapped mightily, and he rose to the top of the wall. He settled on the parapet, gazing evenly down at Windstreak. Beside her, she felt the soldiers tense. The griffon ignored their spears, as well as Duke Bellemont. He had eyes only for her. “I am Major Gableclaw,” he said in a rough voice, “Commander of this task force. I will give you one chance, General. Surrender now, lay down your weapons, open the gates, and you will not be harmed. Your forces will be stripped of their armor, bound in chains, and shipped away to the main force of our army, but they will be alive.” “That’s funny,” said Windstreak, struggling to keep the exhaustion out of her voice. “I gave your dragon the same offer. She refused.” “My dragon?” Gableclaw blinked. He looked around. “And where is Viera? I expected to find her ransacking the city.” “Try searching the bottom of the lake. I’d be happy to send you down to greet her.” The griffon searched her face for any hint of humor. When he found none, he leaned back unsteadily. “You’re lying.” His eyes took in the horrific burns on Windstreak’s face, and he swallowed. “I extend the same offer to you, Major. Leave, now, and we won’t kill you.” Windstreak gave him a long, penetrating look. The griffon snarled. “Very well. If death is your choice, we will give it to you.” He dived from the wall, spreading his wings and gliding out over his army. The ranks of the griffons below stamped and chanted. In the distance, Windstreak could see trees shake as they were felled for battering rams. A few of the unicorns on the wall fired spells down into the horde, but they had little effect. Occasionally, some foolish griffon would throw his spear up at the ponies. They never reached half the wall’s height before falling back down. As the day wore on, the rams made their way to the inner wall. Windstreak watched for a few minutes as they began beating on the gate. The wood creaked and groaned as the rams smashed into it again and again. She turned from her position on the wall and began to walk down the steps to the inner courtyard. She walked carefully on the rain-slicked stairs, forcing her stiff legs to move. One hoof in front of the other. Windstreak arrived in the courtyard to find her troops ready and waiting. Lines of spearponies stood in concentric half-circles around the gate, preparing for the griffons to swarm through. The gate shook and shuddered with each blow of the rams. Cracks had begun to appear in the center of the doors. Mages scurried back and forth, laying wards and traps on the space in front of the gate. Others waited in the spearpony lines, ready for the griffons. Windstreak watched with resignation as the gate began to buckle at the center. “Ready yourselves!” The gates burst open, and griffons poured into the gap. Lights flashed and smoke flew out as the magical traps went off, exploding and killing dozens of the attackers. But their numbers were endless, and they charged over the bodies of their comrades without stopping. They met the line of spearponies, and the battle was joined. Windstreak stood at the edge of the melee, not trusting herself to fight. The last few Firewings joined the fray, diving in and out of the wave of griffons. The sound of clashing steel and dying soldiers echoed in the courtyard. Overwhelmed by sheer numbers, the ponies were steadily pushed back. Visions of Trellow flashed before Windstreak’s eyes. It was the bridge all over again. As if summoned by her thoughts, the newest line of griffons were the heavily armored maulers. They rushed forward with their maces, ravaging her spear lines. “Fall back!” she shouted. “Fall back to the keep!” The ponies made a fighting retreat from the oncoming horde, moving clockwise around the inner ring of the city to the main keep gate. They hurried inside, slamming the doors against the griffons. Windstreak, panting with the effort it took to even move, continued giving orders. “Quickly, reinforce the doors. Tables, chairs, anything you can find. Hurry!” Furniture began to pile up in front of the doors, as the thuds of the griffon weapons rattled them. The noises of maces and spears faded as the steady banging of the ram took their place. She pressed herself against the debris, trying to hold them tightly against the gate. “Brace the doors!” Other ponies rushed to join her, pressing against the doors. Every collision of the ram jerked them slightly back. Windstreak gritted her teeth. Beside her, Wheatie had his back pressed against a table, pushing it into the gates. He looked at her sadly. “We gave it a good shot, Wheatie.” Windstreak felt more tired than she had in years. “There just weren’t enough of us.” The door shook again as the ram pounded. Wheatie nodded slowly. “We killed the dragon. At least the north stands a chance, now.” She smiled weakly. It was a small comfort. All she could think was that Canterlot would soon be faced with the full brunt of the griffon army without even a single Firewing to defend her. Regret seized her. She’d never even gotten to say goodbye to Rye. “Damn it,” grunted Wheatie as the door bucked against him. “It wasn’t supposed to end like this. We’re Firewings. We shouldn’t die like rats trapped in a burning building.” “Well, Wheatie,” said Windstreak, wincing as her burned flank brushed against a splintered desk, “There’s nopony I’d rather die beside.” She snorted. Wheatie gave a wry smile. “Thanks, I think.” The smile vanished as the door strained again, and the ponies pushed harder against the bracing debris. Windstreak closed her eyes, feeling the hard wood jump and push against her. All they could do now was wait. The sound of shattering glass rang through the hall as the griffons burst through one of the keep tower’s lower windows. Spearponies rushed off to contain the breach. Spellfire and explosions echoed from the upper levels. Windstreak let out a long, slow breath. A horn, light and high-pitched, called above the racket. She strained her ears as it blew a second time. Beside her, Wheatie moaned. “More griffons.” Windstreak blinked. “I recognize that horn. I’ve heard it before.” “At Trellow, no doubt,” said Wheatie, before the latest blow of the ram knocked him to the ground. He stood instantly and shoved his weight back into the door jam. “No,” said Windstreak, her eyes widening. “Not at Trellow. Nearly ten years ago. In Fillydelphia.” * * * The city was in ruins. From the edge of the forest, Clement could see that the entire top half of the south wall had collapsed, and the throng of griffons around the north side of the city told him that the gates had been destroyed as well. Fires burned inside the city’s rings, as smoke began to rise. They might not be too late. There could still be ponies alive in the city, somewhere. He had not pushed his army to their limit on a brutal, week-long march, only to be late to the battle. Beside him, Knight-Commander Volund’s eyes were filled with quietly suppressed rage. “My niece lived here.” Clement’s eyes narrowed. “Then fight for her. Are the troops ready?” “Yes, my lord.” Behind them, over three thousand armored ponies had formed their lines. A forest of spears had sprouted beneath a forest of trees, all of them pointed at the griffon horde across the clearing. “Send the signal.” Clement nodded to the pony beside him, who lifted his horn and blew. The long note of the House of Blueblood rang over Whitewall City. Clement reared up on his hind legs. “For Equestria! Charge!” The army of Norhart emerged from the trees, a splendorous wave of blue cloth and gleaming steel. The sound of their hooves was deafening, as three thousand ponies galloped in unison toward the griffons’ rear line. They crashed into the griffons in a tangle of flesh and metal. Clement’s axe soon tasted blood, as he pushed deeper into the mob of griffons. He could not enter that trancelike state of his previous battles, finding that his anger held him in reality. We were late. If only we’d been faster, this city would still be standing. His fury translated into axe blows as they pushed forward. The ponies scythed through the griffons like wheat, trampling over them en masse. Soon they had entered the city walls, driving a massive wedge of bodies through the griffons’ ranks. The enemy, exhausted from marching through all of Whitetail Forest in a mere three days, put up a paltry fight. The ponies rode them down and continued their charge into the heart of the city. As Clement passed under the second gate, slashing his axe at anything in his way, he led the charge around the base of the tower. At the rear of the Norhart wedge, the griffons were beginning to regroup, and the tight formation fighting was devolving into a brawl. He reached the door of the keep tower at last, leaping into the fray and hewing apart the griffons that flew to meet him. Ahead was a crude battering ram, held by twenty griffons. At the sight of the ponies, they dropped the ram and drew their weapons. Clement charged in, slashing his axe into the neck of a ram-carrier. He jumped atop the ram itself and brought his weapon down on the helmet of another, cleaving cleanly through it. Around him, his soldiers were clashing against their feathery enemies. In minutes, all the griffons around the entrance to the tower were dead. Clement stood, breathing heavily, as blood dripped from his axe and his armor. Distantly, he could hear the sounds of the battle in the city’s outer ring. He let his axe hang from his side, straightening and turning around as a junior officer rushed up to him. “Water, my lord,” said the young stallion, proffering a flask. Clement drank gratefully. “What’s happening in the outer rings? How is the battle going?” “It’s a slaughter, my lord. We’re chasing them into the streets of the city. They’re completely disorganized.” “Keep me posted,” said Clement, turning to the door before him. As the junior officer saluted and ran back in the direction of the ongoing battle, Clement took another deep breath. “Time to see what’s left of Whitewall.” He raised a hoof and knocked. The door, nearly destroyed by the ram, leaned toward him. He stepped aside as it fell, its hinges shattered. It hit the ground with a whumpf, and he stepped onto the wood. On the other side of the door, a collection of broken furniture made a small wall that was even now being cleared the ponies within. Clement strode forward, taking in the remains of Whitetail’s defenders. He tried to keep his face from falling. They were battered beyond recognition, their armor stained and filthy, many with open wounds or bearing streaks of hideous red burns. The soldiers bowed out of his way as he walked inside. He nearly gagged on the stench of sweat, blood, and seared flesh. The inside of the tower had become a nightmare. At the end of the line, he found two pegasi, both clad in dirty golden armor. Firewings. He’d never been so close to his childhood heroes before, and some small part of him leaped with joy. But it quickly died when he looked closer, and saw their expressions of dull apathy. The blue one, whose face was half-covered in burns, spoke. “Brevet-General Windstreak Strudel, commanding the Army of Whitetail.” She stiffly raised her left leg to salute, before wincing and raising her right instead. “Lord Clement Marverion Blueblood, commanding the Army of Norhart, at your service.” He looked at them both, and said sadly, “I’m sorry. We got here as fast as we could.” She stepped close to him, looked into his eyes, then burst into tears and hugged him. Clement stood, stunned, as Windstreak Firemane, the legendary Captain of the Firewings, sobbed into his shoulder.