The Age of Wings and Steel

by DSNesmith


56. All Roads Lead to Canterlot

Rye was the first to see it. Against the Jotur mountains, the thin structure was difficult to make out, but his certainty grew as he squinted in the direction of the pass. He quickened his pace, pulling forward to the small group of Nordponies ahead. “King Eberhardt!”

Eberhardt paused and turned. “Hm?”

“There, on the eastern side of the pass, can you see it?”

The king smiled broadly. “Middengard, already? We’re making better time than I’d hoped.”

Rye nodded, pulling his cloak tighter around him. He turned his head over his shoulder, taking in the view of his success.

A column of Nordponies, over six thousand strong, stretched into the distance. Countless banners flew, ravens and elk and dozens of other animals. It was a host unlike any the north had seen in generations. It had grown on their march from Hoofnjord, as thanes rallied to their cause and the new king, eager to prove their loyalty and test their mettle against the griffons.

Rye was at the front, with Eberhardt and the honor guard of Saddlestead ponies. He and his friends had been accorded a place beside the king on the march to Equestria. A longing for the sight of trees once again burned within him. Home was finally within reach, just through the pass of Midrothel and beyond the tower of Middengard. He itched to meet the tower garrison and speak to another Equestrian besides Inger or Cranberry.

The king’s entourage marched out in front of the army, far enough away that the sound of thousands of hooves faded to a muted rumble. They were moving faster than Rye had expected, but slower than he’d hoped. Tomorrow night was New Year’s Eve, marking the fourth month since he’d left Canterlot.

He slowed again and pulled back to join Cranberry and Inger at the rear of the king’s group. Cranberry’s too-short ears were perked up, as she peered into the distance to catch a glimpse of the distant tower. “We’re almost home,” she said wistfully. “I never thought I’d miss that tiny little room in the cramped, crowded city.”

Inger nodded agreement, tugging on his cloak. “And I’m looking forward to regulated snow again. This runoff weather business is mad.”

“Once this is all over,” said Rye dreamily, “I’m going on vacation to the equator. Anywhere on the equator.”

Cranberry made a little mmm sound. “I hear the Delta is lovely this time of year. Maybe we’ll join you.”

Rye noticed the we and pursed his lips. Get over it, Rye. That’s a contest you were never even part of. Just be happy that your friend is happy. With an internal sigh, he let the fantasy die. “Sounds fun. We could see the ships, drink little fruit drinks on the beach…”

Inger shook his head. “Vacations will have to wait. The Princess is going to need every Firewing to help with the griffons. I just hope we’re in time to keep them out of Whitetail. If they manage to get across the river…”

“If they haven’t already.” Rye swallowed. The mention of the griffons effectively ended the conversation. He mentally repeated what was becoming his mantra. Hold on, we’re coming back. Just hold on a little longer.

Midrothel, named by the elk who had once ruled much of the north, could only be considered a ‘pass’ in comparison to the mountains around it. It was a long, narrow trail leading up into the mountains, twisting and turning up the side and crossing through into Equestria. At the highest point of the trail, nestled in the shadow of the mountain, was a stone tower a hundred meters high, the fortress of Middengard.

Fortress was perhaps a bit too kind, thought Rye, as they neared the base of the pass at noon. The elk-built tower, ancient even by Sleipnordic standards, had clearly seen better days. He hoped the inside was more comfortable than the exterior suggested. The pass was too long to traverse in a single day, but the king intended to reach the tower by nightfall. Unlike the poor soldiers who’d have to sleep outside, Eberhardt and the Equestrians would stay indoors with the guards. It wasn’t just a privilege of rank, however; they desperately needed to gather information about the war.

The vast army of Nordponies behind them was impossible to miss from a vantage point as high as Middengard, and sure enough, when they reached the base of the road leading up into the mountains they were greeted by a group of armed pegasi.

The pegasi did not look friendly. If anything, they looked terrified. Rye couldn’t blame them. The one in charge—a commander, from the red bars adorning his shoulder-plates—stepped forward to meet them. He raised a forestalling hoof, and said, “Halt, warriors of Sleipnord.”

The king held up a hoof, and his guard retinue came to a stop. Rye nodded to Inger, and they began pushing their way to the front of the group. Ahead, the pegasus spoke with an uncertain voice, saying, “Under the Treaty of 287, as agreed upon by both Sleipnord and Equestria, no armed force numbering more than thirty is permitted to pass this border.” He gestured to the army. “You clearly have more than thirty warriors, honorable Nordpony, so why are you here?”

Eberhardt cleared his throat. “We have come to help our southern neighbors defeat the Gryphans, as we vowed to do in ages past.”

With a skeptical look, the guard frowned. “Sleipnord has never taken part in Equestrian wars before.” The frown turned into a scowl. “If you think to prey on Equestria in a time of war, think again. The pegasi at my command can collapse a million tons of rock and snow into this pass and bury your army alive before you make it halfway through.”

“Richars!” Inger pushed his way out of the press of Nordponies. “Is that you? What in the world did you do to get assigned to this iceberg?”

“Inger?” The pegasus blinked in surprise.

At the sight of Inger’s golden armor, the pegasi behind the commander looked at each other and began muttering.

“Firewing,” breathed one.

“I thought they were all dead,” whispered another.

“Quiet,” snapped their commander. He looked back to Inger with a glint of hope in his eye. “Is it true? The Nordponies have come to help us?”

Rye slipped out beside Inger. “Yes, they have, on the word of their ancestors.”

Commander Richars looked down at him and his eyes narrowed in puzzlement. “That’s a Canterlot accent. Who are you?”

“Rye Strudel, royal emissary to the king of the north.” Rye threw in a bow. “And, with respect, Commander, we don’t have any time to lose. Will you grant us passage?”

“An army of Nordponies…” Richars’ mouth opened slightly. He looked out at the long column and nodded as if to reassure himself it was real. “Yes, we’ll grant you passage. My ponies can lead your troops through the pass. It’s dangerous, but they’ll show you how to avoid the pitfalls.”

He looked back to Eberhardt. “Are you the thane in charge of this army?”

“The king,” said Eberhardt with a faint smile. “They march at my command, yes.”

“A king?” Richars blinked again. “There is a shortcut, a small goat trail that leads directly up to the tower. It’s too small for your ponies to use, but if you and a small retinue of your choosing wish to rest in the tower tonight, we can make it by nightfall.”

“A good idea,” said Rye, butting in. “We need you to bring us up to speed on the griffons.”

Eberhardt nodded. “Rye, Inger, Cranberry—you three will come with me. I must speak with my karls.” He turned aside and began talking to his guards, gesturing to the pass and then to the army. They bowed their heads in acknowledgement.

Inger and Richars were clearly old friends. The two were soon deep in conversation. Rye watched quietly, staring at Inger’s golden plates and the blue star on his chest.

“Rye…” Cranberry had appeared in the corner of his vision.

“I heard.” Rye swallowed. “That guard said all the Firewings were…”

“He said he thought that.” Cranberry bit her lip. “It sounds like it’s just a rumor.”

Rye’s mouth felt very dry. “Perhaps. But most rumors are based on fact.” He looked up to the tower. “I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

The four of them followed Richars through the winding goat path up to Middengard, leaving behind Eberhardt’s karls to direct the army through the pass with the help of Richars’ guides. They reached the tower as the sun set. Rye looked up into the darkening sky and discovered to his disappointment that there was no longer an aurora to be seen. It was strange to realize how much he’d miss it.

Middengard’s garrison turned out to be a scant thirty or forty pegasi, all of whom looked awed to be in the presence of a Firewing. Heads turned as they walked through the base of the tower, and whispers followed them through the halls. Rye’s sense of unease grew steadily.

They were seated in the dining hall, a relatively small room near the base of the tower. While they ate, the commander brought them up to speed on the war. With every sentence, Rye’s stomach dropped another centimeter.

“Trellow’s where it all fell apart. The Duchess Belle and her entire army were smashed to pieces. At least half of her forces were killed in that battle alone. Westermin and Weatherforge’s armies were lost as well, and what few remained all fled north to Whitewall.” Richars looked gravely at Inger. “The Firewings reported high casualties.”

Rye had never seen Inger look so small before. “How many survived?”

“No one knows for sure.” Richars shook his head. “Some say a hundred, some say dozens. But we haven’t heard from Whitewall in two months. The griffons have moved north into Westermin, Weatherforge, the Lake Country… Greenway dropped out of correspondence two weeks ago. Easthill’s been held by Whitetail forces since the beginning of the war, and Norlund has been taken by Norhart.”

“This is madness,” said Rye, resting his head on a hoof. “Why would Norhart and Whitetail…?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Richars looked solemn. “The worst part of it all is the weather. Ever since Cloudsdale fell, the seasons have been going haywire. It’s still early fall in some places, and others are locked in the worst winters since 317. We nearly got buried by a storm a week ago, but I don’t think Norlund has even seen snow south of the forest yet. If they’ve ruined the harvesting cycle we might well starve to death in a year or two.”

“Where should we go?” Eberhardt had his legs folded on the table meditatively. “Where is the main force of the griffon army?”

Richars inhaled and let the air out in a rush. “The next target has to be Canterlot. With the Celestial Army spent in Norlund and Easthill, I don’t know how long the city can last against the griffons.”

“How far to the city?” asked Eberhardt.

Rye bit his lip. “Two days, as the pegasus flies. About a week on hoof.”

Inger stood. “I’ll fly ahead, tell the capital we’re coming. Maybe I can help if the griffons attack.”

“No.” Richars shook his head. “We’ve lost the skies, Inger. Our last two messengers never returned. It’s not safe to fly alone.”

“Then your garrison can fly with me.” Inger’s face was hard and set. “I have to get to Canterlot.”

“We don’t know what kind of opposition you’ll face along the way—”

“I don’t care.” Inger’s hoof was tapping with suppressed anxiety. “I’ll leave tomorrow, with whoever you can give me—”

“Inger.” They all turned to Cranberry, who had been sitting quietly at the end of the table. She looked drawn and sad, her ears drooped beside her head. “They’re not there.”

Inger bit back a snarl. “You don’t know that. Maybe—maybe some of them escaped, made it back to the city…”

“She’s right, Inger,” said Rye. His gaze fell to the table. “They’re not there.”

Inger folded, collapsing into his seat. “They can’t…” He looked up pleadingly. “They can’t all be dead.”

“I’ll…” Richars sighed. “I’ll give you some time alone. I need to get the garrison ready to clear the snow out of the pass. Private Connolly can show you to your rooms once you’re ready to retire for the night.” He left the room. Eberhardt looked at Rye, Inger, and Cranberry, and excused himself soon after.

The three of them sat silently together for a long, long time.

* * *

General Strudel’s estimate had been spot-on. They had cleared the forest the day before, breaking out of the trees and into the grassy hills that filled the land between them and the city. Clement had shared a celebratory bottle of wine with Volund, Windstreak, and a few other high-ranking officers as they ushered in the New Year, but the good cheer had not stayed with them into the morning.

They marched on, the day passing without event. Treskitt began to flag by lunch, and Clement took his tent to carry himself with a sigh. As the afternoon wore on, they at last reached the border between Whitetail and Easthill. To Clement’s surprise, a halt was called, and the army column ground to a stop. He frowned, told Treskitt to wait with the Norhart troops, and began making his way to the front of the column to see what the matter was. As he reached the front of Whitetail’s army, he paused for a moment in surprise.

Just beyond the border was a large camp of dark blue tents. Clement’s heart rate spiked for a moment before he belatedly realized that they were the royal purple of Whitetail, not the deep blue of Norhart.

Ahead, he saw a pair of ponies in golden armor standing together with a trio of white-armored unicorns. He approached the Firewings, eyeing the newcomers with curiosity.

“Where’s Tymeo?” asked the largest unicorn as he approached.

General Strudel had an evaluating expression on her face. “Duke Bellemont deigned to stay behind in the city and begin rebuilding. He felt he could do more good there, with his citizens. I agreed with him.”

“Dammit. The boy’s supposed to be the Duke of Whitetail, not beholden to some capital hireling.” The bulky unicorn stamped a hoof. “And who are you supposed to be?”

“General Windstreak Firemane Strudel, as I’ve already told you, Baron Aubren.”

“General. What nonsense is this?” Aubren fumed. “I marched my army here from the mines to take command of Whitetail’s remaining divisions, and I find some northern whelp who thinks she can lead in charge of them?”

Clement frowned as he reached them at last. “General Strudel has been fighting battles even longer than you, Aubren. Show a little respect.”

“Battles, bah. Trolls and timberwolves aren’t organized enemies.” The baron’s eyes narrowed. “I know you. You’re Blueblood’s boy.”

“Yes,” said Windstreak, frowning, “and he’s marching with me.”

“You’ve thrown in with the Bluebloods?” Aubren’s face grew cloudy with anger. “Whitetail troops marching under the banner of Norhart? This is an insult.”

“He’s marching under my command, not the other way around, and he’s saved Whitetail once already,” snapped Windstreak. “You, on the other hoof, have apparently spent the war sitting on your ass, getting fat, while the griffons creep up to destroy us all.”

Aubren’s face reddened dangerously. “Are you accusing me of cowardice, Firewing?”

“No, merely stupidity.” Windstreak’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Your army is coming with us. Swallow your pride and do your duty, or I’ll have you executed and find somepony who will.”

The other Firewing looked at his captain with shock. “Captain—”

“Silence, Wheatie.” Windstreak glared at Aubren. “So, Baron? What will it be?”

“Empty threats,” snarled Aubren.

“Duke Bellemont gave me unlimited jurisdiction, and that includes issuing your army’s orders—and selecting their commanding officer. I’m going to save Equestria if I can, and you can march with us or be left by the wayside, but you will not stand in our way.”

Aubren fumed. “Celerity would never agree to—”

“Celerity’s dead. I’m not. Make your choice.” Windstreak stared coldly at the baron.

Hissing with anger, the baron looked between her and Clement a few times, but Clement could see the inevitable conclusion finally sink in. Grimacing as if the words were being pulled out of him with pliers, Aubren said, “As you wish, General. I’ll ready my ponies to march.”

Clement cleared his throat. “By the time they can get packed up it’ll be nightfall.”

“Another lost day.” Windstreak scowled. “No use for it. Have our ponies set up camp for the night. We’ll all move on in a group tomorrow.” She turned away and left to rejoin the column, yelling the new orders.

Aubren swore, and walked off into his own camp, accompanied by his guards. Wheatie and Clement were left to stare blankly at each other.

“What was that?” asked Clement uneasily.

Wheatie shook his head in dismay. “I’ve never seen her like this. Usually she’s… well, motherly to her soldiers. But ever since…” he touched his face, “she’s been acting… strange. I’m worried about her.” He looked off after his captain with concern.

Clement slipped a hoof under his chain and fidgeted with it. “Wheatie… how many Firewings are still with us?”

Wheatie’s gaze fell. “Yenna. Percival. Dusky Shine. Crystal Spires. Tivoak. Sprinkle Cream. Jerric. Varrin. Tymeo.” He briefly smiled. “No relation to the duke.” The smile vanished. “There are twenty-one others back in Whitewall, too injured to come with us.” He looked at Clement with hollow eyes. “We’re all that’s left.”

Clement wasn’t sure what to say. Wheatie blinked. “Wait, I suppose there’s Inger, too.” He looked off north. “I wonder if he’s okay.”

“Is he the one the Princess sent to Sleipnord?” asked Clement, pleased to think this small mystery solved.

“One of them,” said Wheatie. “Look, it’s not my place to discuss. If you want to know, ask the Cap—the General.”

Clement thanked him, said he would, and left. By the time he reached the forces of Norhart, they had already begun setting up camp. Fires burned merrily in the chilly January air. He threaded his way through the tents, nodding to soldiers as they recognized him. Stopping to grab dinner from the cook, he wandered aimlessly and munched on a carrot.

At last, curiosity overwhelmed him. He entered Whitetail’s camp, idly strolling past dozens of violet tents. Faint songs rose up as soldiers enjoyed their unexpected free time. Clement found the most elaborate tent in the camp, Celerity’s reserve command tent, replacing the one lost at Trellow. He finished his carrot, then stepped inside.

Windstreak was seated behind a collapsible desk, staring down at a piece of parchment. She looked up at his entrance. “Lord Clement. Is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he soothed. “I just had a question for you.”

Humorlessly, the general raised a waiting eyebrow. Clement’s carrot turned to lead in his stomach. “Ah… back in Whitewall, you mentioned possible aid from the north…”

The eyebrow returned to its former position. “I also said not to count on it.”

Clement squinted at the parchment. “Yet you’re staring at a map of Sleipnord.”

Windstreak gave an aggravated growl and swept the map from the desk. “It’s not your concern.”

“General Strudel… what connection do you have to Sleipnord?”

“One of my best was sent to garner aid for us. He hasn’t returned.” Windstreak’s face was still a mask. “I don’t think he’s coming back.”

Clement tilted his head slightly. “There’s more to it than that.”

“It’s hardly your business, my lord.”

Ignoring the hint, Clement shifted his weight to be more comfortable. “I’m allowing you to command my army, General. That takes trust. And trust goes both ways.”

Abruptly, she softened. “Very well, Clement.” She placed the rumpled map back onto the desk. “Inger wasn’t sent alone. My son went with him.”

Many things became clear to him, far too late. “I see,” he said neutrally.

“The Princess didn’t ask me before sending him. He didn’t even tell me he was leaving.” She breathed slowly. “And I was left wondering—is this my fault? Did he leave because of me?” Windstreak shook her head. “Then I was furious. How dare he leave? How could he do this to me? I had plans for him, a future, all mapped out…”

That sounded uncomfortably familiar. Clement resisted the urge to scratch the growing itch under his breastplate. He wasn’t sure they were talking about her son anymore.

“And then…” Windstreak looked down at the map. “I realized how foolish I was. He didn’t go to Sleipnord to spite me, or to dash my plans. He went to save his country, just like I would have done. I was angry because I’d lost control of him, because he’d grown up.” She blinked. “That doesn’t matter, not anymore. Now… now I just want him to be safe. And that someday we’ll meet again.”

She looked up at Clement. “Princess Celestia once told me that there comes a time in every parent’s life when we have to let our children go, and hope that we’ve given them what they need to succeed.” With a kind, small smile, she said, “Loyalty, justice, honor… you’ve been given what you need, Clement, and you’ve succeeded. He’ll realize that, before the end.”

Clement nodded stiffly. “Thank you, Windstreak.”

Windstreak nodded once. “Good night, Clement.”

He brushed out of the tent, regretting his curious impulses.

* * *

The pass lay behind them. Rye’s hooves were finally back on Equestrian soil. The dark sky showed a familiar moon, a thin, waning sliver of silver. In the distance, the campfires of the Nordponies burned. Rye had left the camp early, letting Inger and Cranberry set the tent. For an hour, he had walked south, ahead of the army. Now, he sat on a large jut of stone, one last refuge in the foothills before stone faded into forest.

Countless trees stretched out to blanket the horizon. He could hear the wind whistle through the leaves, still green and unfallen. The tops of trees swayed hypnotically in the night breeze, like beckoning fingers. They would have to pass through the Antlerwood to reach Canterlot. And the forest was waiting.

He wasn’t worried about the hideous centipede creatures. Even if any of them had survived the collapse of their lair, it was doubtful that they would attack a force as large as the Nordpony army. But the monsters were the least of the forest’s dangers.

Welcome back.

He found that he was sweating. He shouldered off his cloak, feeling for the first time in months the relatively warmer air of Equestria. He breathed out and for once, did not see his breath.

It’s good to be home.

This was not his home. Rye swallowed. The trees whispered in the night, the only sound in this isolated sanctuary. He felt his gaze drawn upward, to look at the clouds and the moon. The feeling of wind rushing over his wingtips as he soared through the clouds slithered through his mind like a snake.

He’d turned away from it once. He could do so again. It had to get easier with practice, right?

Don’t fool yourself. Once you’ve tasted the sweetness again, you’ll never let go.

Go ahead. Taste it.

Rye had faced muggers, horrifying insectoid monstrosities, a frozen wasteland, fire-breathing lizards, a damned spirit of vengeance, assassins, and every thane in Sleipnord. He had never felt fear quite like this. The forest did not feel malevolent—it felt warm, and seductive, promising pleasure and power. But it was not friendly.

“There you are.” Cranberry’s voice broke him out of his reverie. “I thought I might find you out here… just not this far.”

He spared her a glance as she sat down beside him. “Farther than you know.”

“We have to go through there to get home, you know.”

“Oh, yes. I know.” Rye felt a drop of sweat run down his back. “It’s been in the back of my mind for a while, now. Thoughts… memories… dreams…”

Cranberry nudged him amiably. “Would you rather go through the caves again?”

“Yes.”

She fell silent. The two of them stared out at the forest, listening to the absence of noise.

“You were strong enough to leave it behind, Rye. You’re still strong enough.”

Rye snorted, despite himself. “You’re hardly the poster filly for resisting temptation, Ms. Book-Thief.”

“I didn’t steal that book,” said Cranberry airily, “it was given to me by a very good friend.” The two smiled at each other.

He turned back to the trees, looking out into the distance. “Imagine starving, every day of your life. You have nothing to eat but scraps of bread, a few crumbs that fall off the tables. All around you, ponies eat pastries, and cakes, and honeyed oats, smiling and avoiding your eye. You can watch them eat, your stomach growling, but if you try to taste their food it turns to dust.

“And then, one day, you find an enormous buffet. Filled with chocolate cakes and cherry tarts and endless sweets, and it’s all for you. All the ponies who feasted while you starved have to sit and watch you eat it all.” Rye exhaled. “And just as you’re about to dig in, to eat well for the first time in your life, you have to turn away and leave the table behind. To carry on, wandering through the streets, starving to death, while the others look on and mutter about how unhealthy you look.

“And that table—it doesn’t disappear when you leave. It stays there, the food unspoiled, untouched, waiting for you.” He leaned forward toward the forest, his face filled with longing. “I’m so hungry, Cranberry.”

“Rye.” She put a hoof under his chin and swiveled his head to face her. “Listen to me. You’ve become a great pony on this journey. Truly. And it has nothing to do with magic.”

He shook his head. “That’s kind of you, but—”

“Did you use magic to save me and Inger from those awful monsters in the caves? Did you use magic to talk the guardian into giving you the hammer? Did you use magic to unite the thanes under a single ruler?” Cranberry gave him a hard stare.

“I…” He gave a frustrated sigh. “No.”

“Look at it, Rye.” She gestured behind them to the vast camp of Nordponies. “You did this.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you or Inger.”

She smiled gently at him. “I can speak to ponies’ ears, Rye. You can speak to their hearts.”

He looked out at the forest once again. “I…” Slowly, he nodded. “I’ve made it this far without magic. I can make it the rest of the way.”

“That’s the spirit,” she said, standing. “Now let’s go back to camp. You’ve made me hungry.”

Rye felt a smile creep onto his face as he joined her, and they headed north to find food and beds. “A great pony, huh?”

Cranberry snorted. “Yeah, yeah, don’t let it go to your head. I’m still taller than you.”

* * *

General Shrikefeather listened patiently as the major babbled.

“Her eyes were pure white, her skin glowed like it was on fire—it was like staring into the sun. I’ve never—she killed all of my soldiers, burned their brains out. She spared me, just to deliver a warning.” Dewblade’s eyes were wide and twitchy. “We’ve made a terrible mistake.”

Behind the major, standing by the study door, Shrikefeather’s nephew shifted uncomfortably. The general’s eyes flashed, and he stood rigid. The general tapped a claw on his desk. “It’s a good thing you came to me directly, Dewblade.” He reached beneath his desk to the secret compartment he’d discovered after appropriating the study from its previous owner. “A bottle of Lord Weatherforge’s finest.”

He pulled out the wine bottle and popped out the cork with a talon. A glass, hidden in the same drawer, was filled with the red wine. “Drink, major. Calm your nerves.”

Dewblade gratefully lifted the glass with a trembling claw. Taking a single sip, he set it back down and inhaled deeply. “Sir, I’ve never seen anything like it before. Her voice—it was like a thunderstorm and an earthquake all at once. When she spoke, my bones ached.”

“We expected this,” said the colonel from his position leaning on the wall. “It’s why the king made the deal with the dragons.”

“And one of them’s already dead!” Dewblade’s glass quivered, and wine spilled onto the desk.

Shrikefeather drew out a cloth and wiped the wine away. “Viera was killed because she tried to fight an entire army of pegasi, by herself and without planning. She outflew her backup and paid the price for her arrogance. Merys has many flaws, but he’s not so proud as to be stupid.”

Dewblade shook his head in denial. “You don’t understand. It doesn’t matter if we’re with him or not. Celestia…” He took another drink, as Shrikefeather watched warily. “I couldn’t have known before today, but now I do. Gods… they’re not creatures, even ones as powerful as dragons. They’re… a force, willpower made reality. Just being in her presence… I’m not sure I’ll ever be the same again.”

He reached for the glass again. Shrikefeather’s claw shot out and held his wrist. “Major. Pull yourself together. I won’t have my officers falling to pieces on the eve of battle.”

“You haven’t felt it, General.” Dewblade’s eyes were gaunt and distant. “Killing her… it’s like killing the sun itself. You’d burn to death before you could even get close.”

With a resigned sigh, Shrikefeather released the major’s claw. Dewblade downed the rest of his glass.

The three griffons sat quietly for a while. The colonel cast a curious look at the general, who glared in censure. The major merely stared down at the desk, his claws turning the glass over.

Slowly, Dewblade’s eyes closed. He slumped forward onto the desk. The glass fell from limp claws, rolling sideways toward the edge of the desk before the general’s talons caught it. Shrikefeather sighed. “Rest easy, Major.”

The colonel stiffened in alarm. “Is he—”

“Dead.” Shrikefeather held up the bottle and surveyed it with a melancholic frown. “Candarine. Tasteless, almost odorless, and completely painless. Two mouthfuls will give you a stomachache. Three…” He gestured to the major’s body.

“But why?”

“Major Dewblade was a capable soldier, and a competent griffon.” Shrikefeather’s eyes hardened. “But he was broken. I cannot have any in my command sowing dissent and fear among the ranks. Despair is more lethal than poison to an army, Colonel.”

“I… understand.” The colonel blinked in dismay. “Was there no other way?”

“A quiet retirement, far away in some shady oasis?” Shrikefeather shook his head. “He saw the face of God, Colonel. He was never going to be the same, you heard him yourself.” The general frowned. “Make no mistake, Colonel, this was Celestia’s message. Not his words, but his shattered mind.”

The colonel swallowed. Shrikefeather stood. “Have the guards dispose of the body. Discreetly. I’ll return shortly. I need to speak with Merys.”

* * *

The journey through the forest was an uneventful one for most. The way was lit by thousands of torches, the warm darkness held at bay by the orange glow of flames. On Inger and Cranberry’s recommendation, the night watch was doubled for the three day journey through the Antlerwood.

But for Rye, every step took more effort than the last. The throbbing in his head had risen in crescendo to a thunderous climax on the second day, and had not let up since.

At his request, Cranberry and Inger never left his side. Whenever he stumbled under the pressure, drawing wary looks from Eberhardt’s guards, they were there to whisper encouragement and reassurance. At night, when he dared not sleep, they took turns staying awake to talk and distract him from the incessant whispers.

He could feel the raging river of magic in the back of his mind, swelling like a wave about to burst through a dam. He shored up the dike with thoughts of his home, his parents, and his friends, but it was a constant, exhausting battle.

Though it was winter, the ground was green, and the air thick and heavy. At times he felt like he was swimming in slow-motion, dragging his body through viscous air like a lead weight through mud.

Mud… you remember the mud, the disappointment, the knowledge that your body failed you as it has so often. Go, and you’ll live that moment for the rest of your life. Stay, and you can erase it.

“We’re nearly there, Rye.” Cranberry whispered. “Not far to go, now.” Gritting his teeth, he pushed on.

This is your chance, Rye. Your last chance to meet your destiny. Remember what Breyr said? You’re a half-breed in a world of wholes. But you can be whole, Rye. You can be normal. You can be better than normal. You can be anything you want.

All you have to do is stay…

“Hey,” said Inger, pointing ahead. “Anypony else see that?”

Rye looked up to see a bright dot of light in the distance. The end of the forest.

If you leave, you’ll never taste the magic again, Rye. You’ll never fly, never feel the wind on your face, never live.

“Rye? Come on, keep moving, we’re nearly there!”

You’re nothing without it. Lost, lonely, starving.

He set a hoof before him. Then the other. Then he began inching forward, every step a struggle, every breath a labor in itself. The world narrowed to that little dot of light ahead.

Stay.

The last hundred steps were the worst. His head felt ready to explode, his mind filled with the whispering. His vision swam. The edges of his sight turned black, and he felt the raging magic bash against his mental walls.

And then he was out, falling into the grass, heaving for breath. The pressure in his head had gone, and with it the whispers. He was… free wasn’t the right word. He didn’t think he’d ever be free of that quiet voice, that longing, but he could live with it.

“Rye.” He looked up to see Cranberry and Inger standing over him. Inger offered him a hoof.

Taking it, he stood, blinking in the bright sunlight. “I’m never doing that again.” He looked around to see the army of Nordponies still marching out of the forest beside them. “How long was I… zoned out like that?”

“We got out of the forest at about three this afternoon,” said Cranberry. “Well…” She looked up nervously. “I think it was three, anyway. It… it still seems like it’s noon. The sun hasn’t moved at all in the last hour.”

Rye’s stomach fell. “That could mean… a lot of things.”

“None of them good,” said Inger grimly. “Come on. Let’s catch back up to Eberhardt.”

It took the three of them nearly fifteen minutes to reach the front of the Nordpony column again, where they found Eberhardt and his guards wearing wary expressions.

“What’s wrong?” asked Rye, panting slightly from the run.

Inger’s nose wrinkled. “The wind carries the smell of blood.” Eberhardt nodded, his eyes narrowed. As they walked over the next hill, the mystery was solved.

They stood on the edge of a battlefield. Hundreds of bodies were scattered on the ground, broken spears and banners poking up like ribs from some giant carcass. Griffons and ponies alike lay everywhere, in stages of advanced decay. Bones picked clean by scavengers stood in stark contrast to the bloody steel plates that still adorned the bodies.

Eberhardt whistled. “The fighting has come far north, indeed.”

They proceeded down the road, looking around at the carnage as they passed. Inger looked solemn. “These weren’t Canterlot ponies.” He pointed to a ruined flagpole. “That’s the banner of Norhart. And over there, the green flag with the crossed wings and a spear, that’s Helmfast’s.”

“What’s Helmfast doing in Norlund?” asked Rye, blinking in confusion.

“Marching with Blueblood, no doubt.” Inger frowned. “It seems even the duke can no longer ignore the griffons..”

“This battle was not recent,” said Eberhardt, stepping around a pile of unrecognizable bones. “It was fought at least a week ago, if not two. Otherwise, the smell would be far worse.”

Cranberry looked ill. She had her nose covered with a hoof, her eyes tearing up with the hideous smell. “They didn’t even bury the bodies…”

Rye looked away from a pile of griffon corpses. “It looks like the duke won. There aren’t enough ponies here to be his full army. But to leave them like this… he must have been in a tearing hurry.”

“But where was he going?” asked Inger. None of them had any reply.

* * *

“Merys.” The general stood before the great red dragon’s head, which lay on the snowy ground. Merys’s eye opened, and a slitted pupil as tall as Shrikefeather himself focused on the griffon.

“General.” Merys’s vast face broke into a smug smile. “How can I help you?”

“We’re close, Merys,” said Shrikefeather, his gaze intense. “And your time is fast approaching. The god-queen has unleashed her full might against us.” He cast a pointed glance up at the sky, where the sun had frozen at noon.

“Are you having doubts, little griffon?” Merys’s smile broadened.

“This is hardly the time for doubt,” snapped Shrikefeather. “But an architect’s designs can be ruined by weak foundations. I need to know that you can do your job.”

“Don’t worry,” said the dragon, yawning. “She’s old, yes, but so am I.”

“Have you ever fought a god before?” Shrikefeather’s patience was running out.

Merys rolled backward, exposing his enormous underbelly. He ran one of his huge talons along a giant, knotted scar that broke the neat rows of scales. “You see this, griffon? Her sister gave me this, six thousand years ago. A token to remember them by.” His eyes creased in anger. “And I have long remembered.”

Shrikefeather scowled. “If you couldn’t kill them then, how do you expect to do so now?”

“Without little Luna by her side, Celestia is nothing.” Merys’s smile was almost catlike. “She couldn’t threaten Viera, let alone me.”

“Very well.” Shrikefeather exhaled slowly. “I was going to begin the attack at dawn, tomorrow, but…” with another dark look at the sky, “I don’t think there will be a dawn. So we’ll be marching across the field to the city at eight ‘o-clock tomorrow. You will hold back with Colonel Shrikefeather’s group until Celestia reveals herself. Draw her away from the battlefield, distract her, kill her, but don’t let her near my army.”

“Oh, little griffon,” breathed Merys, “I am going to enjoy this.”

Shrikefeather took to the air, leaving the dragon behind. So, Merys was motivated by more than gold and jewels. The general considered this for a moment, then filed it away as interesting but not useful. So long as the dragon would fight for him, and win, his reasons were irrelevant.

It was all coming together, now. His masterpiece was about to be painted, his magnum opus composed and played before the world. The fall of Canterlot would signal the end of Equestria, and the beginning of a new age of Gryphan dominance.

And yet… one variable was still unaccounted for. General Windstreak Firemane, his opposite number. The hour was too late for her to reach the city in time; there was nothing she could do now to save Canterlot from its doom. But that blasted pegasus had foiled him too many times already, robbing him of easy victories and turning his ace in the hole into a liability. He saw her in his dreams, though they had never met; her flaming mane taunting him as he slashed at clouds and splattered blood through the air, always evading his grasp.

No more. If she appeared in this battle, she would meet her death. He would see her a corpse before this war was over. And he would do it himself.

Tomorrow was the Fifth of January. The beginning of the end. The last day the sun would shine over a land ruled by ponies.

Canterlot was about to burn.

* * *

“This meeting is pointless. We’re not deciding anything without General Strudel.” Volund frowned and crossed his legs.

“I can’t believe you two are kowtowing to that commoner’s orders.” Aubren snorted in disgust. “You two have noble blood. You should know better.”

Clement’s first impression of the baron had been the right one, he thought with a frown. “She’s done more to earn our loyalty than you, Aubren.”

“Surely loyalty doesn’t equate to stupidity, Blueblood. Pushing on to Canterlot with so few troops? The bulk of the horde is assaulting the city. Even the sun’s afraid to go near that horizon.”

The sun sets in the west, thought Clement irritably. “The sun’s an obvious sign. The city will soon be under attack, if not already. We need to press on immediately.”

“Walking into a meat grinder like that with only four thousand troops is madness. We should wait, gather more forces to ourselves, call for aid from the west and the south.”

“There is no more aid, Aubren.” Clement slammed a hoof on the table. “We must press on immediately. I was late once. Never again.”

Aubren scowled. “Honorable of you, boy, but foolish. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

Volund’s temper looked to match Clement’s own. “We aren’t going to sit back and watch as the griffons sack our capital.”

“No, we aren’t.” At the sound of Windstreak’s voice, all three of them turned to the tent’s entrance. The general, fully armored in Firewing regalia as usual, had an expression of fierce—excitement?

“General?” asked Clement, raising an eyebrow.

“Baron, Knight-Commander, please come with me. We have matters to discuss.”

The two of them stood, Aubren rather stiffly. Clement made to follow suit, but Windstreak looked at him and said, “Stay.” He sat.

As Aubren and Volund left the tent, Windstreak leaned her head outside the tent and muttered something. She pulled back inside and looked at Clement with some mysterious mixture of happiness and apprehension. “There’s somepony here to speak with you, Lord Clement.”

A hooded pony pushed into the tent. Windstreak bowed to him, and then swept out of the tent, leaving them alone.

Clement tilted his head up, feeling a strange sense of vertigo. “Who are you?”

The pony reached up a white hoof and pulled back his hood. It fell to his back, covered by a mane the color of tarnished gold. Clement’s stomach went into free-fall.

“Hello, Clement,” said his father.