At Clement's side, he heard Wheatie’s breath draw in. “Look at that…”
The scene before them was like a painting of hell. Fires burned in great tracks across the fields. Countless black shapes swarmed against the walls of the city, the blood-red light glinting off of their weapons and armor. And above it all, a vast city in the clouds, pouring down griffons like rain.
Behind him, Volund swore under his breath. “I think we know what the general’s secret weapon is.”
“‘The key to victory is in Cloudsdale,’” echoed Windstreak. “The key to victory is Cloudsdale. Damn Shrikefeather.”
“General Firemane.” Duke Blueblood’s voice was warm and solid. Clement’s heart rose at the sound of it. “The lines are ready. We charge on your command.” His father looked to the golden-clad general, his eyebrows drawn together in concern. “My son and I can lead the ground attack. You and your pegasi can head for the city; take out the griffons in the skies and the streets.”
“No.” Windstreak shot him down. “We don’t have enough pegasi left. There are thousands of griffons there, too many for us to fight alone.”
Clement bit his lip. “But they’re going to slaughter the ponies inside! We can’t just do nothing.”
“If we don’t destroy the army on the fields, we’ll be flanked and torn to pieces as soon as we try to enter the city.” Windstreak’s eyes were cold. “This is only going to end one way. With these griffons dead. With Shrikefeather dead.”
Wheatie murmured in protest. “Captain—”
“It’s General, Private.” Windstreak stared hard at the chaos before them, her eyes searching for a single griffon.
Wheatie fell silent, looking dismayed. He and Clement shared a brief look of concern. Clement cleared his throat. “Then the original plan is still intact?”
“We’ll drive into the heart of their formation, and then we’ll cut it out.” She looked around at her commanders. “Gentlecolts, to your positions.”
As the Norhart and Whitetail ponies split off to rejoin their own ranks, Clement’s father pulled him aside.
“Here we are at last.” Emmet’s smile was broad and warm. “You look magnificent, Clement.”
“You wanted the best.” Clement returned the smile, his eyes bright. “I’m ready.”
“Of course you are.” His father gave a solid nod. “You’re a Blueblood. One worthy of the name.” He softened. “Clement. This fight’s far from hopeless, but…”
“Don’t, father.”
“If I don’t survive the battle—”
Clement gave him a pleading look. “Father, you will.”
“If I don’t, you have to be ready.” Emmet put a hoof on Clement’s shoulder. “You’ll be a good duke, Clement. You’ve got the skill, and the ability, but most importantly you care. And that’s what Norhart needs.” He opened his forelegs and the two embraced.
“Not for another ten years, at least. Okay?” Clement pulled his father tightly.
Emmet hugged him even harder. “Okay.” Reluctantly, he pulled away. “Go on, then. Volund needs you at the line. I must see to Helmfast.”
“Goodbye, father.” Clement smiled. “I’ll see you once the battle’s done.”
“We’ll sing songs together over a pint, tonight.” The duke grinned, something Clement hadn’t seen in years. “Go on! They won’t wait for us forever!”
Clement tore himself away and cantered off to the center of the Norhart cavalry. His army was on the left end of the enormous line of soldiers, stretching hundreds of meters down the field. He arrived at Volund’s side, near the front, breathing heavily. “This is it, Knight-Commander.”
“Yes.” Volund looked out at the vast swaths of destruction that lay ahead of them. “The end of everything.” He cast a glance at Clement. “I’m proud to serve at your side, my lord.”
“There’s nopony else I’d rather be with, Volund.” Clement turned to face the front. “Let’s save our country. For Celerity. For Tymeo. For Celestia.” He inhaled, and set his jaw in determination. “For Weston.”
“For the whole of Equestria.” Volund rattled his armor, stamping a hoof.
The horn of Whitetail blared into the air. It was immediately joined by the calls of Norhart and Helmfast, the last horn of Weatherforge, and the horns of the last remaining units from Easthill, and Greenway; all the provinces of Equestria united at last. Clement’s heart lifted. He looked back over his shoulder at the thousands of ponies who had followed him through battle three times already, and roared at the top of his lungs, “For Equestria!”
Six thousand voices joined him in one, unified roar. “FOR EQUESTRIA!”
The armies charged as one. The thundering of their hooves drowned out the sounds of the horns, rising above them like a rushing river. The line drew forward into a wedge, a giant spear-tip aimed at the heart of the Gryphan army. Red light glittered on their armor like rubies in the twilight. They were a force the likes of which had not been seen in centuries, and they swiftly descended upon the griffons.
They crashed into the griffon lines with a tremendous clamor of steel and hoofbeats, cutting down and trampling the southerners. Griffons and ponies died in scores as spears shattered and shields splintered into thousands of flying shards of wood. Clement and Volund smashed through the first ranks of the enemy, carving their way through a tangle of bodies and metal.
But in the distance, Canterlot burned.
* * *
Inkpot galloped harder than she ever had before. All around her, the cries of dying ponies rang out through the streets. Griffons were raining down from the sky, crashing to the ground with clanking armor. Buildings burned with flames so hot they hurt to approach. Inkpot ran on, outracing collapsing buildings and dodging the roving bands of griffons.
Ahead lay the marketplace. She turned the corner to find a nightmare awaiting her. Hundreds of griffons had surrounded a huge group of ponies, and more were being driven from the surrounding buildings into the corral. Inkpot froze, watching with horror as the griffons closed in with their swords. She turned back and ran from the screams.
She took a path around the market. The back alleys were usually the most dangerous part of the city, but today they were the only places she could go without seeing more of the invaders. The streets were cluttered with rubble and flaming debris. Bodies lay everywhere, cut down by the griffons or crushed by falling buildings. Inkpot tried not to recognize any of them.
She emerged at last, stumbling out into the familiar street. All the snow had melted under the endless noon sun, but the stones were still wet and slippery. She fell, hitting the ground painfully. It took her a moment to stand, get her bearings, and then rush onward.
Finally arriving at her destination, she paused to catch her breath. The stone bakery was still standing, though the houses beside it had been gutted by fire. Inkpot spared a quick look to her sides to ensure no griffons could see her, then pushed through the door with a tinkle of the bell.
Immediately she was hit from the side and knocked to the floor. “Ah!” Apricot, holding a pan sideways in his mouth, stared at her with wide eyes. He dropped the pan. “Inkpot! What are you doing here?”
“I came to get you,” she said, standing. “The griffons are everywhere. They’re… they’re pulling ponies out into the street and, and—” She took a shaky breath.
“Let’s go in back.” Apricot shepherded her through the kitchen and into the dining room. She smelled baking cake as they passed the ovens.
“You’re cooking?”
Apricot looked stretched. “It… it calms my nerves. Once the boulders stopped falling, I mixed up some batter and threw it in. Trying to… to keep myself together.”
Inkpot nodded, with a giggle. “Maybe I should try shelving books.” She giggled again, then quashed the mirth. It was too close to nervous-involuntary. “Apricot, we’re not safe here. We have to get to the gates. There are soldiers there, with weapons—we’ll be more protected there than in here, at least.”
“I’m not leaving my home for them to destroy,” said Apricot with a vehement glare.
“Please! Apricot, for my sake, please come with me.” She held his hoof with both of her own. “I don’t want to lose you.”
His resolve weakened. Inkpot was gratified to see his head slump. “I—fine. All right. Just let me grab—”
Both of them froze. The faint tingling of a bell sounded from beyond the kitchen. Inkpot’s stomach dropped through the floor.
“Hide!” hissed Apricot. Both of them flattened themselves on either side of the open portal to the kitchen.
Inkpot heard a harsh caw, followed by a low purr. She winced as the high-pitched shrieks continued. The tongue of the griffons was painful to listen to. A second voice squawked something, and she heard the crunch of bread. A bead of sweat dripped down her neck.
Paper rustled as the griffons ransacked the bakery. Take it and leave. Take it and leave. Please, goddess, let them take it and leave.
“Hullo, what’s that?” The voice was rough and scratchy, and unmistakably not a pony. “You smell that?”
“Why you talking in pony?”
“Because,” said the first voice, “We’re not alone.” Inkpot heard a horrible smile in the words. “We have guests.”
“You sure?”
“There’s something baking in the oven. It seems we interrupted dinner.” Inkpot heard sniffing.
She closed her eyes, too scared to think. Every muscle in her body was trembling. The sniffing grew louder—closer. The griffon had entered the kitchen. She heard the creak of the oven door opening. “Looks like a cake or something. Definitely fresh.”
Inkpot inhaled loudly, then her eyes widened and she slapped a hoof over her mouth. Across the opening, Apricot’s face was covered with sweat. She felt her lip quivering.
“Come out, come out, my little ponies; come out and play…” The voice was drawing closer. Inkpot saw the tip of a beak extend through the arch. It inhaled deeply.
“Come on, this place is empty. They must’ve fled before their cake finished. Let’s go, I wanna loot the palace before the others get to it first.”
The beak frowned. “Fine.” It withdrew. Inkpot felt like her body was one giant, coiled spring of tension, waiting to burst. She heard the tap of claws on the kitchen tile, and then the bell jingled once again.
Apricot and Inkpot both sighed in relief. Inkpot gave a shaky laugh, feeling her heart pound. “That was too close.”
His eyebrows jumped in agreement. “Forget my things. Let’s get out of here and head straight for the gate.”
Inkpot nodded. She took a second to calm her heart, then turned into the kitchen. They walked past the open oven and through the archway into the bakery’s front.
A claw whipped out from the side and slammed her into the arch. The second griffon whirled around the doorframe and she heard a thwack as he pinned Apricot against the kitchen wall.
The one holding Inkpot dragged her bodily into the kitchen, grasping her by the neck and shoving her up against an unlit stove. She choked, scrabbling at the griffon’s claw with her hooves, to no avail.
The griffon’s eyes glinted. His beak curled in a cold smile. “Hello, darling.”
He slammed her face against the stove, and she fell down, stunned. She felt blood drip from her nose, splashing onto the griffon’s claw. He twisted her around again to face him. “You’re a pretty little thing,” he said, running a talon along the bottom of her chin, passing over the jugular with a faint application of pressure.
“Keep your claws off of her!” roared Apricot, struggling against his captor. The other griffon raked him across the face with his talons.
The first griffon scowled. “Shut up, or we’ll bake you in one of your own ovens.” He turned back to Inkpot, the horrible smile creeping back onto his face. “Shame you’re not a pegasus. With the feathers, you can almost pretend they’re real females.”
Apricot’s efforts redoubled, kicking against the griffon. His head was at too steep an angle to bite the claw at his neck, and he didn’t have enough distance to build up momentum for a real kick.
The griffon pulled Inkpot up to the stovetop, and threw her onto it face-down. She stared at the wall, shaking. Tears edged her eyes, held back only by her building terror.
“It’s awfully hot in here. Must be the damn oven.” The griffon set his helmet down beside her. It stared at her with malevolent pits of blackness instead of eyes. Behind, she heard the clink of metal as the griffon unbuckled his breastplate.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. Oh, goddess, no.
Her chest shook. She felt a talon run down her spine, pressing delicately against her skin. “Move, and I’ll gut you.” A sob escaped her at last. The griffon growled. “Oh, don’t cry. I hate it when they cry.”
There was a splash, and a scream. “What?” The griffon was suddenly pulled away. Inkpot immediately threw herself off of the stove onto the floor, scrambling away.
She turned to see the other griffon screaming and clutching his helmet, his head covered with boiling-hot cake batter. The cake pan was rolling across the floor. Apricot, his horn blazing with orange light, was leaping at the first griffon. A frying pan glowed orange and flew from its hook, landing in his mouth. He brought the pan home on the griffon’s un-helmeted head, and the avian fell. Apricot followed him down, pounding again and again with the pan. Blood splashed across the floor. The batter-covered griffon stumbled into a wall and toppled, hitting the floor with a clank.
Inkpot crawled back, to the corner of the kitchen farthest away from the bodies of the griffons. She stared, hollow-eyed, as Apricot stood and let the frying pan drop. Breathing hard, he slowly backed away from the corpses, the light from his horn dying. He bent over the kitchen sink, lowering his head and gasping. His chest heaved, but he closed his eyes and swallowed.
Everything was shaking. She couldn’t stop. Her heart was racing like the wind, and as unevenly as the sea. Her stomach turned. She bent to the floor, and threw up.
Apricot was wiping the blood from his face with a washcloth. He winced as it passed over the scratches on his cheek. He dropped the bloodied rag into the sink, and turned to Inkpot. He approached cautiously.
“Inkpot? Honey?” He touched her gently, and she flinched away. He sat beside her, extending an upturned hoof. “Inkpot. It’s me. It’s me.”
Her shoulders heaved. “Apricot!” She wrapped her legs around his neck and sobbed into his shoulder. She cried and cried, for the war and the griffons and her sister and the fire and the death and the horrors all around them.
“It’s okay, Inkpot.” He patted her on the head as she wept like a child. “It’s okay.”