The mountains heaved as fire raked the earth. The wyrm and the sun fought on, the air around them boiling and writhing. Claws carved tracks through rock, sunbeams cleaved through mountainsides, and dragonfire met sunfire again and again.
The battle slowed to a pause. The two split apart, the wyrm landing on the highest peak still standing. The sun alighted on the nearest mountain, shining white against the red daylight. They stared at each other, using the lull to catch their breaths and nurse their wounds.
The wyrm was covered in burns, his scarlet scales blackened and streaked with ash. The left side of his face was ruined, a charred mass of flesh. His last eye was focused on the sun with hatred deeper than the roots of the mountains they fought over, his jaws twisted in rage.
The sun’s armor had been torn and sliced by his claws, the ruined metal digging painfully into her wounds. Blood leaked from a hundred scratches and deeper lacerations, coloring the light of her skin. She stared up at the wyrm and screamed in fury.
“You were young, Merystallistrx! The war was ending! I pitied you, pitied the dragons. I begged my sister to spare your life!”
The wyrm roared back, “You stole the world from us! Took our birthright and gave it to those pathetic mortals!”
“I showed MERCY!”
“Mercy?” The wyrm’s eye bulged. “I have seen your mercy all my life, Solashemesh. Instead of eradicating my race, you allowed us to live—in squalor and destitution, fighting each other like animals for scraps of territory when once, we ruled the earth itself. Instead of annihilating the griffons when you destroyed their empire, you forced them into the desert to suffer a long, slow death by starvation! Instead of executing the mad god Discord, you froze him in stone, conscious for all time!” The wyrm’s chest puffed out in rage. “Instead of killing your sister when she threatened the world, you sentenced her to an eternity of isolation and madness, of gnawing hunger and loneliness, an inescapable hell of your design!” He roared. “I have seen your mercy, Solashemesh.”
The sun faltered, hearing the truth in his words. Her light dimmed for a brief moment.
The wyrm tore from the mountainside, flying straight at her. Fire met fire again, but the wyrm pummeled straight through the blast and slammed into her. “You destroy everything around you, slowly and painfully. You’re a sickness, a disease to be purged!”
He tossed her through the sky, battering her with claws and wings and fire. “I will end you, Sola! End you like my kin could not!”
The sun tumbled through the air, her mind whirling. Sunfire flashed at the dragon, but it splashed weakly across his scales, and he drove into her again. “Everyone has abandoned you! You’ve exiled them all, murdered them from a distance to save your conscience!”
She fell, crashing into the mountains. Rocks tumbled around her. Everything hurt, from her hooves to her horn. Above, she heard the beat of giant wings. She picked herself out of the rubble, looking up at the great red dragon. Her eyes were wide. The light faded from them, her pupils returning. Luna…? Luna, please! Please, sister, answer!
But her sister said nothing. She was still chained in her prison, alone and forgotten, somewhere far away. The sun had no one left to help her.
Her glowing skin darkened. Her mane sputtered, the fires flickering out into a sheet of glittering colors. The sun faded to reveal the Princess of Equestria, and as she stared up at the wyrm, even her regal splendor failed. The glimmering aurora fell against her neck, reduced to a creamy pink mane. The Princess vanished, leaving behind nothing more than a pony.
Celestia found herself alone against the darkness.
The wyrm grasped her in his claws, raising her high in the air. She struggled, kicking with all the might she could muster, but the wyrm whirled around and she found herself flying back again. She crashed into the base of a mountain, falling down into darkness. She lifted a trembling head, blinking in the red sunlight. Blood ran down the side of her head.
As she lay there, limp and broken, Celestia looked up to see a landslide of rock and snow roaring down the mountain. Luna—
It rolled over her, burying the last alicorn in a tomb of earth and ice. The world went black.
Above, the wyrm roared his victory to the mountains. The dragons had triumphed at last, a war that had gone on for six thousand years finally brought to a close in one climactic battle. The dragon turned, his massive wings beating against the air, flying away from the mountainside where the sun had set forever. He did not look back.
* * *
Griffons and ponies died by the hundreds as the battle devolved into a chaotic mêlée. Volund had never seen a fight so fierce, not even the rebellion in Fillydelphia. With Clement by his side, he carved through dozens of griffons, his axe tasting blood again and again.
They drove forward, fighting like they were born to it. As they pushed in, the ponies around them fell, until Volund and Clement found themselves deep inside the enemy lines.
They were surrounded by griffons, shrieking and clawing. Volund’s axe dived in and out, weaving through them like a surgical knife, slicing through armor and flesh. The old warrior cut down another avian with a grunt, feeling blows on his armor. He spun and slashed another, and the bird-lion collapsed.
Ahead, he saw Clement, his axe flying like a whirlwind. The young lord’s mane billowed in the air as he turned, his gleaming axe hewing into another griffon. Volund pushed toward him, hacking and slashing till his neck ached.
He reached his lord in the center of the battle, and the two stood side-by-side as the griffons circled. Volund breathed heavily around his axe haft. “There’s a lot of them.”
“But not enough!” Clement charged forward, and the griffons came in to meet them.
Volund and Clement fought and fought, and griffons fell. The world dimmed in a red haze, the light from the bloody sun above staining everything. The griffons seemed endless, their bodies falling to make room for more. Sweat ran down Volund’s face and neck like rain.
And then suddenly, they were clear. No more griffons were leaping at them, no more shrieks rang in their ears. Volund and Clement looked around, panting, finding themselves in a clearing of their own making, surrounded by two dozen corpses and meters of open ground. Beyond the clearing, the fighting continued to rage, but the battle was moving forward.
Clement, panting, let his axe hang from his armor loop. “Good work, Volund.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said Volund, trying to catch his breath. His shoulders rose and fell, but he smiled. “That was a heroic fight.”
The horn of Helmfast called out, not far from where they stood. Clement’s head swerved. “Helmfast’s in trouble. My father’s with him! Come on, Volund, let’s get to them!”
“All right,” he said, panting. “Just give me a moment to—”
Something slammed into him from the side. He hit the ground hard, his axe bouncing away. Volund rolled over, coming up to his hooves. He turned to see a massive, black-feathered griffon standing between him and Clement.
“So,” said the griffon, “Norhart’s commanders find themselves alone in the midst of my army.”
Clement charged forward. The griffon’s wings pulsed, and he flew backward from the sweep of the axe. He flipped up and his hind legs smashed into Clement, sending the young lord flying backward.
Volund ran for his own axe, retrieving it and racing back. The griffon saw him coming, and reached down beside one of the corpses. He came back up with a short, curved sword, and flew straight toward Volund.
The Knight-Commander’s axe swiped for his throat, but the griffon was no longer there. He twisted to the side, and brought his sword sideways along Volund’s flank. Volund felt a flash of pain as the sword sheared through the flesh on his flank, just below his armor.
He whirled around to attack, but stumbled. The griffon came in again, his sword flashing once, twice, three times, slashing through the Knight-Commander’s hamstrings. Volund’s legs failed him. He fell to the ground with a cry of pain. The griffon strode slowly around him, twirling the sword.
As Volund tried to stand, he found his legs could not support his weight. He pushed against the earth, but gravity pulled him down. He glared up at the griffon, who smiled.
“I’ve won. You know that, don’t you?” said the griffon, running a talon along the side of his blade. “The city is mine already. Your Princess is dead, or soon will be. And your army, mighty as it seems, is still too small to match my own.” His eyes gleamed. “Is General Firemane here? I’m very much looking forward to meeting her in person.”
Volund spat. “She’ll kill you if you do.”
“Not if she fights as poorly as you.” The griffon raised his sword, almost idly. “Goodbye, soldier of Norhart.”
“Don’t you touch him!”
The griffon turned, and Volund saw Clement standing just beyond. The young lord’s helmet had been knocked off by the griffon’s blow, and now his mane flowed in the wind like a golden flag. His eyes were narrowed in fierce determination. Red light glinted from the bloody axe in his mouth.
With a laugh, the griffon left Volund and walked toward Clement, passing his sword from claw to claw. “Ah, and here he is. The young lord of Norhart himself, unless I’m mistaken.”
Clement stamped a hoof to the ground, his legs spread in a battle stance. His head lifted. “I am Lord Clement Marverion Blueblood, Heir to the Duchy of Norhart, Knight of Equestria, a soldier in the service of the Duke, commander of the armies of the north.” His eyes blazed. “And I’m going to kill you.”
Volund struggled with all his might to stand. “No, Clement! Run! Leave me! Get to your father!”
The griffon’s head cocked, his eyes half-closed in something like sleepy satisfaction. “Do you know who I am, boy?”
“Oh, I know you, Shrikefeather. You’re the griffon who’s invaded my home, burned my land, and murdered countless thousands of my kin.” Clement snarled. “But not. One. More.”
Casting a backward glance at Volund, Shrikefeather smiled. He turned back to Clement, spreading his arms and beckoning with a talon. “Come then, little lord. Let us see what color your blood truly is.”
Volund watched, helpless, as the pony and the griffon charged into each other. He willed his legs to hold, but every attempt to stand sent stabbing pain through his limbs. His hind legs collapsed again, and his head hit the ground.
Clement’s axe swung in, meeting Shrikefeather’s sword with a clang. The griffon danced back, parrying the blows that followed. Steel flashed in the crimson light, the harbinger of blood to come.
The axe spun in a flurry of attacks, ringing as it crashed against the sword. Shrikefeather leaped into the air, spinning over Clement’s back, and brought the sword down onto his armor. It rebounded with a ringing of metal. The griffon landed, stabbing forward as Clement turned, and his sword twisted into the space beneath the axe’s head, locking it in place.
Shrikefeather and Clement were both breathing hard. The griffon’s tail swished through the air. He tilted his head mockingly. “That’s fine armor. Did your father buy it for you? I wonder if he’s still alive…” Shrikefeather’s smile grew. “Or if my griffons have already hacked his body to pieces.”
Clement roared, and jerked the axe. The weapon lock was broken, and the furious blows resumed. Shrikefeather was forced back, defending himself with the sword that was rapidly losing its edge under the constant blows of the axe.
Volund’s desperate struggle continued. He dragged himself toward his weapon, not sure what he could do, but unwilling to let his lord face the griffon alone.
The duel intensified. Clement’s mane flew wildly around his face as he drove the axe forward. Shrikefeather’s face was exultant, his eyes wide with joy as he fought a real opponent for the first time in decades. He and Clement circled the clearing, leaping over bodies and broken spears, clashing again and again.
Clement bulled forward suddenly, not swinging his axe but firing a blast of light from his horn. Shrikefeather recoiled, taken by surprise. Clement slashed down, cutting across the griffon’s armored chest, his fine steel axe cleaving through the rough iron.
Shrikefeather’s left claw curled into a fist, and he punched Clement in the head. The young lord fell away, his axe still lodged in Shrikefeather’s breastplate.
The griffon snarled in pain, grasped the axe, and yanked it out. Blood seeped from the gash. Shrikefeather’s eyes furrowed in anger as he looked at the head of the axe, stained with his blood.
“Enough of these games.” He hurled the axe away into the crowds beyond the clearing. Sparing a glance of contempt at his appropriated sword, now ruined by the blows of the axe, he cast it, too, aside.
“Come on, then!” said Clement, roaring. “For Equestria!”
The two smashed together, claws and hooves meeting in a tumble of violence. Clement smashed Shrikefeather’s helmet, knocking the griffon to the side. Shrikefeather’s hind leg swept out and took Clement’s own, sending him down in a heap. Clement rolled over to avoid the griffon’s descending talons, scrambling to his hooves.
Volund had nearly reached his axe. Every inch cost him incredible pain. A smear of blood trailed behind him. He grunted with the effort as he slumped beside his axe at last, taking a moment to let the pain subside before his next exertion. He grasped the axe in his mouth, and turned to his lord and the griffon.
The duel had reached a frenzied pitch. Clement and Shrikefeather hurled blows at each other, locked in a deadly dance. The griffon pulled back, his wings flaring out. Clement drove forward, smashing his hoof into the griffon’s helmeted face. Shrikefeather tipped back on one leg, his wings splayed wildly.
Clement brought his other hoof down, a finishing blow. Shrikefeather’s hind legs found the ground, and suddenly he twisted. The griffon ducked beneath the hoof, rising inside Clement’s guard. With a roar, his claws flashed, and his talons swept across Clement’s exposed throat.
Volund’s world tilted. The axe fell from his mouth to land with a muted noise. Denial screamed inside his head. The images burned themselves into his memory.
Clement stumbled backward, his eyes wide. He pressed a hoof against his throat, trying to stem the spurting blood. With a sickening gurgle, he gasped, trying to breathe. His legs trembled, and then went slack.
He fell to the ground. His head landed sideways, his eyes looking straight into Volund’s. He jerked twice, and coughed, splattering the ground with blood. His body continued to twitch, but slowly the motions stilled. Clement’s eyes lost focus, and his head lay down gently, as if to sleep.
Volund screamed. He drove his legs into the ground, pushing against it with all his might, his mouth frothing with spit as he strained. He slammed his head against the ground, pushing, but it was not enough. His legs refused to work. He beat his head against the grass, helpless. Tears streamed down his cheeks as his scream faded into hoarse sobs.
The thud of feet and claws on grass stopped beside his head. A claw grasped his armor, and rolled him over. The griffon’s face was cold and distant. He drew back a claw, the sharp talons still covered with blood.
A long, deep sound reverberated through the air. It was joined by others, dozens, hundreds; battle-horns that Volund did not recognize. Shrikefeather froze. The two of them both turned to the west, looking over the chaotic battle that raged all around. The horns continued.
Shrikefeather looked back down to Volund, his eyes wide. Then the griffon’s wings flapped mightily, and suddenly he was gone.
Volund lay there for a moment, blinking at his unexpected lease on life, and then the pain hit him again. He curled in anguish. At last his eyes opened, and he turned up his head to see the body of his lord, commander, and friend.
He shouldn’t be alone. That was all he could think. Volund reached out a hoof, and began the long, slow journey to Clement’s side.
The minutes stretched on endlessly. The sounds of crashing metal faded, as the fighting moved away. Halfway to his destination, he had to rest, weak from the blood loss. He looked up to see that the griffons were moving west, pulling back from the forces of the ponies.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
A white unicorn with golden hair ran through the ruinous remains of battle, his blue cape flying behind him. The duke cast aside his helmet, and it bounced away on the grass. His hooves thudded in Volund’s ears as he raced past. Emmet reached Clement, coming to a bewildered, heartbroken stop.
Emmet knelt, reaching out. His face was filled with shock and pain. It broke all at once, and he moaned with inexpressible sorrow. “Noooooooo...”
The duke held Clement, pressing his son’s head against his chest. He rocked back and forth like a teetering pillar. He bowed his head, shaking. Another wail tore from his throat, a wordless sound of endless grief. He lay weeping in the mud and the blood, cradling the body of his son.