Death waited in the dark for Cocoon’s legions. A column dozens of miles long, once regimented and organised but now ragged and dispersed, staggered through the trees of what the Lynxes called the Tailwald Wood. It had rained heavily that day, and the Changelings now slogged, hissing, gasping and buzzing, through mud up to their knee joints. The marching of nearly thirty thousand Changelings had turned the muddy path into a quagmire, and those at the back of the column had the worst of it.
Between the pines of the Tailwald Wood, the Lynxes followed them. A war party of fifty from the lair of Blackfur stalked a group of twenty Changelings. Dragging a cannon behind them, they were slow, exhausted, and had long since been separated from the main part of the column.
His eyes flashing, a Lynx with sable fur turned to face the pony next to him. “A magnificent prize, don’t you agree, Captain Sentry?”
Resplendent in the indigo-faced dolman of the 10th (Imperial Crystal) Hussars, a fur-trimmed, heavily-braided pelisse slung over one shoulder, Captain Flash Sentry regarded the Lynx with distaste. Slashclaw was barely out of cubhood, and had what Sentry regarded as an unhealthy obsession with bloodshed. His ponies had heard whispers from Slashclaw’s Lynxes: as heir to Blackfur, he had apparently made a habit of killing slaves at random to remind everyone of his status.
Sentry didn’t much like this Lynx: when his squadron had arrived in Blackfur five days ago, Slashclaw’s father Brightooth had been preparing to hand over a massive clutch of slaves from other lairs over to the Changelings in exchange for protection. He had given the case for fighting before the entire lair, but Brightooth, terrified by the Changelings’ success and convinced that the Royal Army’s defeat was only a matter of time, had refused to yield. Then Slashclaw had stepped forward and with a single snap of his jaws, torn out his father’s throat. He had then pledged the entire lair to the fight against the Changelings. Sentry had been horrified, but his orders from Shining Armor were clear, and he was duty-bound to accept.
“Nothing to be excited about, chieftain,” said Sentry stiffly. “But if we managed to stop this gun crew, we’ll hold up at least a sixth of the Changeling column.”
“My warriors are in position!” said Slashclaw eagerly. “Give the signal, and I’ll bring you their commander’s helmet!”
Slashclaw disappeared into the trees. Sentry sighed.
“Can you believe that bucker, sir?” asked his Bright Ice, his Squadron Sergeant Major.
“He wants to defend his homeland. He can kill but he doesn’t know war at all,” said Sentry, sadly. Sentry hadn’t known war either until a few days ago. His experience on the field of Maneden was not something he’d wish on any pony or Lynx.
He checked his watch. “Five minutes to H-hour. Get ready.”
***
Buzzing in exhaustion and frustration, the Changeling gun crew slogged through the mud and rain. They knew that there were Lynxes in the wood, but they had long since given up trying to keep a tactical formation. All they cared about now was reaching the safety of the next camp.
Thus they heard nothing until Flash Sentry’s roar of “FIRE!” echoed through the trees.
The short spears of the Hussars thundered, and fifty shots tore into the Changeling column. It was inevitable that most would miss: spears were inaccurate at the best of times and the Hussars’ difficulties were compounded by the dark and the rain, but it was enough. Half the crew fell in an instant, and then fifty screeching, howling, bloodthirsty Lynxes streaked from the trees and slashed the survivors to pieces.
Exhausted, surprised and disorganised, there was no possibility of the Changelings forming an effective defence. A wall of shields would have been almost useless within the trees at any rate. Most could only get a half-hearted jab with their horns at the Lynxes before they were felled. Then Flash Sentry’s cavalry swept in.
Twenty-five Hussars, roaring, their sabres flashing, swept in from each flank. Sentry led the right flanking group personally, slashing his sword left and right against any Changeling that came near him. He felt nothing as he killed.
A handful of Changelings managed to escape off the track into the woods. Either due to starvation or being run down, they would not get far.
After ten minutes, the sounds of clashing metal, spears being fired and the screams of the dying faded, and all that was left was the sound the rain pattering on the ground and mixing with the blood of the fallen.
***
“Fifth Cohort: twenty dead, thirteen missing, eleven to the medics, fighting strength three hundred and sixty. Sixth Cohort: eighteen dead, twelve...”
The Changeling officer paused. His commander sat before him, un-watching.
“Go on,” whispered Lord Cocoon.
Six legions had entered the Tailwald Wood in good order. After three days, they had the strength of three. Four cohorts in good order and close to their full fighting strength had pitched the camp that afternoon as the light began to fade. Over the course of the evening, handfuls of stragglers and shattered units no larger than a century had staggered into the camp, telling of the horrors on the road behind them.
“Orders, sir?” whispered one of his officers, when the casualty report was complete.
Cocoon looked up. Huddled in his tent were a dozen of his most senior surviving officers. Some, bothered by wounds, leaned heavily to one side as they stood. Two had to sit. The rain still drummed on the tent’s awning.
“If we keep following the path west, we will face another ambush,” he said. “We have a potential route to a south through a pass. I want it thoroughly scouted before first light tomorrow. Until we can break out into open country we’re vulnerable.”
“We have some open ground to the north, My Lord,” said one of his officers.
“The Lynxes would never engage us there while we have the advantage of a battle line. They’d keep us pinned there and await Shining Armor’s army. Our best hope is the short route out of the forest to the south.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want what cavalry cohorts we have left to be prepared to leave the camp before first light to scout the south. Now...”
Cocoon was silent for a moment. He fixed his officers with a steely gaze. “Understand this: we are the largest Changeling force left in the Lynx Territories. I don’t doubt that Shining Armor has deployed more squadrons to rouse the unoccupied lairs. We must escape the Tailwald Wood to become a rallying point for the rest of our cohorts in the Lynx Territories before we can pull back to Froud Valley. Impress this upon your troops: tomorrow, speed will be of the essence.”
***
From the tree line, Flash Sentry and Bright Ice watched Cocoon’s camp through binoculars. “What do you think, sir?”
Sentry shivered beneath his greatcoat. “We’re not doing anything tonight. Cocoon’s a smart guy. He’ll have whatever Changelings he has left who can fire blasts up on the palisade. I don’t doubt he’ll have a fosse and stakes or traps up in front of the wall. Keep rotating patrols out, but other than that we’ll do nothing until he moves again. Slashclaw will have to wait for his helmet.”
***
The eastern sky was reddening as the cavalry formed up at the camp gate. One hundred and twenty Changelings were still able to fly. Their instructions were to scout the pass to the south to see if it was clear. If they were contacted, the lead element was to break out to the south and fly at best speed back to the Changeling Kingdom. Chrysalis had to know what had happened here.
Cocoon watched from the wall as the last of his cavalry filed from the gate. That last instruction, he knew, was not encouraging to his infantry who would soon march, but he knew it was realistic. He did not believe at this point that his legions would make it out of the Tailwald Wood. If any of them escaped, they would be a rabble of the plains ready to be chased down by vengeful Lynxes.
He did not know whether his legions could survive another day’s march. The open ground to his north was denied to him: the last group of eight Changelings that had staggered into the camp after midnight had spent four hours slogging across it in the dark and had confirmed that what appeared to be a stretch of moorland was in fact a bog. Swollen by the rains, what had been difficult to cross for eight would be utterly impassable for an army. He had hoped that if he’d had to march west, he could have used it to keep away from the tree line and use as a rallying point, even if he would not make a decisive stand there. Now his only salvation lay south.
***
Flash Sentry’s breath came in clouds before him as he crouched, just inside the trees, in front of his squadron. Cocoon’s cavalry column was now halfway across the clearing, and it would be a few more moments before it was out of range from shooters on the camp’s earthen walls.
The entire regiment was in position in the trees: one thousand Pegasi of the 10th (Imperial Crystal) Hussars. They outnumbered Cocoon’s cavalry nearly ten to one. It was overkill, almost obscenely so, but Colonel Beryl de Topaz didn’t want a single Changeling to escape to the south. She wanted to inflict a defeat before the walls of the Changeling camp that would utterly crush their morale.
It would be a victory they deserved, as well: of all the communities of Equestria, the Crystal Pegasi had arguably sacrificed the most to form a regiment. The birth of a Pegasus was rare among the Crystal Ponies, Unicorns rarer still, but the response of the Crystal Pegasi to the call for a Hussar regiment had been astonishing. Even in the most militarised societies of Mareope, the percentage of the population in the military never exceeded four percent, but an unheard-of twenty percent of all Crystal Pegasi were serving with the colours. Flash Sentry was one of the few immigrant Pegasi in the regiment, and only then because of the need for experienced officers.
Then in the centre of the line, Topaz must have tapped the shoulder of the Pegasus in front of her, because the regiment’s No. 5 Squadron, strung out in skirmish order in front of them, fired their spears. A storm of magical blasts tore from the trees across the clearing into Cocoon’s cavalry column, and then the bugles in the centre ran out with the call that every Pegasi remembered as “Let ‘em go – at ‘em boys – now for a charge!”
Flash Sentry swept his sword from its scabbard and took to the air. “CHARGE!”
***
Lord Cocoon sank to his knees as his cavalry wilted before the fusillade from the trees. What had only seconds before been an organised, proud column was now a panicked, milling mass, and now the ponies charged from the trees.
There were hundreds of them, all clad in sombre green beneath a gold-fringed indigo pennant bearing a winged white snowflake. Their sabres were held high, glinting in the morning sun, and with a thunderous shout they fell upon the Changeling cavalry, burying them like a tidal wave rising from a green sea. Swords rose and fell for a few moments, and then it was over.
A great buzz of fear erupted from the Changelings watching on the wall. Pheromones rank with the sharp scent of terror poured from them, and all eyes, scared and desperate, swung to their commander.
Cocoon stayed on his knees in despair. His legions were lost, and with them the Lynx Territories. There could be no escape now, and Chrysalis would never know what was coming for her. He was responsible for the two greatest defeats in Changeling history. He could never return to the Hive.
“Sir,” whispered one of his officers. He laid a hoof on his shoulder.
Cocoon looked up. The officer was surrounded by a thick cloud of fear, and his eyes begged him for orders, a plan, something, anything to get them out of here. But Cocoon had nothing left to give.
“I’m sorry I brought it to this,” he whispered. Then his horn glowed gold, and the officer leapt back in horror as his throat slashed open.
In a spray of green ichor, Lord Cocoon fell dead from the wall.