The floor of the barracks building was awash with blood. Captain Soren sat slumped against an overturned bunk, his left arm reduced to a blackened stump where a blast from a melta had caught him as it burned through the wall. When the attack on Canterlot came in, the three humans who made up the liason party were being housed in the guard barracks attached to the palace. Several squads of guardsponies had fallen back to defend the building. Now their corpses littered the rooms and the courtyard outside. Trooper Hanlon's remains lay gently steaming on the floor nearby. He had caught the same melta blast, but it had struck him full force and vaporised most of his body. Magos Kallistos was also dead, but despite his age and apparent infirmity, his lightning-fast neural-interfaced manipulator arms that sprouted from his back had managed to scythe down three of the attacking traitor guardsmen before the rest had shot him down, proving that he really did have a quick mind.
A squad of ponies had hunkered down in the bunk room with orders to defend both the building and the humans. Traitor guard had swarmed around the barrack block where disciplined fire from the ponies stationed outside had thinned their ranks. But they swept in with overwhelming numbers and heavy weaponry. A melta had been brought up and had cut a hole in the side of the building, surprising and outflanking the defenders. Half a dozen grenades had followed through the opening, the storm of shrapnel ripping into the ponies, their screams drowned out by the hail of las-fire that flickered across the room as the attackers stormed in through the breach. His arm burned away by the melta, Soren stumbled backwards, tripping over a footlocker and falling behind it, which had protected him from the grenades. He crawled back and managed to sit up, his back to the overturned bunk, as the Chaos guardsmen executed the last of the defenders.
They saw they had a prisoner, and an interesting one at that; a human in a city of ponies. They had held him at gunpoint for half an hour, refusing to answer any of his questions, standing grim-faced, leering at him, the barrels of their lasguns aimed at his chest. They refused his demands for medical attention; he had no doubt that they would. He also had no doubt he would not live to see the sun set. He would be tortured for information and then shot. His arm throbbed, though the stump itself was painless- the catastrophic burns had ruined the nerve endings and deadened the pain that he should be feeling. Then a dark shadow appeared in the barracks doorway, and he knew he was about to feel a lot more pain than a mere severed limb could ever cause.
Parthax The Infidel, Sorcerer Lord, Chosen of Tzeentch and Torturer of Worlds, strode purposefully through the doorway. The vast bulk of his power armour barely fitted, the doorway having been only designed for ponies. His face may have once been considered handsome, in a chiseled, workmanlike way. But that was many millennia ago. Over the years his countenance had been twisted and distorted by the foul powers of Chaos, and now he was terrible to behold. His eyes glowed, almost pulsing, with an unholy inner fire. It has been said that the eyes are gateways to the soul, and the malignant hatred in Parthax's soul was clear to see. Something inside his eyes, something in his very essence, seemed to stir, darting from side to side without his eyes actually moving. His pupils were slitted, like those of a lizard. His head was shaven, not just his hair but his eyebrows and even his eyelashes. The foul symbol of Tzeentch was imprinted on his pate, daubed in blue and tattooed across his armour as well. His power armour was inscribed with all manner of foul symbols and litanies of unnatural, unknowable words. Gazing upon them caused a primeval disgust to well up inside Soren, their freakish geometries seeming to break the laws of physics even as he watched. Merely looking at such symbols had driven many men mad, and Soren could feel something in his head, as though hundreds of hands were scratching at the back of his eyes, clawing to escape. He shuddered with revulsion as Parthax stepped into the room, the soldiers taking a respectful step back. Here was a man, a Traitor Marine, who had fallen further from the Emperor's light than he had thought was possible. In his right gauntlet he clutched a long staff topped with the eight-pointed star of Chaos. His left gauntlet had been modified into a storm bolter, a double-barreled, wrist mounted variant of the standard-issue Astartes weapon. An incongruous cloak of white fur was slung around his broad shoulders, clasped at the throat by a buckle in the shape of Tzeentch's foul symbol. He approached Soren, and when he spoke, his voice was silky smooth, a gift from his demonic patrons, no doubt.
'Humans. Dogs of the false Emperor.' He smirked down at Soren, who stared back with undisguised abhorrence. 'Why are you in this place?' Parthax asked.
'To protect it against scum like you!' Soren replied, clutching his ruined arm with his remaining hand. Parthax laughed, a mellifluent chuckle.
'And you did a magnificent job of it, did you not?' His lipless mouth contorted in a foul parody of a smile. 'Your men are dead, these aliens are dead, and this city is mine.'
Soren looked around the bloodstained room at the corpses of the Magos, trooper Hanlon, and the dozen or so ponies who had died defending it. From what Parthax was saying, the rest of the city had fallen too.
'Now tell me. Where are their psykers?' Parthax continued.
'What psykers?' he spat. 'We had no psykers here.'
'No no, you misunderstand me, dear Captain,' Parthax chuckled again. 'Not Imperial psykers. These aliens, Xenos as you no doubt call them. Where are their psykers?'
'I don't know what you're talking about...' Soren mumbled. Suddenly, with nary a whisper from Parthax, a bolt of pain shot through his body. His remaining limbs spasmed and he cried out in pain.
'Think, Captain, think. I felt them, I felt their presence. Why do you think we followed you to this backwater planet?' Soren gritted his teeth.
'I don't know...the schemes of Chaos are meaningless to me!'
'We followed you here,' Parthax continued undeterred, 'because I felt their presence. Three psykers, three very powerful psykers, but unlike any other psykers I have ever encountered. I did not detect them in the warp...in fact, I believe they have no presence in the warp whatsoever, and neither do any of the other aliens on this planet. Their souls are...pure. Pure! An affront to the gods of Chaos that will not stand. One in particular stood out to me. It possessed the strongest will I have ever felt, the purest soul, the strongest powers. We followed you here so that I may investigate further. Now tell me. They were here, and now they are not. Where are they?'
Soren didn't know for sure, but he had a terrible feeling that Parthax was searching for the Princesses, Celestia in particular. Even he, who had never shown the slightest psychic aptitude whatsoever, had felt there was something remarkable about her. He could tell that all she wanted was peace for her subjects, and was that not, after all, what the Emperor wanted for Mankind? A sudden peace came over him. He knew that, although they may be Xenos, he could not let Parthax end all that. He did not know where the Princesses were, so he told the truth.
'I don't know where they are,' he replied, closing his eyes in preparation for the inevitable. Parthax asked again, and received the same reply.
'Very well...then I have no further use for you,' the Sorcerer Lord said. 'No matter, I will track them down soon enough. They cannot hide from my sight.' Soren began a silent prayer, entrusting his soul to the Emperor. 'As for you...your Imperium makes consorting with Xenos a capital crime, does it not?' Parthax's mouth contorted in a smile again. 'Since there are no Commissars here to carry out the sentence, I am sure your corpse god will not mind if I perform the execution myself.'
Soren steeled himself, finishing his prayer. He may be executed by a Chaos Sorcerer, but he knew his judgement would be carried out by the Emperor. With the merest lifting of his staff, Parthax jerked Soren into the air in front of him. With a single spoken word, Soren's body erupted into daemonic flame, burning white hot. A silent scream came from his mouth before the flames melted his throat, his body combusting from the inside out. After a few seconds the flames went out as abruptly as they had begun. Of Soren's body, there was no sign.
It did not take long before the first attack on Cloudsdale came in. Remarkably soon after the arrival of the Princesses, Imperial air defence radar stationed below the floating city picked up incoming airborne contacts. A wave of dropships approached the city, their intent clear. They were escorted by a dozen gunships. Fire blossomed in the sky as the anti-aircraft missiles the Imperials had positioned took a heavy toll on the approaching craft. Heavy-caliber gunfire streamed up from the Hydra AA tanks and more dropships tumbled burning to the ground. The gunships returned fire, dueling with the anti-aircraft vehicles, distracting them from their primary targets as the dropships drew closer to the city. The Starswirl,Vanhoover and Canterlot opened up once they came within range, adding their own toll to the destruction. The dropships bobbed and weaved, trying to throw off the streams of explosive rounds that belched up at them from below. Some of them reached the city and swung into low hovers above the plazas and rooftops. Ineffectual gunfire spattered from their metal hides as ropes dropped from their open side hatches. Human soldiers appeared in the hatches, traitor Guardsmen, leading the assault. They flung themselves out onto the ropes, rappelling down. The Pegasi of the 1st Assault Division engaged them with disciplined fire, sending some of their number tumbling from their ropes. As the lead troopers touched the 'ground,' looks of shock appeared on their faces as they slid straight through and kept going, their screams echoing around the city as they plunged through the clouds to their deaths below. Others on the ropes managed to stop in time, only to be knocked down by the man following them. Others clung tightly to the ropes, but were swiped from them by gunfire. Shots from the Vanhoover struck one of the hovering dropships, which spiraled down through the cloud floor, trailing a black smoke cloud of its own.
The attack was doomed to failure by its very nature. None of the attacking troops could stand on the cloud that formed the ground of Cloudsdale. None of their craft could land on it. Even gunfire and rockets that struck the 'ground' simply passed straight through, with only the buildings and other structures in the city offering any resistance. The few surviving dropships pulled away, chased and harried by streams of gunfire from the airships and from the Imperials on the ground below, until they were out of range, leaving most of their number, and most of their soldiers, behind. Cloudsdale gained a brief respite, but none of the ponies occupying the city had any doubt that their attackers would return, probably in greater numbers and maybe with some trickery that would allow them to press home their attack. The Pegasi troopers hurried to prepare, finishing work on the barricades they had begun, occupying defensive positions and setting up their limited quantity of field artillery. When they came, they would not find it easy.
In the town hall, Twilight sat on one of the beds that occupied her room. Something was bothering her, gnawing at her like a hunger in her brain. She could not place it, nor could she eliminate it. It was subtle and it was strange, but it was there, almost like the tingling before a lightning strike, or the preternatural feeling that somebody is behind you without even looking round. It lingered at the corners of her psyche, the same feeling she had felt in Canterlot; the same feeling Princess Luna had told her she had been experiencing. What was worrying her now was that it seemed to be getting closer.
In part it was the same kind of instinct she had felt when Nightmare Moon was about to return, and when Discord began to mess with the fabric of reality. But this time there was more to it. If she had to explain it she would feel stupid saying it, but it felt intrinsically evil. Something was lurking, lurking at the back of her mind, trying to force its way through, to what purpose she knew not.
She left the others and trotted through the town hall looking for Celestia or Luna. Staffponies bustled through the halls, carrying bundles of paper. Where they were going she had no idea, but they seemed to be in a hurry. Members of Shining's honour guard were dotted through the building; two of them had been on guard outside of her room. She made her way down to where she had last seen the Princesses; sure enough, they were still there. Celestia looked up as she approached.
'Twilight. How are you faring?' She trotted over to the table the Princesses were sitting around.
'I'm not sure...may I speak with you and your sister in private?' she replied. Celestia nodded, with a brief glance at Luna.
'Of course. Please excuse us Mr Mayor, Commander.' She nodded at the mayor and at Shining, before leading Twilight over to the corner of the room. Luna followed.
'What is it, Twilight?' Celestia asked in a low voice.
'Well...I...Princess Luna, do you remember what you said to me in Canterlot? About...feeling something? Something...coming for us?' Luna nodded.
'I do indeed, Twilight Sparkle. I still feel it, as does my sister.' Celestia nodded in agreement. 'You feel it as well, yes?'
'Yes...I do, and it worries me. I don't know what it is, but I can feel it in my head. It's like something is trying to take over my mind. I can feel something...probing, almost.'
'We both feel it too, Twilight,' Celestia said. 'We do not know exactly what it is. It may be a collective psychic or magical...outpouring from the invaders. Or it may be a single mind. A single, powerful mind, more powerful than any I have ever encountered.' Though the faces of the Princesses were stony, Twilight wore a nervous expression.
'More powerful than Discord?' she asked.
'Well, perhaps not as powerful...but certainly more evil,' Celestia replied. 'Whatever it is, it is radiating malice. It is like standing in front of a furnace. We must be careful. I fear we may be attacked from within, as well as without.' She glanced out of the window at the city. 'We must be vigilant, Twilight. It is coming for us.'
Ponyville was surrounded. Artillery shells thudded into the buildings. Smoke rose from a dozen different fires. The few surviving civilians huddled together in basements, whimpering with fear. Above ground, the ragged defenders crouched behind their makeshift barricades, waiting for the final attack that would wipe them out. There was no retreat. The bridges over the river had been blown by Imperial engineers, but that had not slowed the enemy advance. Their fast-moving armoured columns had lanced upstream and crossed the river miles to the east of town, then raced back down the far bank to encircle Ponyville. The defenders had repelled assault after assault, and now there were but a few handfuls of them left alive. Not long after Muzzle Flash had returned to the line, his wound bandaged, he hospital, packed full of wounded, had been destroyed by the artillery fire, collapsing in on itself in an act that shocked the ponies but barely moved the hardened Guardsmen, who had seen far worse war crimes committed by the forces of Chaos.
Explosions rippled along the line. There were not many of them left now, pony or human. The tanks that had anchored the southern line were gone, blasted by anti-armour shells and suicidal demolition-charge wielding cultists. Artillery had cut down many of the defenders, and they had pulled back, forming a last bastion around the town hall. The building itself, damaged by shells, bristled with rifles and lasguns. Hastily erected barricades made up of furniture and rubble surrounded it, supplementing the sandbags that had been installed earlier. The squat bulk of the last surviving Imperial vehicle, a Hellhound armoured flamer unit, sat idling near the front entrance. A berm of sandbags had been thrown up in front of it. There were more ponies left than Imperials; holding the front trenches, the humans had taken the bulk of the casualties in the bitter close-range combat that had ensued with the Chaos infantry. As the disheveled defenders had filed into their new positions, Muzzle Flash had counted thirty eight ponies, but only twenty humans, including Lieutenant Jonas. The observation post in the town hall tower, manned by two ponies and one Guardsman with a pair of magnoculars, sent down a warning cry.
'They're coming! South side, infantry advance.'
The weary defenders sprang into action again. Even the ponies, who had been overwhelmed by this new form of warfare, were used to it by now, and they manned the barricades, standing shoulder to shoulder with the Hydraxians. Smoke drifted lazily across the town square, reducing the visibility. Burning paper rained from the sky; the library had taken a direct hit from a large-caliber artillery shell. Muzzle Flash stood behind his ponies, his rifle clutched in sweaty hooves, scanning the town square for targets. Thunderchief stood beside him, his usual grim expression still plastered on his face. Private Sharpshooter crouched behind the sandbags, his rifle loaded and ready. A little further down the line, a cluster of Guardsmen manned a tripod-mounted heavy bolter. Inside the town hall were two lascannons, ready to engage any vehicles that might be able to negotiate the rubble-choked streets. Muzzle Flash swallowed nervously, trying not to let his emotions get the better of him. He could see his platoon were afraid; so were the remains of one of the reinforcing platoons that had arrived by airship along with Shining Armour- all that seemed a lifetime ago, back when things were peaceful, albeit still confused, with the only humans they had encountered at that time being, if not exactly friendly, then at least restrained.
'Contact!' One of the humans called it out, gesturing with a hand to the southeast corner of the square, almost directly opposite the town hall's main entrance. Dark silhouettes could be seen in the smoke, advancing in a skirmish line.
'Stand fast, men!' Jonas shouted. 'Hold your fire. Wait for my signal.'
'You heard him,' Muzzle Flash said to his ponies. 'Wait for the signal, then give them everything.'
The dark shapes continued to close, marching through the curling smoke, revealing themselves to be Chaos infantry, their dark red uniforms the shade of drying blood. They kept coming, though they could surely see the guns arrayed against them. Muzzle Flash idly wondered why they hadn't simply shelled the town hall to oblivion, and a moment later he thought he had the answer, a sickening realisation. They were not content with merely winning the day, capturing the town. They could have stood off and shelled it for days if they wanted to, judging by what Jonas had told him. They did not merely want to conquer, they wanted to fight. Evidently casualties meant nothing to them; why else would these men be advancing straight into the teeth of the defenders' guns? They wanted to see war, see the suffering they were causing. They wanted to get up close, hand-to-hand. They wanted blood.
'Fire!' Jonas roared.
Muzzle Flash repeated his order for the benefit of his ponies, but his shout was drowned out by the din of battle as the Imperials immediately opened up with everything they had. Las-fire whipped across the square. The heavy bolter began chattering, flinging high-explosive shells at the enemy. Muzzle Flash still expected them to take cover as soon as the gunfire started. Instead, they began to charge. They roared out their defiance, even as they began to die. He could hear their shouts even over the gunfire. As he watched, the thin line of soldiers was joined by more, flitting through the smoke, already at a run. Some of them began to return fire, but, firing on the move, their aim was poor, and their shots went well wide. The heavy bolter wreaked a terrible toll on them. Muzzle Flash watched in awe as the shells ripped apart the cobbles, smashing limbs and blowing great chunks of gore out of the screaming maniacs. His ponies fired too, precision rifle shots sending men tumbling. It was less dramatic than the rattling firework show the heavy bolter was providing, but just as effective. Having nothing larger to target, the lascannons began to flash, white-hot beams of light simply melting men where they struck. He was sickened by the carnage, but he knew one important truth. It is either them or us.
More and more charging humans emerged from the smoke, and more and more of them slumped to the ground, their bloodlust cut short in welters of their own viscera. Muzzle Flash rested his rifle on a sandbag and took aim. One of the men seemed to be running directly for him; he took aim, but the man stumbled and went down, a steaming burn mark where his face used to be. He switched targets to another, a brute of a man wielding a bulky pistol and a disturbingly oversized axe. Again, before he could fire, the man died, his intestines spilling out onto the road as a bolter round ripped his torso apart. He found a third target, another large man with his face covered by what appeared to be a metallic, gurning death mask. He put a bullet through where Jonas had told him the heart was in a human, and he collapsed in a ragged heap on the cobbles.
Return fire was coming in, heavier now, bullets and lasers. Puffs of dirt sprang up from the sandbags. Shots spanged and thunked into the heavy bolter's gunshield. One of the Guardsmen died wordlessly, draped over the sandbags, his lasgun falling to the ground with a clatter. Private Sharpshooter was working his rifle's action like a hardened veteran, and he had not earned his name and his bullseye cutie mark by chance; every time he pulled the trigger, a screaming enemy died.
As the line of attackers got closer, the Hellhound sprang into action. With a throaty roar, the Inferno Cannon in the turret burst into life, a thick gout of jellied Promethium squirting from the nozzle to be ignited by the pilot light, spraying fire out across the square. The gunner worked the turret left and right, and for a moment even the die-hard fanatics of Chaos faltered. A dozen or more died in the first blast, roasted by the flames. They thrashed and staggered like drunks, their skin sloughing off, their uniforms melting into their bodies. In the past day Muzzle Flash had seen many deaths; he had seen man and pony alike die from bullet and laser. He had seen men ripped apart by canister, blown open by bolter fire, shredded by shrapnel. But none of those deaths seemed as terrible to him as the way these men died, writhing and squirming even as the life left their bodies, burned to a crisp, no longer recognisable as humans. As the Hellhound fired again and again, the stench of cooking flesh became almost unbearable. Muzzle Flash had no doubt that, just like Private Sharpshooter, the Hellhound had earned its name.
He sighted in on one of the burning men, aiming to put him out of his misery. But then he decided against it; these Chaos troops wanted nothing more than to see Equestria fall, kill its citizens, enslave and murder them. They deserved to burn. He switched his target, taking down another charging lunatic. They were still coming, across the plaza and out of the smoke, hundreds of them. The Hellhound and the heavy bolter were scything through the ranks with deadly efficiency, but they were still coming, more and more and more. From the rear yard of the town hall, Imperial mortars began to open up, their bombs set to burst over the heads of the attackers, cutting them down with flashes of shrapnel, adding to the carnage. One of the runners hurled a stick grenade which bounced inside the right flank of the defence line, detonating with a dull thud and killing two ponies.
Muzzle Flash fired again, and again, and again until his magazine ran dry and he ducked down to change it. With a strangled cry another Guardsman went down, a hole in his chest. As he reloaded, a missile streaked across the square and into the spire of the town hall. The walls blew out with a rending thump, spraying wooden shrapnel across the square, the bodies of the observation team spiraling from their perch to the ground below. He slammed the magazine home, worked the action, and popped his head back up.
The enemy were still coming; no tanks, no artillery cover, no heavy weapons except that solitary missile launcher. Just men, men with only thin flak vests and their screaming hatred to protect them, charging uncaring into the unyielding guns of the defenders. They wanted blood, and nothing more. They wanted to get in close, where the Imperial guns would be of little use, and turn the fight into a brutal melee. There were enough of them that it seemed like a distinct possibility.
The Hellhound barked again, and more men died flailing helplessly. Las-blasts pattered off the sandbags and he ducked reflexively. One of his ponies was not so fast, and he slumped to the ground, clutching his ruined throat. There was no time to help him.
'Celestia watch over him, and grant unto him eternal rest...' Muzzle Flash muttered a quick prayer as the pony stopped twitching. The heavy bolter crew had stopped firing; their barrel was glowing red hot, and it had to be changed. The assistant gunner, wearing a heat-resistant glove, almost like an oven mitt, over one hand, unscrewed the barrel, scrambling for another and slotting it back into place. The gun was back in action within moments, but the slackening of fire from the defenders was enough to allow some of the enemy to get closer. The Hellhound sprayed death across them in a wide arc, but it could not traverse its turret too far, or globs of burning Promethium would fall upon its own troops. One particularly fanatical trooper made it to the defence line, a stick grenade clutched in each hand. He took the sandbag barricade at a run, like a professional hurdler, flicking the pins from his grenades. Several ponies fired at him, and one or two hit, but in his blood rage he took no notice of the wounds that would have felled any normal man. He landed on his feet on the other side, holding the grenades aloft.
'Blood for the blood God!' He barely had time to complete his shout before the grenades turned him into a cloud of bloody rags, pulverising his body and cutting down three ponies and a Guardsman. Muzzle Flash just had time to duck as the grenades went off to his right, shrapnel pinging off his armour like hail. He felt a few fragments penetrate his hide, and he grimaced, but the wounds were not serious. He stood back up, ears ringing a little, just in time to see the missile coming.
The smoke in the square had cleared somewhat, giving the Chaos missile team at the south corner some visibility. Their prime target was the Hellhound, and, with a few seconds to draw a bead, they fired, the missile spiraling towards the vehicle. Muzzle Flash saw it coming, saw its trajectory, and flung himself to the ground again, shouting.
'Get down!'
The aim of the missile gunner was true, and the projectile struck the front glacis plate of the converted Chimera APC. The Hellhound was not a tank; its armour, though it had been reinforced compared to the base vehicle, was not thick. The two-stage, shaped charge warhead punched through, the sandbagged berm, only half completed, did not protect the whole vehicle. The Hellhound was not a battle tank; it was, however, essentially a large fuel tank. The high explosive warhead detonated, ripping through the crew compartment and puncturing the Promethium tank that occupied the former troop compartment. The fuel ignited, and the Hellhound ripped itself apart in a cataclysmic explosion. Burning Promethium rained from the sky. The concussive shockwave from the blast shattered the few remaining windows in the town hall. A dozen defenders, man and pony alike, were consumed in the fireball. Others were badly wounded, thrown into their own barricades, broken and burned. Lying face down on the ground, Muzzle Flash felt the heat wash over him. He was some distance from the blast, but he felt his skin reddening nonetheless. He heard screams. The firing from the defence line died away to almost nothing. He rolled onto his back, his ears ringing.
There was fire everywhere. The wooden town hall had caught light in several places. Blobs of burning fuel were all over the barricades. Several bodies lay motionless, save for the flickering of the flames that ate away at them. He staggered to his hooves, still clutching his rifle. Thunderchief was still beside him. Sharpshooter was already up and firing, as was Lieutenant Jonas, the right side of his face blackened. He seemed not to have noticed his burns, his lasgun spitting death at the enemy. The enemy.
They were still coming, and they were almost on them. Smoke from the burning Hellhound washed across the square now, stinging his eyes and obscuring his vision, but he could still see a dozen or more of the red-clad fanatics charging. With the middle of the defence line split by the inferno, Muzzle Flash and his ponies were cut off from the right side and the rest of the defenders. He looked around, taking a quick headcount- there were six humans and fourteen ponies. Twenty bodies to throw into the line, twenty bodies to fight a hundred or more. They kept firing, but he knew they would die here. As the enemy drew closer, he bellowed his orders.
'Fix bayonets!' he roared. 'No retreat! No surrender!' As his magazine ran dry, he dropped his rifle and drew his sword from its scabbard at his hip. 'Have no fear, ponies. Celestia is with us today.' His voice made him sound far more confident than he was. Jonas nodded approvingly.
'You'd make a fine Commissar, if you were human,' he said with a wry smile. 'Never thought I'd say this to a Xenos, but it's been an honour to fight alongside you. I hope you die as well as you fight, Lieutenant.' Muzzle Flash nodded back. That's about all we can do now. Die.
'Likewise, Lieutenant. Thank you for trying to save this town.' They said nothing more to each other. Nothing more needed to be said. They were comrades now; unlikely comrades, no doubt heretically so as far as most of the Imperium was concerned, but comrades nonetheless. They had fought and bled together, and now they would die together.
Jonas gave the same order Muzzle Flash had given moments earlier, and his few surviving troopers fixed their bayonets to the notches on the end of their lasguns. The mortars in the rear yard continued to pump out rounds, killing more of the enemy as they advanced at a run. One of the lascannons in the town hall kept firing defiantly, the other weapon having been knocked out by the destruction of the Hellhound. Muzzle Flash watched as the enemy drew closer and closer, losing more of their number, but not slowing, not even for a second. Soon, all too soon, they were upon them, leaping the barricade with frenzied snarls of rage and heretical chants. Muzzle Flash killed the first man over with a blast of magic straight into his chest. More followed him immediately.
'Attack, ponies!' he shouted. 'Celestia, guide my blade!'
A snarling, hook-nosed trooper in a visored helmet came for him, the viciously serrated bayonet on the end of his rifle gleaming in the reflected firelight. Muzzle Flash had never used his sword in anger, but he had kept well-practiced in the training yards, more for fun than any expectation of having to use it. He parried the bayonet away to the left with a quick swipe, letting the surprised man take another step before reversing the swing and slicing through his chest. He went down, and Muzzle Flash stepped over him, his sword raised, giving the side of his head a quick but powerful buck with his rear hooves to make sure. Another man leaped over the sandbags, screaming curses, and as he jumped a blast of magic from Muzzle Flash's horn sent him back the way he had come, minus most of his face.
He glanced around. Sharpshooter was engaged in a bayonet duel with a squat, broad-shouldered trooper. Even as he watched, the pony overcame his opponent, surprising the man with his strength and agility. He danced away from the man's clumsy stroke, brought the butt of his rifle around, cracked him across the chin, and then, with a roar, smashed the butt into his face, sending him stumbling backwards. With a cry of, 'For Celestia!' Sharpshooter brought his rifle back down and speared the man in the gut. A look of shock crossed his face as Sharpshooter withdrew the blade and plunged it into his chest, the blade sliding between two of his ribs. He slumped wordlessly to the ground as Sharpshooter pulled the bayonet out, the blade now red with blood.
Another man in a peaked cap leaped the barricade and turned to face Muzzle Flash, grinning evilly. He too was armed with a sword, but whereas the pony's was a work of art, his was a work of horror. The weapon appeared to combine aspects of both a sword and a chainsaw- serrated teeth ran around the blade, and with a press of a stud the man made the sword whirr into life. Muzzle Flash took a step back. The man held a pistol in his other hand, but clearly he wanted to see blood flying. He could have simply shot Muzzle Flash down where he stood, but, seeing a fellow swordsman, or rather swordspony, he clearly saw a challenge, a foe to be bested.
Muzzle Flash had no such intention. He lowered his horn and fired. The man's expression of glee turned to one of surprise as the magical energy burned through his body, and he toppled backwards to the ground, the sword tumbling free of his grip and lying dormant. Another man came flying at him, this one without any apparent weapons whatsoever. With a swift flick of his hoof he cut the man's throat open, dark red blood squirting out as he gurgled and fell to his knees. Muzzle Flash brought the sword down on the back of his neck and he collapsed, his head hanging off.
More of the enemy were making it over the barricades now, and the survivors were being pushed back, separated from each other, each of them caught up in their own fights. He saw Jonas gutting a man. Behind him, Thunderchief had knocked one of the enemy to the ground and was systematically trampling all over him while parrying another man's bayonet. He saw a man with a sword fighting one of his ponies. Unlike the man he had just killed, this man's sword had no motor or serrated teeth. It appeared to be glowing a dull blue. The man dodged a lunge by the pony and swiped at him, the sword connecting with his flank armour. Muzzle Flash knew their armour was proof against any sword forged by ponykind, but this blade cut right through, all but slicing the pony in half. With a tortured scream he went down, and the man finished the job with a pistol shot to the head.
With a cry, Sharpshooter jumped into the attack, slashing at the man. Caught off guard, he had no time to react, and Sharpshooter's bayonet cut a deep gash in his thigh. The pony quickly recovered to the guard position, ready to parry the sword. Sure enough, the man swung it in an arc, connecting with the bayonet, and slicing it clean in half. Sharpshooter took a step back, staring at his now-useless bayonet. His gun was empty, and he dropped it. Without hesitating, he turned himself around and kicked out with his hind legs, connecting with the man's sword arm and sending him reeling. His blade clattered to the cobbles, his arm broken by the kick. The man scrabbled backwards, bringing up his pistol.
With no time to think, Muzzle Flash lowered his horn and fired. It was only a stun spell, the quickest spell to cast that came to mind, but it was enough. The man stumbled, falling to his knees. Sharpshooter picked up his fallen blade. Unable to move, the man could only watch in horror and disbelief as the pony brought it down, his own power sword carving the man in half from top to bottom.
Muzzle Flash trotted forward, almost stumbling over the bodies that now littered the defensive line. There were but a few defenders left alive, less than a dozen all told. They could not hold, nor could they retreat. They had no recourse but to fight to the death or surrender. The Royal Guard never surrendered.
Muzzle Flash found himself next to Jonas as a trio of yelling fanatics jumped the barricade ahead of them. He brought his sword up once more.
'For the Emperor!' Jonas shouted, charging in.
'For Celestia!' Muzzle Flash roared. His sword flashed as he swung it, severing the hand of the first man. Jonas parried the blade of the second and pumped him full of las-rounds. Muzzle Flash swung again and the first man went down. He stepped forward to help Jonas with the last man. As he did so, something clanged off his armour, sending shockwaves through his body. He turned swiftly. Another man had swung a long-bladed combat knife at him. His sword was out of position. Acting instinctively, he lunged forward, his horn stabbing deeply into the man's throat. He gasped, the knife falling from his suddenly weak hand. Muzzle Flash drove it in deeper, tearing cartilage and flesh. Blood poured down his horn.
'We are Celestia's fury!' he shouted, ripping his horn out of the man's throat and letting him slump to the ground. 'To me, ponies! Rally to me!' There were not many ponies left to answer his call. Sharpshooter, Thunderchief, and, further down the line, two others, fighting a desperate but futile battle against half a dozen bayonet-wielding traitor guardsmen.
'Too many of them, sir,' Thunderchief said matter-of-factly as he trotted over, his bayonet slick with blood.
'There's nowhere to go, Sergeant,' he replied. 'We stand here until they're all dead, or until we are.' Thunderchief nodded.
'Yes sir,' he said simply.
A knot of enemy soldiers charged over the barricades near them. At their head was a man with a flamethrower strapped to his back. He had no time to shout a warning. Again, acting on instinct, Muzzle Flash lowered his horn and fired. This time the man disappeared in a blossoming cloud of fire, along with his compatriots. Their screams cut through the din of battle like knives, but there were still more of them pouring over the sandbags. He saw Jonas and his last surviving trooper go down under a hail of blows, the frenzied enemy hacking and tearing at their bodies with bayonets, knives, their bare hands. This was their final stand.
They came at the ponies, screaming hate, spewing litanies of curses, swinging their blades. The Royal Guard fought back, prayers to Celestia on their lips. They hacked and cut and stabbed. Muzzle Flash incinerated them with his magic, and still they came. One charge managed to split the trio, and the attackers swiftly surrounded Thunderchief, losing two of their number in the process. They hacked him down, bayoneting him repeatedly, like a pincushion.
Muzzle Flash stood back to back with Sharpshooter. They fought, and they fought well, slicing off limbs and gutting a dozen more of the baying mob. They could have gunned the two ponies down at any time, but their blood lust forced them on, forced them to get closer. Muzzle Flash's magic forced them back time and again, concussive blasts from his horn flinging the attackers away. But still they came, again and again, never ceasing, never tiring. By the end there were nearly fifty soldiers surrounding them, watching and chanting, fury in their eyes. The two ponies began to tire. Muzzle Flash's magic hurled the enemy shorter distances each time. His sword hoof ached. The mob closed in again, and this time he could not find the strength to throw them back. He felt Sharpshooter go down behind him, felt the spray of warm blood as he died. He kept swinging his sword, cutting the head off of one man, the arm from another. He felt bayonets sink deep into his leg. He stumbled, and that was the end. The howling soldiers were on him in a flash, stabbing and slashing. He sank to the ground, pain lancing through him. As they killed him, he uttered his last words.
'Celestia watch over me, and grant unto me eternal rest...'