//------------------------------// // The Last Trumpet's Call // Story: The Last Trumpet's Call // by Cold in Gardez //------------------------------// I woke several hours later from a dream I could not recall. Sometimes, in my dreams, I felt as though I was blind. I was crippled, and could only crawl. I shouted, but no one could hear. There was never any context to those dreams. Being blind and crippled and mute was the beginning and the middle and the end. Hours, it felt, would pass, and nothing would change. In time, the dreams became more clear, and I realized it was not darkness that blinded me but rather light; blinding, glaring, burning my retinas. I squeezed my eyes shut to block out the pain. I was not crippled; I trudged through mountains of snow, straining to put one foot in front of the other. I was not mute; the screaming winds carried away my voice. I woke in Cirrus's house, and for a moment I thought I might remember something, but too quickly it was gone, and I was alone in the night. What am I doing here? I closed my eyes, let out a long breath, and rolled out of the bed, landing silently on the soft cloud floor. The hallway was as dark as my room, but downstairs I saw a faint glow – one of the gas lamps left on overnight, I guessed. It provided more than enough light to navigate down the stairwell, back to the living room where I had shared my stories with Cirrus's parents. I hadn't gotten a very good look at the room earlier. Now, alone and with no distractions, I let my eyes wander across it, taking in the bookshelves, the framed paintings, and the clutter and grime that foals seem to cultivate. The room was busy. It was alive. I came to a stop in front of the gas fireplace. Above it, resting on the mantle, was a framed picture of Cirrus wearing his dress uniform. He was grinning, and on either side stood his parents. Cumulus smiled for the camera, but it was Aurora who stole the spotlight. She was radiant, beaming, almost in tears, overjoyed to be with her son on the day of his commission. To the photograph's left was a simple wood shadowbox, filled with all the medals Cirrus had earned. There were dozens. Far more than I had known about – I never saw Cirrus in his dress uniform, and we didn't talk about medals out in the field. On the photograph's right was another frame, this one holding a letter. It was written in a flowing, elegant script, filled with loops and whorls, too much for me to puzzle out in that foggy, half-asleep state. I recognized the signatures at the bottom, though: Their Royal Highnesses, Celestia and Luna, written atop an intaglio sun and moon. Above all three, hanging from the wall in the place of honor, was a piece of foal's artwork done in crayon. It depicted a pegasus family – two large ponies, colored like Cirrus's parents, with a smaller one standing between them. The figures were simple, almost like stick-figures, and the sun had a smiling face drawn on it to match the expressions of the ponies below. I don't know how long I stared at that drawing. In time, I realized I wasn't alone, and I turned to see Alto sitting at my side. He blended in well with the night, his soft blue coat an easy match for the mix of cloud and shadow that overtook the world. Only his tan mane gave him away. “Hey,” I said. He ducked his head. “Hi. Mom said you were leaving in the morning.” “I will. Shouldn't you be in bed?” “I had to use the bathroom.” He paused. “Did you really fight with Cirrus?” “I did. Your brother was a very brave pony.” “Celestia said he was a hero.” He pointed with his nose toward the framed letter. “She said we should be proud of him.” I nodded. It was a platitude, rendered meaningless with overuse, but she was still right. He was a hero. Perhaps I should have said something. I should have had some answer for him, something to steer the conversation to safer ground, where we could abandon it and both return to our beds. But instead I just stared at that old crayon drawing, and I barely heard Alto's next words. “I want to join the Patrol too,” he said. “You do?” I asked. It came out as a whisper. He bobbed his head excitedly. “Yup! I'm going to join the patrol and fight monsters and save ponies, just like him!” I pondered that in silence for some time. I imagined Alto grown, as tall as Cirrus, wearing that same uniform. I imagined his parents, standing by his side. I wondered what their expressions would be. I looked down at Alto. “Would you like to hear a story?” He shuffled his hooves. “Is it about Cirrus?” “Yes, it is.” “Okay!” He bounced in place, and then settled down with a glance toward the stairs. “Okay,” he said again, much more quietly. I lay down on my belly, so my head was level with his. “Good. Listen closely, please.” * * * A week had passed since that first battle. Every night the windigoes attacked. They fell, and their corpses were like fountains of winter, pouring out cold. Not even Cirrus could keep us warm against them, and the camp slowly fell apart. The deer moved in with us. By now it was clear they weren't our enemy, and they fought alongside us as best they could. I never saw the doe from our first meeting in the woods, but many of the grown deer were able to use slings or spears, and they did their part. When we were wounded, they used their skills and herbs to mend us. When their tents were trampled beneath the windigoes hooves, we sheltered them in ours. All without ever exchanging a word. And every day we lost a little more. Every injured pegasus or gryphon was flown out the next morning, as soon as the gray dawn light penetrated the east clouds. None ever came back. I don't know how many windigoes we slew after that first. At least one every night, but it made no difference. They danced above us, countless, filling the sky with their light. They could have swarmed us, falling on us by the dozens, and wiped us out. But for some reason they held back. We caught what sleep we could during the day. Gryphons, like pegasi, aren't usually bothered by the cold, but for the first time in my life I felt like I was freezing. I huddled with Cirrus, sharing both our blankets, exhaling my breath into his coat. He did the same, and together our mingled warmth was enough to keep us alive. The end came with the call of a trumpet. Rapid, frantic, it sounded retreat. Cirrus and I tumbled out of the tent, untangling our wings from each other. The sun was just setting, and another night was on the horizon, but the world around me was as bright as day. The sky was filled with a thousand sapphires, and I gawked up at it, my mind still hazed. An armored pegasus broke my reverie. He shook my shoulder, and shouted in my face. “Move it, soldier!” Just as quickly he was gone. “What's going on?” Cirrus asked. He was groggy with cold and sleep. Frost had started to form on the tips of his feathers. “I think we're leaving,” I said. Above us, pegasi were already in flight, forming ranks in the air and arrowing south. “What? Why?” His wings shook, and for a moment the cold around us faded. The ice clinging to my talons melted, dripping onto the slushy ground. To answer, I simply pointed up. His gazed followed, and together we stared at the heavens. There must have been hundreds of windigoes. They were like leaves falling in autumn, or snowflakes in a blizzard. They tore across the sky in serried ranks, bending the clouds around them, leaving avalanches in their wake. They cavorted over us. They were filled with joy. “Oh Celestia,” Cirrus whispered. Gryphons don't swear on the princess's name. I shook my head and turned back to the tent, where what little possessions I had were stored. “Come on, we need to hurry.” “Right.” He stumbled after me, his head still bent up. More than half our force was already airborne, circling, ready to leave. “What about the deer?” I slung my bags over my back, not bothering with the strap. “Huh? What about them?” “They're...” He stopped, staring around the camp. “We can't leave them.” The deer had come out and huddled together in groups of three or four. Most stared at us or up at the windigoes. Some seemed to be asleep on their feet. I swallowed. “They'll be fine. They'll run, like they did before. Now come on.” I grabbed at his wing and tugged. He snapped it away. “They won't be fine. Look at them! They're practically dead on their feet!” I looked around frantically. Almost all the other pegasi and gryphons were airborne by now and heading south as fast as their wings could take them. In the distance, I still heard the sergeant-at-arms' trumpet sounding retreat. Above us, the windigoes were coming closer. “Cirrus, we need to leave now. We don't have time to—“ He snagged my wing with his teeth and pulled me back. “We can do this, Corvus! I can keep us warm, and you can fight them off! We can do it together!” “Do it together?” I gawked at him, lost. “Cirrus, look at them!” I pointed skyward again. “Look at us! We lost, and now we need to get out. Come on!” “But they'll die—“ “Then they'll die!” I roared. He flinched, but I continued. “We can't save them, Cirrus. All we'll do if we stay is die with them. That's not why we came out here!” We stared at each other, both panting, sweat somehow pouring from us despite the barren cold. The wild look in his eyes faded, replaced by something calm. For a moment, he looked like the Cirrus I remembered. “Why did we come out here, then?” he asked. I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I looked around, desperate for help, for another pegasus to reason with him, but at last we were alone. Only the wretched deer remained, and the windigoes high above. “Cirrus, please. Don't do this.” “I'm staying.” He turned and walked back to our tent, emerging a few seconds later with his wingblades draped across his pinions and my spear in his teeth. He held it out to me. I almost took it. Gods help me, I almost took it. “Cirrus, I'm begging you.” I wanted to scream, but I could barely breathe. It was all I could do not to faint. “You can't stay.” He didn't move. His trembling had stopped. He stared at me; I remember those green eyes of his, like emeralds in the grass, the warmest color in that dismal night. They challenged me. I could imagine it; reaching out to take the spear, standing by his side no matter what might come. Fighting until our last drop of blood spilled out and froze. Dying as we had lived, as comrades, as brothers. I imagined myself doing the right thing. But I didn't. I fled like all the rest. * * * Alto stared up at me, his eyes wide, as I finished. I waited there, in the dark room, in the silence, for him to curse me, or scream at me, or even attack me for my cowardice. I closed my eyes and wondered if it was time to flee again. I felt his small legs wrap around my neck. They barely encompassed me, but it was enough for him to rest his head against my feathered shoulder. “It's okay,” he whispered. I swear I didn't cry. I didn't deserve his comfort or his family's forgiveness. I owed them the truth; I had a speech. I did not cry; those were not tears wetting my cheeks. But maybe I did begin to sob, and in time I felt another set of legs embrace me, and through blurry eyes I saw Aurora and Cumulus join us on the floor. I did not deserve forgiveness. But they gave it to me, nonetheless.