//------------------------------// // Claw and Fang // Story: Armor's Game // by OTCPony //------------------------------// The morning sky was black with the smoke of the Changelings’ latest loss. Lying on a makeshift stretcher at the heart of his shattered legions, Lord Pupa stared in silence as Pawrinth burned. It was his third defeat in a week. Three defeats. He winced in pain as the fever burned through him again. It seemed to do that every time he thought of the terrible disasters he had brought upon his Hive. He would not have it any other way. After their camp below the Recinante Cliffs had been blasted away by Shining Armor’s guns, most of the Twentieth Legion had fled southeast through mud and pouring rain with pony spears at their heels. The Equestrian pursuit had mercifully been short, slowed as they were by the rain. Pupa remembered little of it. He had been dragged from the battle and had awoken on the banks of the Bitissippi River with his wounds bound and around 3,800 survivors milling there. He had immediately set about reorganising the legion and had summoned the four legions stationed further downstream. The Fourteenth Legion had arrived at noon the next day; the Fifteenth the next evening. With a three-legion army before him, he’d assembled his Legates and hammered out a new plan: they would send out scouts and wait until Shining Armor moved on, then advance back to the Recinante Cliffs. Pupa had dropped any illusions he had held about his ability to beat Shining Armor in the field – many of his best Changelings had been lost to the ponies’ first volley at the cliffs, those that still lived were too exhausted to summon a powerful blast, and the Fourteenth and Fifteenth were still trained in melee tactics – but he could act as a force in being to threaten the ponies’ supply line. At dawn four days after the Battle of the Recinante Cliffs, he’d deployed his scouts. They’d returned three hours later with the most horrifying news possible. A horde of Lynxes forty thousand strong was hurtling towards the Bitissippi, a bloodthirsty young chieftain named Slashclaw at its head. They had arrived at noon. Pupa’s army of barely fourteen thousand had fought with the ferocity of those who knew they could expect no quarter. Seven times that tide of fur and claws had surged against the battle line, and seven times that tide had broken. Pupa had raced along the line faster than any injured creature would dare, caring not when his wounds opened again and ichor leaked down on to the grass. He had bellowed encouragement and fed fresh centuries into the battle line when necessary. At one point the Twentieth Legion’s Sixth Cohort had become so exhausted and crowded together that they could barely lift their legs to fight and a gap had nearly opened in the line. Pupa had charged into the morass, screaming for them to open up their ranks. The sight of their bloodied commander had been enough, and with an enormous effort the cohort had managed to force a lull in the battle and had used the time to spread their ranks. Finally, Pupa had taken fully half of the cohorts of his third line and swung them round like a door on a hinge to strike the flank of the Lynxes’ seventh and final charge. In a true soldier’s battle, his legions had held their ground and for a moment it had seemed like the Battle of the Bitissippi had been a Changeling victory. But for all his defeated charges, Slashclaw had still outnumbered the battered Changeling legions by more than two-to-one. As the sun set behind his enemy the black-furred Lynx had stood before his army and delivered a defiant speech. Pupa hadn’t been able to hear it, but he’d heard the roars of the Lynxes’ arrogant laughter. That night, bedridden by his wounds, the first twinges of fever gnawing at him, he’d watched impotently as Slashclaw had left a strong holding force in front of his army while the rest of the Lynx host just marched further downstream. He’d known instantly what their target would be: Pawrinth. Before the Hive had come, it had been a pleasant riverside merchant city that had been one of the jewels of the Lynxes’ more civilised southern cousins. Then its population had been reduced to drained husks floating in gelatinous cocoons and the Hive had made use of its excellent transport connections on the river and the road leading east through the Zap Apple Groves to transfer captives across the whole Kingdom. It had also become one of the Hive’s largest hatcheries. Pupa had had no choice: he had been forced to march his exhausted army uphill into a strong defensive line composed of fresh Lynx warriors, while Slashclaw had relaxed his own tired troops by letting them pillage and burn Pawrinth. The futile attritional slogging match had lasted all day until the light failed, and as the terrible columns of black smoke rose over Pawrinth and the reek of burning corpses blew over them, Pupa had given up and had withdrawn his army over a ford across the Bitissippi. Pawrinth had burned all night. The Changelings had seen the glow of the fires from their camp and they had heard the screams. Pupa grimaced as the fever shot through him again. He looked down at his wounds. The bandages were filthy and were crusted with dried pus: he had refused medical treatment while thousands of his soldiers were still wounded, but his medics were utterly out of supplies, reduced to boiling the bandages taken off corpses to reuse them on the injured. He was down to scarcely ten thousand effectives. He could not take the offensive, and all he could do was sit in this wooded defile behind the Bitissippi. For now, his position was too strong to risk attack, and if the Lynxes tried to advance further south he would be able to threaten their supply line. But if Slashclaw simply chose to wait, his army would slowly starve to death, and the Lynxes could then mop up the few that remained. Either way, Pupa would be dead soon. The flap of the tent pushed open and a battle-scarred officer hurried inside. Surprise, anticipation and relief flowed from him, suddenly replaced by apprehension and shock as he saw the state of his commander. “What is it?” demanded Pupa. If he had actually spoken, his voice would have been a weak croak. “It’s... it’s Lord Chitin, My Lord!” trilled the officer excitedly. “He’s arrived with the Thirteenth Legion! He requests an audience immediately!” Pupa sat up suddenly, ignoring the jet of pain that shot through him again. “Send him in!” The officer stood to the side and a tall Changeling in gleaming, spotless purple armour strode into the tent. His eyes flicked around the tent, from the battered wreck of Pupa’s own armour standing in the corner to the Lord himself, prostrate on the bed. “By the Hive, look at the state of you.” “I’d like to see you in similar circumstances,” grunted Pupa. “How’d you get here?” “We crossed the river below Pawrinth at last light and marched through the night. I have five thousand drones in the woods south of here.” “What happened to the Twelfth?” “Massacred in the Zap Apple Groves yesterday,” said Chitin bitterly. “The legate tried to take a short cut to relieve Pawrinth. Apparently we’re not very good at fighting in forests.” “So even accounting for Lynx losses, we’re still outnumbered two-to-one,” hissed Pupa. A sudden fit of coughing wracked his body. A string of ichor dribbled from his mouth. Chitin shifted awkwardly on his hooves. “I also have orders to relieve you of your command... and send you home to Queen Chrysalis.” “So be it,” Pupa spluttered bitterly. “Stay here or go home. I’ll be dead either way. You know what she did to that drone who just wanted to get home. What do you think she’ll do to me?” “I’ll speak for you,” said Chitin stiffly. Neither his tone nor his pheromones was convincing. Pupa gave a weak laugh. “No, if I’m lucky I’ll die on the way back. I’ll get no mercy from her. Let me die here, in battle.” “Don’t throw it away,” warned Chitin. “Wait for nightfall and extract your legions through the forest with mine. You have a duty to the Hive, Pupa.” The tent flap opened again and the officer pushed in. “My Lord, the Lynxes are massing on the other side of the river. I think they’re going to cross!” “They’re going to attack this position?” said Chitin in disbelief. Grimacing in agony, Pupa dragged himself from his bed and got unsteadily to his hooves. “Chitin, I can take this. With the Thirteenth in support, I definitely can. Don’t send me back to Chrysalis.” Chitin looked to the officer, then back at Pupa. “What’s your plan?” *** Slashclaw stood on the east bank of the Bitissippi. Before him, the hills that formed the boundary of Froud Valley stretched up in the distance. Sitting between the wooded slopes of a single narrow gorge were the black ranks of Lord Pupa’s legions. “A strong position,” muttered Chieftain Strong Blow, standing next to him. Slashclaw gave a bark of laughter. “Perhaps the Lynxes of Afleasia fear combat?” “Not at all,” hissed Strong Blow. “Yet the past few days have seen the deaths of so many great chieftains. Bright Streak of Strikefang for one, and Quick Tail of Goldhair. And so many of their greatest warriors as well...” “They died for the freedom of all Lynxes,” said Slashclaw tersely. “Yet if you fear the outcome of this battle, I could remove you from the right of the line. There are many among us who would hold a position of such honour!” And the position of most danger, thought Strong Blow angrily. “I will fight any battle anywhere for the Lynx territories!” “I’m glad to hear that. Now perhaps we can begin?” Slashclaw turned. From his position atop a small hillock, he faced his entire army, a mass of tawny, gold, brown and black fur, thirty thousand strong, with the gleaming ribbon of the Bitissippi at its back. Ringing the army was a half-moon of baggage carts and wagons. Piled on top of them were thousands of queens and cubs ready to watch their army’s victory. “BEHOLD!” he cried. “VICTORY AT LAST LIES WITHIN OUR GRASP!” A thunderous cheer rose from the entire army. It was the roar of a people who had once given up hope but now rode high on a tide of success and blood. “One last legion!” roared Slashclaw. “Led by the fool Pupa, whom we have beaten time and again these past few days! A lifetime ago, we were prostrate before these insects! Their conquests went beyond land and gold! All Lynxes, chieftain and slave alike, would have been destroyed by them! “But now the heavens are on the side of righteous vengeance! A legion that dared to challenge us has been destroyed! Look at the rest of them! Cowering in a valley with no hope of escape! They won’t withstand our fury, much less our charge and our blows!” The entire army roared again. “TODAY,” roared Slashclaw “VENGEANCE IS OURS!” With the screams of his army in his ears, Slashclaw spun on his paws and leapt onto his chariot. “SHALL WE BEGIN?!” *** “Ignore the din of these savages,” growled Pupa. “They’re not soldiers! Do you see any among them wearing armour?! We’ve beaten them before and they know it! We have the high ground and we have the terrain on our side. Just remember your training, push forward and stick together. Don’t worry about captives. Just win and you’ll have everything.” A solid line of Changelings blocked the mouth of the narrow defile. The soldiers of the lead cohorts of Pupa’s legions were battered, scarred and tired, but a pall of grim determination hung over them. This was the last stand for them. They had their backs to the wall and no prisoners would be taken. But while last night many of them might have given up in despair, they knew now that victory might be theirs. His wounds freshly bandaged and leaning heavily on a stick, Lord Pupa stood unsteadily at the front of his formation. His fever had been drowned with hearty doses of essence of poppy. It made him, he realised too late, feel giddily confident. From the massive army downhill, war horns thundered, and with a terrible roar, the entire surging, roiling mass swept towards them, led by three hundred and fifty chariots towed by a dozen slaves each. It was a five hundred yard dash uphill and into the defile, and for every yard they advanced, the Lynxes became channelled tighter and tighter and tighter... At one hundred yards, Pupa could make out individual Lynxes hurtling forwards. Some of them carried pikes, with the heads or even the entire bodies of Changelings impaled on them as banners. Yellow ichor trickled down the shafts. As they got closer they seemed to charge every faster, and became ever more tightly packed... At fifty yards, his Changelings fired: their horns glowed and a storm of green magic tore through the air into the Lynx horde. Their blasts were not as powerful as the ones they had been able to fire at the Recinante Cliffs, nor were they able to fire at the same rate, but it was enough: they tore into the chariots, which crashed to a halt in wrecks of shattered wood, torn flesh and broken bones. The Lynx infantry piled up behind them, and there they died as the front-line legionaries rotated to the rear and were replaced by fresh troops, who fired their own horns and sent sheets of deadly green magic down on them. The Lynx charge was utterly broken. A few Lynxes got through. Many did not. Pupa cast his cane away and swept his leg forward. “ADVANCE!” *** Pupa had not arranged his legions in the standard three lines of cohorts. Instead, he had broken up the second line and put the third in extremely close support of the first line. The centuries of the second line had then been positioned directly behind every second century in the first line, creating columns of troops that were twenty ranks deep. The entire Changeling line surged forward into the panicked Lynx horde. With greater mass behind them, the columns inevitably penetrated deeper into the Lynx host, driving deep wedges into the swarm and breaking up whole tribes, forcing warriors into the gaps between them to be dealt with by the rest of the line. They gored at the Lynx army like the horns of a bull, while the centuries between them discouraged attacks on their flanks and gave plenty of weight to the thrust. Then on the Changeling right, cohort after cohort from the Thirteenth Legion marched out of the woods. Pivoting round like a door on a hinge, Chitin’s troops slammed into the Slashclaw’s left flank. Before a whirl of slashing claws, thrusting horns and snapping fangs, the Lynx army disintegrated. *** Half-blind with tears and blood, his fur matted with sweat and gore, and his breathing short and sharp from pain, Slashclaw staggered through the crowd of fleeing Lynxes. None of them recognised him. None of them would help. Rallying the army meant nothing to him now. It was over. All there was now was to escape back home. His front leg caught something and he fell, collapsing into a heap that sent shocks of agony through his wounds. Spitting blood and tears and sobbing, he dragged himself forward until a furry leg stamped down on his. He rolled over. Silhouetted against the grey sky was Strong Blow. “You have led us to annihilation!” “No,” he croaked. “Please...” “I am not as foolish as you think,” hissed Strong Blow. “I know you intended me to die today, just like the rest of the chiefs. Well, thank you for removing the strongest tribes for me, and let’s thank the Changelings for not attacking my flank.” He reached down and slashed a claw across the prostrate Lynx’s throat. “Enjoy the afterlife, cub. The Lynx territories are mine.” *** The battlefield from the valley to the banks of the Bitissippi was a field of corpses. From the left flank, Lord Chitin grimly surveyed the charnel house. The Second Battle of Pawrinth had been a victory, but at ghastly cost. Pupa’s legions had kept up their attack ignoring all casualties. They had driven the Lynxes from the field, but over four thousand of them had fallen. Nearly ten thousand Lynxes had died, mostly in the initial charge, but thousands of corpses were piled up against the ring of baggage carts they had left around the battlefield. They had been trapped and had been slain without regard for age or sex as they tried to escape. A handful had managed to flee north back to the cliffs. They were no longer a threat. “Send a message back to Queen Chrysalis,” Chitin said to a courier. “Lord Pupa has won a great victory.” “Yes, sir.” Chitin’s eyes were fixed on the field. Groups of Changelings swept over it, searching for wounded and trying to recover weapons. “Did you find his body?” “No, sir. Those who saw him say he was the first to attack after the chariots were stopped. His body may be buried, or even unrecognisable.” “Keep looking.”