The general narrowed his eyes against the bright sun. His wings beat in a measured pace, holding him aloft far above the scrubland. From this height, the individual griffons below him were indistinguishable. His army looked like a long, black snake, twisting up from the south and slithering slowly northward to meet the Grumar River. The vast horde, stretching beyond the horizon, was a deeply satisfying sight to behold. The sunlight sparkled on the weapons and armor of his troops like diamonds, but the beauty was lost on the general. Aesthetics were a distraction and a nuisance. He had a war to win.
He had waited over a century for this moment, this first strike against his kingdom’s most hated neighbor. The conquest of the protectorates fifty years ago had merely whetted his appetite, their lands providing the means to feed his army and their inhabitants providing the horsepower that drove his siege engines. But it was not enough. Soon the war would begin in earnest, and the general waited with great anticipation.
Southlund had fallen more easily than he had expected. The old fortress, that ancient humiliation imposed upon his nation by the Equestrians, had put up a pathetic fight. He had been mildly disappointed to find such little challenge, but the General was more than willing to accept the easy victories as well as the hard-won.
The coming battles promised to be far more interesting. His advance scouts reported that the forces of Equestria were mobilizing. But whatever army they could muster would be no match for his endless masses of troops. Below him moved ten thousand griffons, infantry and aerial squadrons alike. They were the primary invasion force, the vanguard, the tip of the spear that he would thrust into Equestria’s heart. The shaft of that spear was still marching north from Grypha. Another twenty thousand soldiers under his command, the largest army that had walked the dunes since the days of the Gryphan Empire.
He would have to split his forces eventually, in order to capture Equestria’s major cities while maintaining his timetable. But even a quarter of his army would be enough to crush them. He fully expected to own the plains within the month and the capital within the year, if not sooner.
The next move would come soon. His army still needed a few days to shift up into Southlund. The ponies would be struggling to react, to delay their inevitable destruction. Shrikefeather’s beak twisted into a smile. Could they see yet that they had already lost? He hoped so. Despair was so much more satisfying than defiance.
* * *
Today, the council chamber in the base of the Sun Castle was a war room; not filled with politicians, but soldiers. Upon the great marble table lay a massive map of Equestria. It detailed every mountain, road, and village of the land in exquisite detail, the faded ink spelling out the many provinces and capitals of the kingdom of the ponies.
On top of the map were several groups of miniature flags bearing the sigils of the armies they represented. The violet banners bore the quadruplet of diamonds that signified Whitetail, while the blue ones proudly displayed the blood droplet of the ruling house of Norhart. The forces of Westermin, Weatherforge, and the rest of the southern provinces were all varying shades of green and brown. In Canterlot, the yellow pennants of the Celestial Army stood tall, but their number was depressingly small compared to either of the other Equestrian militaries. Far to the south, the map disappeared in a sea of red banners marked with the roaring griffon of Grypha.
The violet flags of Whitetail were moving rapidly as the reports from Celestia’s vast scout network flowed in, split into two groups that each moved in opposite directions. The smaller force was shifting north toward the Easthill border, but the largest mass of them was headed south to the wide band of blue that signified the Grumar River. The river cut lengthwise across the bottom of Equestria, reaching all the way from Rivermeet to Lake Grumar at the end of the Jotur mountains. It was a wide, deep, fast-flowing natural barrier between the land of the ponies and the griffons, their first line of defense against the oncoming invasion.
The southern provinces were moving to meet the mass of violet, but the blue banners of Norhart remained still in their province. Likewise, the yellow pennants stood motionless in Canterlot, where they had been for most of the last century. But the time for inaction was over.
“I won’t lie, Princess,” said Windstreak, surveying the map. “The situation looks dire.”
Princess Celestia nodded in weary agreement. “There are too many foes in this war. Celerity and Emmet should be marching together, not threatening each other. If only the duke might see reason…” She shook her head. “But we cannot deal in shoulds and ifs. War has come to our doorstep, and we must take action.”
“Let’s start with the griffons,” said one of the Firewings, an older stallion by the name of Gerald. “What do we know about their forces?”
“Initial estimates seem to have been exaggerated,” said the Princess. “Though Dawn may have been correct about the numbers at Grypha’s disposal, this first wave of invaders is only ten thousand strong, not thirty. But even so, they still outnumber all the forces of the southern provinces combined.”
Windstreak flapped her wings and leapt onto the table, walking carefully around the flags down to the south of the map. She gazed over the ocean of red that buried the desert and the old protectorates, long ago conquered by the griffons. “Do we know who leads them?”
The Princess nodded grimly. “If the reports are correct, and I believe they are, then the invasion is led by none other than General Shrikefeather.”
There was a low rumble of dismay from the older Firewings in the room. Indrid, a mare of eighteen, shook her head. “I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised.”
Wheatie, the Firewings’ newest recruit, gave a nervous whinny. He quickly snapped his mouth shut with a hoof, looking around in embarrassment. He was a white and brown speckled stallion with a cream-colored mane, still young and adjusting to his new position in the group. His armor had only been recently fitted, and his helmet was still slipping over his eyes every time he jerked his head. Trying to cover up his faux pas, he said, “General Shrikefeather? He’s been the leader of the Gryphan armies for longer than my grandfather’s been alive. How are we supposed to defeat somepony—er, griffon—with that kind of experience?”
Privately, Windstreak shared his doubts, but she needed to keep up the morale of those under her command. “I’ve read the reports from the Gryphan annexation of the old protectorates. Shrikefeather’s no fool, but he’s not invincible, either.” She gave Wheatie an encouraging smile. “They gave the griffons a bloody nose with barely half the warriors we have at our service. The war isn’t a lost cause yet.”
“If all of Equestria stood together, perhaps. But we’re hardly unified.” Her lieutenant, Bergeron, was eyeing the Norharren banners. He preened a few of his blue feathers back into place, frowning.
“Emmet’s inaction is troubling,” said Celestia, “but unsurprising. And I think it better to have him sit in Norharren, consolidating his forces around the city, than to have him marching through the north.”
“I’m more interested in Shrikefeather,” said Windstreak. She toyed idly with a red flag, rocking it back and forth with her hoof. “Grypha’s farmland is sparse and poor. They won’t have any surplus harvest. On top of that, his army will be moving slowly, as would any force that large. Their supply lines will be stretched too long to protect.”
“Captain, I fear you’ve forgotten the intent of this invasion.” Princess Celestia strode slowly around the table, looking at the markers. “The griffons’ population is out of control. Even with a low birthrate and a violent culture with a death toll to match, they have too many to feed. They want Equestria’s southern plains and all the fertile land therein. I think it likely that Shrikefeather’s army will live off the land as they go, in an attempt to reduce their reliance on home.”
“Yes,” said Bergeron unhappily. “We can’t depend on supply disruption like we did in the Great War. We’ll have to face them head on, sooner or later.”
Windstreak shook her head. “Impossible. There’s no force in Equestria that could hope to face that horde in open combat.”
“And yet,” said Celestia, “it seems that Celerity is going to try.” She leaned over the table to examine the cluster of violet flags that rested on the banks of the Grumar.
“Twenty-five hundred ponies against ten thousand griffons?” Gerald looked incredulous. “Those are long odds.”
“But it might work,” said Windstreak, circling the violet flags. “The duchess’s plan seems to be to meet the griffons here, at the bridge of Trellow.” She indicated a point on the river in the center of the purple swarm.
“Why do the griffons need a bridge?” asked Wheatie, flapping his wings once to emphasize his puzzlement. His helmet slipped down over his eyes again, and he pushed it back.
“It’s true, they could simply fly over the Grumar,” said Windstreak, “but to do so would mean leaving behind all their siege, armor, and supplies. Without those, they have no chance of succeeding.” She gave the violet flags another hard look. “It’s not a bad plan. It could work, but not with so few ponies. Belle is outnumbered four to one.”
“Not quite,” said Bergeron. “Don’t forget about Westermin, Weatherforge, and the rest of them.”
“The Cloudsdale pegasi could tip the balance,” said Indrid hopefully.
“What was the last count on their reinforcements?” asked Wheatie.
Windstreak frowned. “Weatherforge has committed a force of some six hundred pegasi to Belle, but his dedicated air force is only a quarter that size. Most of these pegasi aren’t soldiers. They’re weatherponies he’s called back from around the southern provinces to fight.”
Bergeron scowled. “Aye, and the Westerminners are even worse. Farmers, the lot of them. It’ll be a miracle if they manage to get their spears pointing in the right direction, let alone hold that bridge against a fighting force like Shrikefeather’s.”
“Even Belle’s personal forces are at a disadvantage,” continued Windstreak with growing apprehension. “Whitetail’s iron quality and supply are notoriously bad. She hasn’t been able to produce enough steel to arm her soldiers. Only one out of every three of them has armor, and even fewer have weapons besides their hooves.”
Princess Celestia sighed with dismay. “Which brings us back to the north.” She approached the map’s top right edge, where the other line of violet flags waited. “Celerity plans to capture Easthill.”
Gerald nodded. “With the Pie family quarries and the mines under the mountains, she’ll have more than enough iron production to arm her troops. She’s sending Baron Aubren to take Easthill by force. How are we going to respond, Princess?”
Celestia made a little noise of anguish. “I had hoped not to see this conflict turn us against each other so soon.”
“So did the rest of us, Princess. But the reality of the situation demands a response.”
“I know, Gerald.” The Princess closed her eyes in pain, and then spoke quickly. “Order the third division to secure Easthill and hold those iron mines. Celerity cannot be allowed to harm my subjects for her own gain.”
“It’s the right decision, Princess,” said Windstreak softly.
Celestia’s eyes opened, hard as steel. “No decision that leads to the slaughter of Equestrian citizens is the right one.”
“Wait a minute,” said Wheatie, pushing his helmet back up. “Why don’t we just let the Duchess have Easthill? We need her to be as strong as possible to fight the griffons, yes?”
Windstreak bit her lip. She glanced over at the Princess, knowing how much this had to hurt her. “Wheatie, if Belle was only going to use those weapons against the griffons, we’d give her the steel. But she’s crossed a line she can never return from. Whitetail’s secession, even if unrecognized by the crown, means that she’s out for herself now. She’s going to try to grab as much land for the southern provinces as she can.”
“So Blueblood was right about her,” said Bergeron, disgusted.
“No,” said Celestia quietly. “Emmet thinks Celerity is driven by a hunger for power. But I know her better than that. She only wants what is best for her people, and she thinks that she can give it to them through this desperate move.” She shook her head, her expression unreadable. “My old student is many things, but power-mad she is not.”
“Whatever her motivations,” said Bergeron, “it’s clear that she can’t be allowed to have Easthill.”
“We’re getting off-track. The griffons are the greater threat,” insisted Windstreak from atop the table. She pointed a hoof at the bridge of Trellow. “If Celerity fails to hold them at the bridge, then there won’t be anything stopping them from marching all the way north to the capital.” She started pacing. “I’m sorry, Princess, but you’ll have to send some kind of help to aid her at the bridge.”
“Extend help with one hoof while stymieing her efforts in Easthill with the other? I doubt Celerity would react well to that. I could do such a thing, but not with Emmet on our doorstep.”
Celestia looked to Norhart and the blue banners gathered around Norharren. She laid a hoof on the spot in Norlund where the Great Road and the highway to Norharren connected. “He’s had his eye on Norlund for years. For as long as he’s sat on the council, Emmet’s tried to get the provincial lines redrawn to put that crossroads in his own territory.”
“Then it’s fairly obvious what he’s planning to do with that army of his.”
“We’ll need to stop him as well. We can’t let Emmet terrorize the north. But that means that we will have no troops to spare for Celerity. The Celestial Army will be hard-pressed as it is trying to defend those provinces still loyal to us.”
“So we’re going to leave the duchess to fight the griffons alone?” said Wheatie, disbelieving.
Windstreak stopped pacing as her face lit up. “No.”
“No?” said the Princess, looking at Windstreak. “I take it you have a plan, Captain.”
The Firewing grinned. “Send us.”
Tapping her chin with a hoof, Celestia said, “Could so few of you truly make a difference, Windstreak?”
“Without a doubt. Each Firewing fights like ten ponies, and those Cloudsdale pegasi are going to need actual soldiers to organize them. We can keep the griffons funneled onto that bridge for Belle to smash. This will work. There are three hundred and twelve of us here in Canterlot right now—sorry, three hundred and eleven.” Windstreak’s voice failed for a moment as she remembered who exactly was traveling with that missing Firewing.
She brushed the feeling aside for later and continued, “We can be ready to go by tonight at the earliest. If we fly as hard as we can, we can make it to Trellow by Tuesday.”
The Princess nodded slowly. “Very well, Windstreak. But I can’t simply dispatch the Firewings to help Celerity. Emmet would react… badly. It’s my hope to avoid open conflict with him for as long as possible. The more Celestial Army troops we can save to fight the griffons, the better.”
Sighing in agreement, Windstreak looked at the map. She studied Trellow, thinking hard. The idea came to her in a flash. “Then we’ll go against your will.”
There was a low murmur from the Firewings. Windstreak looked up excitedly. “The Firewings will go rogue. We’ll just leave the capital, determined to help the Duchess against the griffons regardless of the wishes of the crown. That way, Belle gets the help she needs, you can cover your flank politically, and we can potentially stop this invasion in its tracks.”
“But Windstreak,” said the Princess, “the Firewings’ loyalty is legendary. You’d be ruining your reputations.” The look in her eyes said that the Princess was well aware of how much that meant to Windstreak.
“It’s true,” said the pegasus bleakly. “If we do this, then the Firewings’ name will be mud. No more mothers will tell tales of us to their children; no more little colts will dream of greatness and aspire to be more than they are by joining our ranks.” Her voice caught. “But if we don’t, then those children might not have a future at all.”
Celestia nodded, satisfied. “Then go, Windstreak, with my blessing.”
Turning, Windstreak barked, “You heard her, Firewings! We’re moving out! I want everypony gathered and ready to fly by noon today! And Wheatie, get that helmet fixed.”
The Firewings vanished from the room, and the din of the clanking armor of the soldiers faded into the hallways of the castle. Windstreak and Celestia remained behind, staring at the map.
Windstreak walked slowly to the top of the map, standing just south of the Jotur mountains. She laid a tender hoof on the other side, her face filled with regret. “Princess?”
“Yes, Windstreak?”
“How soon can we expect reinforcements from Sleipnord?”
Celestia flapped her wings, alighting on the table and approaching the Captain. She stood beside Windstreak, looking down at the border between Equestria and Sleipnord.
“It is my hope that they will arrive within the month. It all depends on how fast our messengers can deliver those treaties.”
Windstreak struggled with herself. “Princess…?”
“It’s all right, Windstreak.” Celestia put a hoof around her Guard-Captain’s shoulder. “I know what you’re feeling right now.”
“How can you?” snarled Windstreak. She pulled away from the Princess’s touch. All the emotions she’d been suppressing since Celestia had told her the news came spilling out. “You’ve never had a son, or a daughter. You’ll never know what that feels like. You can’t imagine how much fear and, and, and—”
To her shame, she found that she was weeping. Windstreak wiped a leg across her face. She faced away from the Princess. “I promised him I would keep him safe. I promised him.”
“It’s true,” said the Princess quietly. “I’ve never had a child of my own, and I never will.” She looked out of the stained glass of the council chamber. “When Celerity’s father died, she was only a few years old. I took her in and taught her to be the ruler she is today. She lived in my castle, studied in my library, slept in my rooms when nighttime storms frightened her. What was she, if not my daughter?”
Windstreak turned, ashamed of her outburst. “I’m sorry, Princess. I didn’t mean to…”
“No, Windstreak. Don’t apologize. Sending Rye off without asking you was necessary, but that does not mean it was right.”
Anguished, Windstreak looked up at Celestia. “He’s my son. And you’ve sent him off to face who-knows-what dangers alone.”
“He has Inger with him,” said the Princess.
“But he doesn’t have me.” She had promised him.
A wise smile grew on the Princess’s face. “I understand, Windstreak. There comes a time in every parent’s life when we must let our children go, and hope that we have given them what they need to succeed.” She looked hard at Windstreak. “And from the way he jumped to help Dawn Sparkle, I think you have.”
“I just… he’s not as strong as he puts on.”
“Do you know who he reminded me of?”
Windstreak shook her head. “Who?”
“My sister.” Celestia smiled. “And I don’t mean the wings and horn. Don’t worry, Windstreak. He has the willpower to see this mission through.”
Windstreak looked down at the map darkly. “It’s not his will I’m worried about.”