The celebration in the Equestrian camp carried on from morning throughout the evening, and showed no signs of slowing by dinnertime. Windstreak wasn’t sure where the instruments had come from, but several of the Westermin soldiers had started playing a lively series of tunes they called a “hoedown”. The Whitetail troops gladly joined the party, and the camp was soon filled with dancing and singing like she hadn’t seen in years. The Firewings were a bit more professional, but after Windstreak wryly allowed herself a few spins around the camp with a soldier from Westermin, their discipline cracked and they too joined in the fun.
Above all else, the air seemed filled with hope. A force of a mere four thousand ponies had just sent an army of ten thousand fleeing for the dunes. If such a thing was possible, then might Equestria’s shattered provinces find peace with one another? It was an unspoken message of unity that pervaded the campsite.
Soldiers packed up their belongings, ready to begin the march home in the following days. The wounded who could not walk were slowly shifted onto mobile pallets, preparing for the journey back to Whitewall, where they could convalesce in peace.
The bridge was still guarded, however. The line remained strong, still reinforced every twenty minutes by a new group of spearponies. The griffons on the other side showed no signs of aggression. They were still squatting in the remnants of the horde’s camp, nearly a quarter of a mile away from the bridge. The infantry had made no move toward the line all day.
Windstreak reclined at the edge of one of the dancing circles. She had her helmet off, tucked under one of her hooves. She sighed, contented. She looked west as the sun approached the horizon. They had perhaps three hours before the sun set on the last day of this very brief war. Soon, she would be returning to Canterlot, where she could see her husband again. And then she would be flying north to bring back Rye. They no longer needed the aid of the Nordponies, after all, and she was determined to make sure he made it back in one piece.
The weather had been beautiful all day, as if celebrating with the ponies. She suspected the Weatherforge pegasi of clearing out the clouds to let the sunshine through, but she hadn’t been paying attention in the initial celebration. But there was still one cloud lingering, far to the south. She blinked, looking closer. No, she’d been mistaken, there was nothing.
Windstreak yawned and replaced her helmet on her head. She hadn’t gotten a very good night’s sleep. She was starting to see things. Not wanting to sleep and risk another nightmare as hideous as the last, she decided to take a walk to clear her head. The Guard-Captain wandered south along the riverbank.
Her path wound her up to the bridge. Normally, Celerity could be found here, making sure that the line was replaced three times an hour, but the Duchess had yet to emerge from her tent. Windstreak had given the order that she was not to be disturbed, leaving Celerity to her ruminations. Without the Duchess’s presence, however, the bridge seemed oddly empty.
“Hello, Captain.”
Windstreak started in surprise, then rolled her eyes. “I thought I told you not to do that, Ber—” She turned to find, not her Lieutenant, but Wheatie. “Oh. Sorry.”
“My apologies, Captain.” The young stallion inclined his head. The two fell silent. They looked out over the griffons’ small force for a while. A faint east wind blew up, catching Windstreak’s tail. She sighed. Wheatie glanced sideways, his apparent casualness betrayed by the tension in his stiff back. “A bit for your thoughts, Captain?”
“Oh… I’m happy that we’ve beaten the griffons back, believe me. It’s just…” Her voice trailed off.
“It’s your son, isn’t it.”
Windstreak closed her eyes and hung her head, laughing sadly to herself. “Oh, Bergeron. I thought you were more discrete than this.”
“I’m the only one he’s told, Captain. He felt the burden was too much for one pony to bear.”
“Too much stress for him, being my secret-keeper?”
“He was referring to you.”
“Ah.” Windstreak took a deep breath. “Yes, it’s my son. He’s gone off on some damn fool mission for the Princess that’s going to get him killed, more likely than not; and after the events of today it turns out that that mission is completely pointless. I’m just…” Her voice caught. She sniffed, her eyes watering.
Wheatie found something very interesting to look at in the other direction while she dried her eyes. She continued, her voice back under control: “I’m just worried that he’s going to get hurt. A mother’s foolish fears, I suppose.”
“I don’t think you’re being foolish, Captain.”
“Thank you, Wheatie.” She smiled at him. A brief flash caught her eye. “Did you see that?”
“Yes. From the south.” The two looked out again.
Windstreak rubbed her eyes. “I suppose I wasn’t seeing things. That’s shaping up to be quite the storm.” Far in the distance, a massive black cloud was just barely visible. “Good. I hope it rains all over Shrikefeather’s army.” She had a brief vision of black nimbuses and crimson rain. She shuddered, turning her thoughts away.
“Well, Captain… if you’re planning to head after your son once we return to Canterlot, and the Princess allows it, I’d like to come with you. Bergeron as well.”
“I don’t need—”
“Maybe not. But you’ll make us feel better if you take us along.”
“You two aren’t going to stop pestering me about this, are you.”
Wheatie grinned. “You’re beginning to grasp the concept of nagging, I see.”
“Fine. If the Princess gives the go-ahead, I’ll take you two with me. I’m not sure why you care, Wheatie.”
“You’re my captain and shield-sister. I’m not going to let you face something like this alone.”
“Well… thank you. And give Bergeron my thanks as well.”
“Of course, Captain.”
The two stood, looking at the sky, each busy with their own thoughts. The sun sank lower in the sky, streaking it with violet and rose. Behind them, the party continued unabated. The faint strains of music carried over the wind.
“Captain?”
“Yes, Wheatie?”
“That storm is moving awfully fast.”
“They tend to do that, on the plains. They can swoop up on you in a minute.”
They both stared southward at the cloud. Windstreak felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. Wheatie squinted.
“It’s moving straight toward us.”
“Yes.”
“Those aren’t flashes of lightning. They looked metallic.”
“Yes.”
“... Captain?”
“Yes, Wheatie?”
“That’s not a storm, is it.” It wasn’t a question.
Windstreak took a fortifying breath and exhaled, shaking herself to make sure her armor was still secured. “Tell me, Wheatie, have you ever heard the story of Tyorj?”
* * *
The alarm was nearly drowned out by the sounds of the celebrating soldiers. At first, it could almost be mistaken for another instrument, joining the music. But soon, the ringing alarm’s distinct sound began to pierce through the din to the ears of the soldiers. There was a lull in the songs as the soldiers paused, listening to the frantic ding ding ding of the bell.
They dropped their instruments, stamped out their fires, and left their food abandoned on the ground. Those that had removed their armor to allow freer movement for dancing hastily rebuckled it. Soldiers grabbed their weapons, racing for the bridge. Wings beat. Hooves stamped. Spears and shields fell into line. But the defense was disorganized. Sloppy. Distracted.
The flap to Celerity’s tent burst inward. Windstreak’s face was filled with urgency. “Duchess.”
Celerity took one look at the captain and her face hardened in instant understanding. “Shrikefeather.” She stood, shoving away the table. She walked to the side of her tent, brushing aside maps to reveal the small closet in which she stored her armor. Her face was filled with tranquil rage, a mask of controlled emotions.
Her horn glowed and her armor slid out of the little chest. The silver chain links gleamed softly in the candlelight. “Prepare your troops, Captain,” she whispered. Windstreak saluted and vanished from the tent.
Across the river, the griffon infantry had begun their approach. The seven hundred remaining griffons neared the bridge, a tight and cohesive unit of hardened killing machines. They were Shrikefeather’s best, handpicked for the sole purpose of finally breaking the bridge line. To the south, the great cloud was now fully visible. And it was no cloud at all, but the most massive flight of griffons anypony had ever seen. Not since the days of the Gryphan Empire had such an army flown in the skies of Equestria.
On the north side of the Grumar, Windstreak hovered beside Bergeron. The pegasi from Weatherforge and the Firewings were all airborne, waiting for the enemy. They stared across the river. “There have to be at least fifteen hundred of them.”
“We’ll hold it, Captain. We always do.”
“Our troops are still disorganized and unprepared. This is going to get ugly, Bergeron.”
“We’ll hold it.”
“Shrikefeather’s got to have an ace up his sleeve. This is no ordinary attack.” Bergeron said nothing in reply, his face unreadable beneath his helmet.
Below, at the bridge, Celerity held command. “Steady, everypony. Steady, now.” The Duchess’s calm voice soothed the soldiers. “There aren’t enough of them left to take the bridge. We can hold the line against seven hundred griffons. We will hold the line.” Whitetail and Westermin ponies alike gritted their teeth, preparing for the oncoming assault.
The cloud of wings and steel drew closer. Uncountable griffons swarmed in a vast, seething mass. It was like a living thing, looming up to reach out and consume the Equestrians. It crossed the river, the sounds of a thousand synchronous wingbeats vibrating through the air. Windstreak felt like she was bracing herself for the impact of a wave. Her eyes narrowed. “Get ready, everypony!”
The cloud burst. The griffons exploded outward, streaking into the ranks of the ponies. They were everywhere at once, completely blocking out the sky and the ground. Windstreak found herself immediately fighting for her life. Two griffons swung toward her, claws outstretched. She kicked one in the face, somersaulting away to avoid the second’s claws. A third raked his talons across her back, scratching the golden armor. There was a crack from behind her as Bergeron collided with the griffon. The second one grabbed onto him, pulling him away. Windstreak flew after it, driving her hooves into its skull and instantly breaking its neck.
There was an immense roar, a thunderous sound that shook through the air like an erupting volcano. All the ponies flinched for one brief moment, stunned still by the arrival of a new enemy. Hidden in the center of the cloud of griffons, they had flown from the south, remaining shielded from the ponies until now. Until it was too late. They burst from inside the horde, ready to destroy the Equestrians.
It was impossible.
Windstreak had never really believed they still existed. They were old legends, myths told to children to entertain them and keep them from wandering outside at night. None of them had ventured from their homeland in centuries. The only pony she knew who had ever seen one was the Princess herself. And they were a match for even her in power. They were great beasts formed from the bones of the world, creatures who had once strived against the gods themselves for dominion over the Earth.
They were the inhabitants of the arid land of Wyrmgand, wielders of fiery breath and untold natural power. They were not living creatures so much as forces of nature given flesh. Wherever they went, destruction followed, and nothing—no pony, no griffon, no god—could stand in their way. Or so the legends said.
Dragons.
Their scales gleamed brilliantly in the sun’s light, scintillating colors blinding and dazzling in their beauty. They were huge. Their heads as large as houses; their teeth were the size of a pegasus’s full wingspan and sharp as blades. Their talons could cut through the finest of Easthill steel with ease, for they were made of stronger stuff than iron. Dragons were of the Earth, more pure than any metal or stone. Trying to defeat one would be like trying to kill a mountain. But the most striking features were their eyes. The only word that could describe them, thought Windstreak, was old. They were windows into the ancient past, reminders that they were older than Equestria itself.
There were two of them. One was bright viridian, her gleaming green hide scarred with the marks of old battles won and lost. The other, a dark scarlet the shade of freshly spilled blood; even bigger and covered with many more ancient wounds that told of foes defeated and enemies slain. They descended upon the army of pegasi like colliding meteors.
The first victims, still stunned by the appearance of the legendary creatures, were felled in seconds as the dragons’ huge claws slashed through their ranks. The griffons resumed their furious swarming, slicing apart the pegasi. The Firewings were the first to respond to the new threat, flying fearlessly into battle as they always did.
Windstreak and Bergeron flew high above the great red dragon, dodging griffons and pegasi.
“Do you see a weakness?” shouted Bergeron.
Windstreak yelled back over the noise “No! It’s a dragon, it doesn’t have any weaknesses!”
”Well, we have to do something! They’re going to wipe our entire army out!”
“Come on! Go for the eyes!” Together, they dived downward, flying straight for the dragon’s head. From the opposite side, Wheatie led a dozen others in the same maneuver. A third squadron of nearly thirty Firewings dove from the front, drawing the dragon’s attention. Its eyes narrowed. Right before the Firewings collided with its head, the dragon twisted violently, slamming its neck into first Wheatie’s group and then Windstreak.
It was like being smashed by a mountainside. Windstreak dropped, stunned and unable to flap her wings or focus her thoughts. The wind rushed past her, roaring. She regained control, spreading out her wings and trying to steer her descent while she recovered. She looked upward at the great red dragon just in time to see the third squadron attack.
The dragon’s mouth yawned wide. Windstreak stared from below in awestruck wonder. The dragon inhaled, and from its mouth poured a massive font of flame. The fire was hotter than any Windstreak had ever felt, including the burning tent of the assault on the camp. Even from far below the dragon, she could feel the blast of heat. The Firewings caught in the flame simply vanished, wiped from existence by the dragon’s breath.
The green was ravaging the Cloudsdale pegasi, ripping apart their formations with impunity. All around, griffons swooped in between the dragons, picking off stragglers and fleeing pegasi. Windstreak hung in midair, dismayed.
“Captain!” Bergeron screamed over the roar of battle as he rocketed down beside her. “Captain! What do we do?”
“Stay alive! I need to get to the Duchess! We’ll make a fighting retreat. Get the Weatherforge pegasi mobilized!” Windstreak rocketed away toward the bridge. Bergeron flapped helplessly for a moment, then turned around and flew back into the thick of it.
Below, at the bridge, the griffons pushed forward. The maulers had finally struck. Driving forward like a wedge with their shields, the other griffons had cleared a path to the line for the giant mace-wielding berserkers. The maces crashed against the shields, but the spearponies held.
Celerity screamed orders, trying desperately to maintain control of the situation. Above her, scores of ponies were burning to death every minute. Her forces were in complete disarray. If the bridge line broke, all was lost. But still it held.
From inside the great wedge, a massive shape erupted. His wingspan was over three meters long. His head feathers were as black as soot, and his eyes pierced the armor of whomever they stared upon. He held no weapon, for his talons were more than enough. He wore no shield, for no foe could touch him in battle. His armor bore no insignia, nor any indications of rank, for he needed none; his authority was obvious and absolute. He said nothing, and gave no battle cry, for no words were necessary. General Shrikefeather had taken the field.
The spearponies shunted their spears upward as they had done so many times before. The general’s beak opened and he let loose a piercing shriek. Ponies cringed and flung their hooves to their ears, terrified. The general brushed aside the spears with a contemptuous claw, falling among the spearponies like a whirlwind. Blood splattered through the air. The maulers charged in behind him, wreaking havoc with their maces. The ponies fell back, terrified and overwhelmed.
The line was broken.
Windstreak landed next to the Duchess, who was still shouting orders. “Celerity! The battle’s lost! We have to retreat while we still can!”
“Never! He hasn’t won this yet!”
“Celerity! Even if we hold the bridge, those dragons are going to wipe out our entire army! We need to go!”
The Duchess looked back at Windstreak, her mane blowing crazily in the wind. “NO! No retreat! We will not let these mongrels through. I will not allow it.”
Windstreak grabbed the Duchess and shook her, throwing protocol to the wind. “Celerity! Be reasonable. We have to save as many of our troops as we can. ”
The unicorn’s horn pulsed brightly, and Windstreak found herself flung backwards onto the ground. Celerity stamped her hooves down aggressively, steam flushing from her nostrils. “Don’t you dare, Captain Strudel. No pony under my command flees in the face of battle.”
Windstreak looked at Celerity’s face. The Duchess’s eyes were wide and wild. Her mane flew unkempt around her head. She stared at Windstreak, but Celerity wasn’t really looking at her. Her gaze was lost in some other world. Windstreak had seen the same look once before, one horrible day long ago, as a trapped stallion burned to death inside a flaming winery. His eyes had rolled as he turned feral in his final moments.
Celerity’s face was now identical. She had lost herself. There was nothing more to be said. Windstreak shook her head and took off, leaving the half-crazed unicorn standing alone and panting. Celerity whirled back around, screaming “HOLD THE LINE!”
But the line was no longer hers to hold. General Shrikefeather and the rest of the griffons had driven the ponies back completely over the bridge. For the first time in six hundred years, griffons stepped over Trellow Bridge and into the Duchy of Whitetail.
Windstreak flew over the lines of Westermin and Whitetail ponies. “Retreat!” she called. “Retreat! Fall back to Whitewall City!” Seeing the golden armor, the ponies below heeded her command, and began to move away from the bridge. Above, Bergeron was doing his best to organize the pegasi in the midst of the airborne slaughter. With agonizing slowness, the army began to shift northward.
At the base of the bridge, Celerity retained control. A scant hundred unicorns and earth ponies still fought bitterly against the oncoming griffon horde. They battled like madponies, killing dozens of griffons for every one that they lost. The Duchess herself entered the fray, flinging spells into the griffons.
General Shrikefeather found her at last. Celerity was locked in combat with a group of griffons, along with several of her soldiers. Celerity’s horn glowed brightly, and with a snap-hiss! lightning flew from its tip to strike a griffon in the chest. Another leapt to slash at her, but was intercepted by a soldier’s spear. The Whitetail spearpony was grabbed by another griffon and dragged away. Celerity sent another bolt of lightning flying into the griffon before her. It sizzled on his flesh, and he fell.
Behind her, she felt a great thud, and the ground shook. She turned wildly, another spell flying to her horn. Shrikefeather had come for his prey. Before she could let fly her spell, his talons raked across her face. She cried out in pain, flinching. He grabbed her bright chainmail with both claws, and swung the Duchess sideways. She flew through the air, crashing in a heap.
Celerity planted a hoof underneath herself. She raised her head, firing a bolt of lightning at the general. But the griffon was already airborne, and the bolt missed as he flew toward her again. He landed heavily beside the duchess. She struggled to stand, but his claw slammed down on her head, driving it sideways into the dirt.
“Look around you, Celerity.” General Shrikefeather leaned his head down to the Duchess’s. He held her down in the dirt. “Look at your army.”
Celerity’s eyes swiveled back and forth. She struggled, snorting and spitting in fury, trying to pull upright, but to no avail. The general held her down tightly.
“Look.”
Celerity’s motions slowed. Her eyes rolled back down, and she gasped for air. She looked out at the bridge. All around it lay the corpses of hundreds of ponies. Even now, innumerable griffons were pouring over into Whitetail. Above, the roars of the dragons and the smell of brimstone dominated her senses. She twisted her head to the north. Her army, what shattered remnants of it were left, was fleeing.
“They are running, Celerity. Running like cowards.” Shrikefeather clamped harder on her head. “For too long, you have stood between me and Equestria. If not for your interference, I’d have taken the southlands years ago.” His voice was a curious mix of respect and anger.
Celerity couldn’t catch her breath. Her heart beat like a drum, her ears flicked helplessly. She continued her futile struggle.
“But your time is done. Look, and see all that you wished for cast down and broken at your hooves. Here, at the end, you are nothing, Celerity.”
The Duchess looked out over the land of Equestria. In the distance, though she knew it was impossible, she fancied she saw the golden spires of Canterlot glittering in the sun. Tears blinded her.
“I’m… sorry…”
“Oh, Celerity, it’s too late for that.”
“Celestia… I’m so sorry…”
The pressure on her head released. Duchess Celerity Augustine Belle looked up at the sky one last time, watching the two great dragons circle the battlefield. In the corner of her vision, Shrikefeather’s talons raised high above her. She stared at the sun as the last few rays peeked over the horizon. She felt oddly at peace.
And then she felt nothing at all.