Part Two: Kingshammer
Map of Sleipnord
“How is the fit, m’lord?”
The white unicorn lifted a leg, feeling the pauldron and breastplate shift. “It’s a bit tight across the chest.”
“Easily fixed, m’lord.” The blacksmith reached his head down under the unicorn’s leg, grabbing one of the armor’s belts and loosening the buckle. “Now?”
“Much better. I can breathe.”
“That’s always good,” said Weston, from the side. The big earth pony leaned back against the wall with a grin. “We’d hate for our little princeling to pass out in the middle of his first battle.”
Clement frowned. “I’ve fought in battles before.”
His squire laughed. Weston was always laughing. The brown earth pony’s face was naturally jovial, permanently smiling, and his eyes constantly twinkled at some private joke. “Fending off groups of the hill tribes? Putting down bandit camps on the Northroad?” He shook his head. “Lord Clement, pardon my impertinence, but you’ve never seen a real battle before.”
The young lord of Norhart huffed in annoyance. “And you have?” It was possible, of course. Weston was older than he by nearly a decade. Not a common knight-squire relationship, certainly. Normally, one took a squire on to teach him the ways of knighthood, not the other way around. But Clement’s father had given him Weston years ago as both an aide and a tutor, in the hopes of making him a soldier worthy of the name Blueblood.
“Aye, milord. Years ago, not long after you were born, I fought in the rebellion.”
“On which side?” Clement’s eyebrow rose. Weston had never mentioned this before.
The brief and unfortunate uprising in Fillydelphia nearly ten years ago had been the only real fighting the north had seen in generations. Clement had still been just a foal when the dissent over maritime trade restrictions had exploded into violence, but he remembered the long nights his father had spent locked in his study with the rest of his war cabinet. After the final battle at the coastline city, displaced soldiers from both sides had fallen on hard times, and become sellswords or brigands. It seemed his squire had been one of them.
“Does it matter?” Weston sighed ruefully, still smiling. “Of course it does. If you must know, I fought under your father’s banner.”
“I should hope so.”
“I left the army after my five years were up. I found I had no taste for war anymore. But I’ve remained in the Duke’s employ. Your father pays well.”
“The Bluebloods always reward the loyal,” said Clement. He looked to the blacksmith. “Are we done?”
“Yes, m’lord. That’s fine armor to be sure. Norharren steel is the strongest in the north. And not even an Easthill armorer could have crafted a piece like this.”
The blacksmith spoke the truth, thought Clement. His new armor was magnificent, as befitted the heir to the Norhart Duchy. It was polished mirror-smooth, so clean it seemed to glow white. It was delicately gilded with gold along the lines of the plate, in curving floral designs that set off his deep blonde mane perfectly. A white cape carrying the sigil of his house lay draped across the back. The blue droplet of blood hung proudly, firmly establishing his line. Clement had always found using blood for a house sigil to be a bit tasteless, but since the name and emblem of Blueblood were as old and honorable as Equestria itself, he supposed it was bearable.
“Thank you, good smith. My father has already paid for your services, I trust?”
“Most kindly, m’lord.”
“Have another bit,” said Clement, nodding to Weston. His squire took a gold piece from his coinpurse and tossed it to the smith, who caught it gratefully. Clement stepped down from the fitting stand and shook again, adjusting to the weight of the armor. He might only be nine years old, still a young adult by Equestrian standards, but in his new coat of steel he felt like a mighty warhorse of fifteen, ready to bring glory to the name of his house in battle.
He and Weston left the blacksmith’s, striding out into the streets of Norharren. The city was built on a hill, with the long main road running up the length of it. It was divided into three great circular tiers, each bounded with a short wall more for show than protection. No enemy had ever laid siege to Norharren. Its power lay in the influential ponies who resided there, rather than in any inherent strategic location.
Below them were the outer districts, where the commoners and the poorer citizens of the northern capital lived. On good days like today, the wind carried the smell from the hovels in the opposite direction. Clement tried to avoid that part of town. The central tier of the city was home to the artisans and the crafters’ guilds, including the blacksmith he and Weston had just visited. Above the merchant’s district was the circle of the nobles. Here was the heart of northern politics, where the lords and ladies of Norharren spent their days drinking tea and plotting their advancement through the unwritten ranks of the noble houses. At the very top of the hill sat the grand Blueblood manor. Flags bearing the blue droplet waved gently in the afternoon breeze as the guards paced the outer walls below.
They climbed to the manor’s entrance, passing through the heart of the city. Clement held his head high, privately enjoying the stares of the commoners. His armor gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight, and his cape fluttered majestically behind him as they walked. He was careful to avoid the puddles of mud that accumulated on the sides of the street, fearful of dirtying the radiant steel.
They passed through the high gate into the noble district. Clement smiled as the guards saluted, and inclined his head to acknowledge them. He and Weston climbed higher, finally entering the manor. Inside, he ascended the stairs to his father’s study, gulping with sudden anxiety. He removed his helmet, sliding it carefully off over his horn and tucking it under one leg. At the door, he left Weston to stand guard and entered.
“Father?”
Duke Emmet Blueblood looked up from his desk and his face broke into a wide smile. “And here he is, my only child! Come, my son, show me your new armor.”
Clement proudly stepped forward to let his father examine the fine craftsmanship. “The smith said this is finer than even an Easthill armorer’s work.”
“Indeed it is. I haven’t seen such skill in the craft since my grandfather’s time. You look wonderful, my son. Like a true knight. If only your mother could see this… The details are exquisite.”
Pleased, Clement bowed his head. “Thank you, father.” He looked up again. “You wanted to see me after the fitting?”
“Yes.” His father’s expression faded back into the familiar seriousness. “Tomorrow, your appointment becomes official. When you take your oaths, you’ll be the commander of my army in truth.”
“I’m ready, father.”
“I know you are, my son. You’ll do me proud. But we need to begin discussing our next moves—”
There came a knock on the door. Irritated, Clement called to Weston. “What is it?”
Muffled through the door, Weston’s voice answered, “A message for the Duke.” Clement’s father sighed, rubbing his forehead.
“Very well, let him in.”
A harried-looking courier pegasus entered, carrying a single scroll. He gave it to Clement’s father without a word, and bowed out hastily. The Duke was not known for his tolerance of interruptions.
Clement waited as his father scanned the document. His father’s eyes widened as he read, and finally he rolled up the scroll with a flick of magic and sent it to rest on his desk.
“That,” he said quietly, “was a message from one of our agents in the south. The bridge of Trellow has fallen. The griffons have entered Whitetail.”
Trying not to show his dismay, Clement said “Then… the Duchess?”
His father nodded. “Celerity is dead.” He walked to the window, looking out over his city. He breathed out slowly. “I am… not half as pleased as I’d expected.” The Duke frowned, deep in thought.
“Celerity is dead?” Clement’s face broke into a wide smile. From what his father had told him, the world was a better place without that unicorn in it. “Surely this is good news,” he ventured. “If Whitetail’s army has been defeated, then our own campaign in the north will go unopposed.”
“Yes, but… it seems the griffons are a larger threat than I had first anticipated.” His father walked back to his desk, still thinking.
“Well, if Duchess Belle is no more, then who leads the army of Whitetail?”
Duke Blueblood barked a hollow laugh. “Even I don’t know that, my son. Celerity has no family, no children. The inheritance of the Whitetail Duchy is a fiendishly complicated matter. Perhaps some first cousin or distant uncle of Celerity’s will grasp the reins—but the issue can wait until after the war. Celerity’s succession will no doubt be disputed for years, and right now we need to focus our efforts on the north. Come, look.” He had a map stretched out on his desk, spreading from Cloudsdale all the way north to the Jotur mountains.
On the map were the tiny flags that signified the presence of the armies of Equestria. There were only three colors of note: violet, for the small number of Whitetail forces still occupying Easthill; yellow, representing the Celestial army; and blue, for Norhart’s own forces. The Norhart army—his army, thought Clement—was not quite the largest. Celestia had a force of some twenty-six hundred troops stationed in Canterlot. The Firewings were no longer in the capital; in a stunning display of treachery they had abandoned the Princess and flown south a week ago.
Clement had been shocked and more than a little disappointed. He’d always looked up to the Firewings. They had been living legends, selfless heroes flying to defend Equestria and her Princess. Their betrayal felt like a personal violation of his trust. Still, he hoped he would not have to face his old heroes in battle.
Norhart’s army was nearly as numerous as the Princess’s, but they were much better trained and equipped. Clement was confident his two thousand troops could defeat any force that mustered against them in the north, even more so now that Duchess Belle’s army had been broken.
“We’ll need to move quickly if we want to take Norlund with a minimum of bloodshed,” his father was saying. “Helmfast’s troops arrived yesterday, but I don’t think we should wait for Count Greenway to send any of his forces. He’s too wary of the Whitetail troops stationed in Easthill to move any great number of soldiers away from his borders. Regardless, we have enough ponies to take the crossroads with little trouble.”
Clement was trying to stay involved, but his attention was waning. All this talk of strategies and tactics was of little interest to him. He preferred to think of battles, rather than maps. “Of course, father,” he nodded.
“I will need to adjust my plans for the developments in the south. We will speak again tomorrow, after you’ve taken your oaths.” He smiled again.
“I eagerly await your command, father,” said Clement before bowing and taking his leave. Weston greeted him at the door, and the two left for Clement’s own chambers.
“Help me get the armor off, would you?” As Weston moved to assist him, he sighed wistfully.
“Can you imagine it, Weston? Tomorrow I’ll be a real General, like one of the old warriors from the legends.”
“The Bluebloods have long been a valorous house, Lord Clement,” said his squire, unclasping Clement’s cape. His face was carefully neutral.
“Come, Weston, you seem struck with an ill humor. We should be rejoicing! Our greatest enemy is dead, and soon Norlund will be ours.”
“As you say, milord.” Weston unhooked the first of the armor’s belt straps. “But please, show some caution these next few weeks; for the soldiers’ sake if not your own.”
“You always advise caution.”
“And you have yet to listen, milord.” His squire gave a wry smile.
“Mind yourself, Weston,” said Clement coolly. Weston winced at the rebuke, and resumed his work in silence. Clement turned his thoughts to the morrow, smiling at the thought. Soon he would be a real knight, and he would lead his father’s troops—no, his troops—to victory in the east.
“Tomorrow, Weston, we ride for Norlund and glory! I fear I will not be able to sleep much tonight. The excitement is almost overwhelming.”
Weston shook his head to himself. “I’ve prepared you as best I can, milord, but I fear that nothing can truly make you ready for a battle like this. Just… stay safe, milord.”
“You worry too much, my friend.” Clement grinned. His beautiful armor was now completely off, lying in a pile on the floor. “If you would be so kind as to take that to the armory?”
“Of course, milord. Good night. I will wake you come morning.” His squire left the room, carrying the young lord’s armor. Clement lay down on his bed, his head filled with visions of charging into battle at the head of a great host of mighty destriers, like in the tales. Not since the Great War had there been a chance for glory such as this. He closed his eyes, sighing to himself in happiness. “Soon.”
