//------------------------------// // Winter // Story: Blueblood's War // by OTCPony //------------------------------// Icicles hung sharp and gleaming and snow lay thick on the crystal window panes when Shining Armor burst into the bedchamber. “They wouldn’t listen to me!” Cadence, Co-Princess of the Crystal Empire and recently appointed Commander, Imperial Legion, looked up from the maps she had strewn across the bed. Her husband was still in his greatcoat and snow still dusted his boots and hat. “Bad news from Neighcastle?” Shining Armor grunted and threw off his coat, treading snow into the carpet. Since their formal chambers had been almost totally consumed in the fire months ago, for the foreseeable future they were living in the Crystal Palace’s Dignitary’s Suite. “I told Celestia everything we needed to do to win. Everything we needed to do to stabilise the front and build up the army while we reconnoitre north. She wouldn’t have any of it. She wants Blueblood gone now.” Cadance grimaced. Disagree as she might with the decision, she knew there was no point preaching to the converted. “So we’re going in with not enough troops, with too little training?” “There’s all sorts of stupid plans being put out,” growled Shining Armor. “Celestia wants to keep Baltimare resupplied by sea. Luna wants to march on Chicacolt immediately. One idiot wants to try bombing Canterlot with airships to try to kill Blueblood!” “Bomb our own capital?!” asked Cadance incredulously. “Exactly what I thought,” muttered Shining Armor. “Worst of all, you’ll be going north unsupported.” If Ponland was the only thing the Crystal Ponies could talk about, then there was another word on the lips only a select few ponies, who spoke it only in whispers. North. After months and months of raids by Diamond Dogs coming out of the Crystal Mountains, things had come to a head when a raiding party had been discovered slaughtered in the Howling Pass, killed by weapons of unfathomable power. That very night, Cadance and Shining Armor had nearly been killed in their chambers by a creature thought mythical, and they had only survived by burning the entire room. Shining Armor’s face twitched as he remembered. He still saw the Fluffy Pony assassin in his dreams, the soulless blue eyes and the suffocating grip. It could not go on. Something was driving the Diamond Dogs south. Something had slaughtered that entire raiding party. Something had driven that assassin to attack them. They had to know what it was, so Cadance had raised the Imperial Legion. Slightly larger than a brigade, it was unlike any unit the Army had yet assembled. It had three battalions, two of line infantry and one of light infantry, and integral artillery and cavalry support with a battery of eight guns and a squadron of dragoons. The Crystal Empire would march in force against the Diamond Dogs, the Fluffy Ponies, and whatever else lay out there. But with troops being committed to operations against the Parliamentarians early, there was no guarantee that a substantial force could remain behind at the Crystal Empire for Cadance to fall back on if she was attacked. “I’m going north with nearly four thousand ponies,” said Cadance. “I’m not worried about attacks.” She pointed at the maps. “Amethyst Maresbury helped me dig these out of the Imperial Library. We’ll march in five company columns screened by the cavalry and light infantry. Once we’re through the Crystal Mountains, we’ll form a fortified cantonment at Mount Everhoof.” “None of these maps are under a thousand years old,” said Shining Armor. “The shape of the ground will have changed,” agreed Cadance. “But the general shape of valleys and mountains will still be there. We’re also bringing ten full teams from Equestrian General Survey with us. They’re out establishing a baseline now. Once we’re established at Mount Everhoof I’ll send them out on further missions while the Legion scouts the taiga.” Shining Armor nodded. The northern slopes of the Crystal Mountains descended into a relatively narrow strip of boreal forest that separated them from the Yak Range. The whole north beyond the Crystal Mountains was poorly charted. To the west, nestled in a deep gorge in the Yak Range’s foothills, was Yakyakistan, which nopony had visited for hundreds of years. Beyond the Yak Range was the tundra, where few had ever set hoof, and even fewer by passing through the mountains. Most went by ship, and the tundra was almost unknown beyond its frozen shores. “Will you risk the Yak Range?” he asked. “I’ll do what’s necessary for the Crystal Ponies,” said Cadance. “And you?” “I’m going to be supporting Luna’s march on Chicacolt,” said Shining Armor. “For that I need more troops. I’m going to withdraw the Maresaw Corps.” “We’re conceding Ponland?!” “We may have no other choice. Maresaw is close to boiling, and there may be no way of holding that city without resorting to a massacre. I’ll have Evenstar evacuate as many loyalists with him as possible and re-establish himself at Stalliongrad. From there we can guard the right bank of the Rein while Luna organises.” “Celestia won’t be happy,” warned Cadance. “Giving up more territory to Blueblood?” “Then she should have listened to me,” said Shining Armor bitterly. *** The Dockla Pass was one of the grimmest places Flash Sentry had ever seen. The narrow-gauge railway twisted its way through great dark hills soaked with rain and dusted with snow. The peaks seemed to crouch in ambush for the unwary traveller. It was a great relief when the lights of Maresaw came into view. Sentry had not been entirely certain he wouldn’t be ambushed. On the few short occasions when the rain had cleared he had seen them from his carriage window: sullen-looking Ponish hillponies from the surrounding villages lined the road that ran beside the railway, scowling at their uniforms. Sometimes a rock would be thrown, but mostly they just frowned. Sentry could see the threats in their eyes. They were three days passing through the Dockla, and the hills seemed to get steeper and more hellish by the hour. Though Sentry knew that these hills were nowhere near as challenging as the Unicorn Range or the Crystal Mountains, it still astonished him how an entire corps, with all its wagons and carts and guns and thousands of followers, could have come this way. The Maresaw Corps had established its cantonment on the east bank of the Bitula, the other side of the river to the city. Sentry wondered what that said his commanders’ confidence. After being checked through the gate, they were assigned tent lines, and Sentry made his way to the staff tent to deliver the despatches he was carrying from General Evenstar. “…the biggest damned idiot this side of the Rein!” an officer with Brigadier General’s insignia was thundering as he entered. “I don’t care what Crowned Chain thinks, Cotton, we both know that the country is hostile! And who have we got to sort it out? Evenstar, of all ponies!” The General suddenly frowned and seemed to finally noticed Sentry standing at attention at the door. “Yes?” “Captain Flash Sentry, sir, here with despatches from General Evenstar.” “Sentry!” he barked. “The Hero of Tailwald Wood? Well, take a seat, Captain! You must have had a long journey. Here, pour him a glass, Cotton.” Sentry found a glass of red wine forced into his hoof by another officer sitting behind the campaign desk. Both were Crystal Pony stallions, and their rumpled uniforms and the dark circles under their eyes spoke of long hours and stressful, sleepless nights. “I’m Brigadier General Strong Safe,” continued the first stallion. “This is Brigadier General Willowy Cotton. He’ll be Evie’s second-in-command when he gets here.” Cotton took the papers Sentry was holding and dropped them into a towering in-tray. “We were just discussing the situation, Captain,” he said in a tired voice. “Since you’ll be on Evenstar’s staff, you might as well hear it.” “He will indeed!” barked Safe. “As I was saying, regardless of what the Commissioner thinks, we have to treat the country as hostile. Every patrol we send over the river makes more and more Ponish think that we’re an occupying force and only gives credence to Ponyatowski’s arguments. We have a single supply line running through some of the worst country in Equestria, and the only reason it’s staying open is because the Empire’s subsidies are buying off the hillponies! And now Chain wants to cut them?! What then? We’d have to surrender, all five thousand of us! Armor would hit the roof, to say nothing of Celestia!” Flash Sentry stiffened in his chair. This was depressing stuff. He’d had no idea that it was this bad. “But… could we not hold the camp, sir? Five thousand Crystal Pony soldiers versus Ponish irregulars?” “Politics, Captain,” said Cotton sadly. “We’re in a bad position here, with the hills to our back. We only have the room to stockpile a week’s worth of supplies. We should really be in the city, but we have no mandate to pre-empt Ponland seceding. Our orders our only to hold Imperial Ponland, and that’s hard enough, and hope that our presence here puts the Ponish off doing something stupid.” “Fat chance of that with Chain in charge,” snarled Safe. “If the Dockla Pass is closed, that’ll be the trigger Ponyatowski needs to raise the rest of Ponland.” A guard pushed through the flap of the tent. “The Ponish Commissioner to see you, sir.” “The Imperial Idiot himself,” muttered Safe. The three of them stood. Into the tent came a middle-aged Crystal Pony stallion. Sentry despised him on sight. He had a sharply-pointed face whose nose he kept turned up, and peered suspiciously through his spectacles with narrow eyes. Completing the image of contemptibility was the frock coat and high hat he insisted on wearing in a military camp. “Commissioner,” said Safe, with barely-concealed distaste. “We were just discussing your proposal regarding the hillponies.” “I would hope you would concern yourself more with the military situation, General,” sniffed Crowned Chain officiously. “I am more than able to deal with the Ponish.” “With respect, sir,” said Cotton, in a tone that suggested anything but. “Our ability to conduct operations is dependent on that pass staying open. If you cut the subsidy…” “As their Commissioner on the Crystal Council, I daresay I understand the Ponish better than any pony here,” huffed Crowned Chain. “The pass will stay open, and I have confidence in your ability to deal with anything unexpected. It will all be all right.” *** The Applewood Hills formed the southern border of the State of Braytain. As they went west to the Ghastly Gorge that separated them from the Macintosh Hills, they rose to forbidding craggy heights, dark with heather and gorse, and dusted white with the winter snows. To the east, where they rose above the great coastal city of Las Pegasus, though they were no less steep, here they were pleasant and grassy, and their immaculate terraces were a virtual who’s who of wealth and privilege. The villas of successful bankers and industrialists shared lanes with the manses of film stars and pop singers, who made the hills their home while they commuted to and from the nearby Applewood Studios. At this time of year, many of the mansions were dark: though sheltered by Windy Hook, the winter winds coming off the Eirenic Ocean chilled the bones of everypony in Las Pegasus, and the hills got the worst of it. In any case, most of the owners were currently trapped in Canterlot. One of villas was still inhabited, though: only two of the rooms were lit, for its owner had only his wife with him and he had been forced to pay off his staff. The summer villa, once beautifully maintained, was beginning to show signs of neglect and disrepair, and the once-glorious garden which had hosted the greatest of the great and the good at summer parties was being given over to weeds and uncut grass. Tucked away in the back of the garden against the terrace was a wooden shed that held an air yacht named Triumph. A few months ago the owner of that yacht, which now seemed grotesquely ill-named, had sailed it down here from Canterlot without fanfare, stored it in that shed, and felt that he would never look at it again. This was where Fancypants had determined that he would live out his exile. A year ago he had been the mightiest of industrialists; wealthy, respected, and a model for Equestria’s capitalists. Government ministers had been at his beck and call. Then in a day it had all turned to dust, atomised in a catastrophic explosion at one of his mines that had killed hundreds. He had been forced to beg the Treasury for a bailout and surrender what remained of his company to the government. Tens of thousands of the ex-soldiers he’d planned to employ had been left without hope of work, and the only reason that his name was not now spoken without a spit was that most of them were now back in the army, his shame and failure lost in the shock of Blueblood’s coup. The whole place was in poor repair, Fleur de Lis thought as she made her way to the sitting room. The garden was unraked and choked with rotting leaves. Dust covered the furnishings. But worst of all was the state her husband was in. Since they had arrived with what little remained of their personnel belongings, Fancypants had barely spoke, barely ate, and when he came to bed it was in silence and long after she had retired. He sat alone in the dark sitting room, his mane unkempt and his hollow cheeks covered with several days of stubble, his eyes unfocused. But there was something different about him today. Since their wordless breakfast that morning he had been staring intently at the same page of a newspaper, his jaw working slowly, as if he was trying to make his mind up about something. “Fancy,” said Fleur quietly. Fancypants suddenly lurched to his hooves. “I’m joining the navy!” Fleur blinked in disbelief. “The what?” Fancypants brandished the newspaper at her. There was an inflamed look in his eyes. “Look!” Fleur took the paper. It was open at a full-page advertising spread: By order of Their Highnesses The Princesses, PONIES AND SHIPS WANTED FOR A NAVY! All able-bodied sailors are requested to make themselves and their airships available for military service in order to swiftly end the current state of insurrection. Report to recruiting officers at your nearest port. JOIN THE ROYAL EQUESTRIAN NAVY! LONG LIVE EQUESTRIA! Fleur lowered the paper and stared at him in disbelief. “You’re going to the war?! What possible use could we be?!” “We have the Triumph!” said Fancypants, still animated. “She’s fast, doesn’t need much of a crew. I bet they could do a few things with her! Can’t say I ever liked Blueblood either. Didn’t think he was clever enough to commit treason, mind you, but I suppose it’s always the ones you least expect. Wouldn’t mind sticking it to him a little…” “Fancy, you could die!” protested Fleur. “Fleur, what’s the alternative?” sighed Fancypants. “Blueblood was able to justify his coup because of the mess I created. I can either stay in this house for the rest of my life, or I can take responsibility for that and help get rid of him!” “You did take responsibility for it! You got rid of your business, your fortune, the house, everything!” “It’s not enough,” growled Fancypants. “Maybe if there hadn’t been a war it would have been, but there is. I’ve always done my duty to Equestria, and this is it. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able to redeem myself as well.” *** Colonel Morning Star shivered beneath his greatcoat as the first snow of the evening billowed around them. Everypony at the Asshaye camp had come to dread the snow. In front of him were a group of sheepish-looking officers, none of whom dared meet his eyes. Behind them was their battalion, formed up in column, nearly a thousand ponies with numb hooves and mud splashed up their trousers. Morning Star had been taking their battalion through manoeuvres, and they had seemed promising, right up until he had marched them into square and had found that no matter how many orders he gave, he could not get them out again. In the end he had resorted to going between companies and pointing their officers in the right direction so he could get them moving again. That had taken nearly an hour. “Gentlestallions,” he said. “There is clearly something wanting here. When you return to your billets, I strongly advise you to read the Principles of Military Movement! Dismissed!” The officers hurried back to their battalion, turned it about and marched back towards the camp. Morning Star stayed behind. Pulling his greatcoat tighter around him, he turned and surveyed the darkening valley. Asshaye sat in a narrow, treeless valley between the forested bulk of the White Tail Uplands to the north and the foothills of the Central Massif to the south, crowned by the Everfree Forest. The valley itself was low and swampy, a complex collection of streams and islets where the River Saddle split and the Wither River snaked off south. The only way through was along a single broad causeway along which the road and railway ran, framed by two streams. Morning Star had spent day after day staring at this valley. With Princess Twilight and Warding Ember not due back from Neighcastle until that night, he had become responsible for all offensive and defensive plans. Defending the pass would be easy: he’d line up his guns and infantry regiments on the causeway, with his cavalry beyond the two streams to protect the flanks. Assaulting such a good defensive position would be much harder. Doctrine called for the infantry to probe for weaknesses in the enemy line then smash through the weak spot in echelon, but there would be no such weaknesses here. If it were him he might attack with cavalry first to force the defenders into squares, then blast them apart with artillery and finish them off with the infantry. And how to defend against such an attack? He would need to neutralise the enemy’s guns quickly and keep a strong cavalry reserve to head off the charges. A strong cavalry reserve that he did not necessarily have. The flurries of snow around him grew thicker. Morning Star shivered and turned away. The battalion had left a great trail of churned mud behind them, which soaked Morning Star’s boots as he followed it back to the camp. It was a hateful time of year. The first snowfall a few days ago had been greeted with a spontaneous night-time snowball fight, which Morning Star had allowed. But the next morning they had found that the snow would not last and would melt before noon. A few days of that had reduced the ground to sludge, soaked the floors of tents, turned the camp paths to quagmires, and made it almost impossible to stay dry. The sticky, sucking mud only got worse as he passed through the palisades and back into the camp. Thousands of hooves, boots and wheels reduced the camp’s roads to slurry each day, and every night they froze hard, leaving them rutted and treacherous the next morning and ready to trap hooves or break axles before they melted again. After two days of that, Morning Star had had enough. He’d set every regiment a strict schedule, and now the camp was alive with the sounds of axes, saws and hammers. Half the battalions would drill in the morning by companies, while Morning Star took a battalion out of the camp to train as a single unit, and the other half would fell trees and split logs. After lunch they’d switch, and now most of the camp’s tents had been replaced by warm, dry log huts, and the muddy paths by corduroy roads. They were still only half done though, Morning Star thought grimly, and many of them would have another cold, wet night, including him and the staff in the headquarters tent, which he had insisted would come down last. A Lieutenant in the uniform of the Royal Cloudsdale Greys suddenly splashed down in front of him. Her cavalry trousers were streaked with mud and her red jacket spotted with sawdust. Morning Star smiled at the sight. The best officers never exempted themselves from fatigue duty. “At ease, Lieutenant. Rainbow Dash, isn’t it?” “Yes, sir. There’s an officer at the gate insisting she speak with the pony in charge.” Morning Star’s smile vanished. “And you came all the way to me?” Rainbow Dash grimaced. “It’s Brigadier General Firebolt. Colonel Spitfire wasn’t good enough for her. She insisted, sir.” “With me,” Star ordered, striding towards the west gate. Though he had never met Firebolt, nothing he had heard about her gave him a good impression: she had infamously nearly lost both the Battle of Maneden and the Battle of the Kelpie Creek for the Royal Army, and that she was now flagrantly going around the chain of command to summon him did nothing to improve his opinion. Star’s mood was not improved by the sight that met him at the palisade. He had expect a haughty General and her entourage of clucking staff officers. What he got was that, and behind them, an entire regiment of Hussars in column. Above them fluttered a white guidon bearing a harp and crown. Morning Star felt his heart sink. If any mix-up could happen to anypony, it would be with this officer, with this regiment: the 9th (Whinnyapolis) Hussars was the only regiment in the entire army not to have won a battle honour for the Changeling War, largely thanks to its inept handling by Brigadier General Firebolt. Bizarrely, their collective dishonour seemed to have only bound them closer to their bungling commander. Firebolt stood before them. She was an attractive mare, Morning Star couldn’t help but think, with a golden coat and a curly black mane, but hers was an arrogant, patrician’s beauty that spoke of inherited wealth and several easy purchases of rank. “Colonel Morning Star,” she barked. “I was told that you command here. Where is General Ember?” “General Ember was at the Neighcastle Conference, ma’am. He and Princess Twilight won’t be back until tonight.” Morning Star desperately hoped that he could get this regiment out of the wat before he got back. “Princess Twilight?” A strange expression suddenly passed over Firebolt’s face. “Ah, well, my troops will need quartering.” Behind her, Firebolt’s officers suddenly exchanged worried glances. Morning Star frowned. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but there’s clearly been a mix-up somewhere. You should be with the Army of Horsetria. I’ll see what I can do for tonight, but…” But what? he thought. Send them on their way? An entire regiment? How many trains would that take, when the Army of Braytain’s logistics were already hanging by a thread, and the worst of the snow not yet even on the way? But his camp only had the capacity for ten thousand troops, and to add another unit on top of that… Then Morning Star saw that sweat was beading on Firebolt’s forehead, despite the cold. Her jaw was working silently, as if she was trying to make her mind up about something. And then he noticed that Firebolt’s staff were reaching for their swords, and that her regiment had its spears unslung. “Ma’am, what…” “PRESENT!” screamed Firebolt. Morning Star didn’t hear Firebolt give the command to fire. He only felt Rainbow Dash crashing into him to throw him to the ground. A fusillade of shots seared over them into the palisades. He heard the sentries screaming. Hundreds of Pegasi thundered over them, and above the buzz of wings Morning Star heard more screaming. After what seemed like an eternity the air cleared, and he stared up again at a darkening sky, thick with massing clouds and billowing snow. His side aching from where he had landed, his uniform more brown than red, Morning Star struggled to his hooves and helped Rainbow Dash up. Beyond the camp he could see a thin streak of red disappearing up Ponydale. Before him was a dropped white guidon, trampled into the mud. And behind that was his camp, in chaos, filled with screaming ponies clutching sword wounds, soldiers struggling to get out of tents that had been slashed down, sections trying to douse the blazes caused by cookfires that had been kicked over. Cursing, Star hobbled into the camp. He might be filthy and in pain, but he had duties. He had to restore order. He had to get the injured to the medics. And then he would have to work out how he could take his revenge. On a mare called Firebolt.