The sergeant peered over the edge of the embankment. He pointed a long, spindley hoof at the largest of several dozen shell craters. “That one there. There’s a skull at the bottom.”

Springa followed his gaze, willing her head to shrink into her helmet until there was no exposed flesh left. There were still snipers hiding on the other side of the embankment. Based on the number of ponies getting dragged out of this section of trench every day, she concluded that they were very good shots.

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