61. Welcome Back
Rye recognized the dream. He’d had it countless times in the last few months. There were new details—he’d never seen the flying fortress before—but the city burned just like it always did. He waited for the dream to collapse; for black fog to swallow him up, or the skeletons of murdered ponies to rise from the ground, or his mother’s charred body to fall from the sky, and bring the nightmare to its usual end.
Beside him, Cranberry was staring at the inferno, tears flowing down her face. Her lips moved silently, mouthing a single word. Home.
At last, it hit him like an avalanche. The dream was over. Reality had become the nightmare. And it would never end.
He sank to his haunches on the grass, tilting to the side with numb despair. The red sky spoke of death and ruin on an unimaginable scale. He felt the weight of it press down on him. It was as though he were suffocating.
Suddenly, Cranberry screamed, and began galloping forward. Rye instantly jerked out of his catatonia and leaped to his hooves, racing after her.
He tackled her, and the two of them fell to the ground. Cranberry, sobbing, tried to crawl forward. “They’re burning it!”
“Cranberry!” Rye held tightly. “Cranberry!”
She struggled, still crying. “We’re too late.”
“No!” Rye looked up to the vast army of Nordponies that had left the two of them behind. The army now marched in the distance before them, headed for the battle already in progress. “Cranberry, stop!”
“We should be fighting, too. They’re burning our home!”
“Dammit, Cranberry!” Beneath him, she twisted, and he lost his grip. She was off again, charging toward the chaos.
He gave chase. Cranberry had longer legs, but Rye was a faster runner. He caught her again, and they rolled in the grass. She tried to push him away, shoving her hooves against his chest.
“Cranberry, have you lost it? You want to get killed?”
“Our home’s on fire, and we’re just sitting here!” she screamed. “Inger’s out there! What if he gets hurt? What if—” She choked.
Rye held tighter, trying to stop her kicks. “Neither of us are warriors, Cranberry! If we go in there, we’ll both die, you know that!”
Her hoof connected with his face, knocking him off. He fell backward, stunned. He lifted a hoof to feel his nose, and it came away bloody.
Cranberry’s face appeared overhead, a hoof over her mouth. “Rye! I’m—I’m sorry…”
Rye sat up, wiping away the nosebleed. His shoulders heaved from the exertion of the brief chase. He looked up at her, his eyes filled with pain. “I want to be with them too, Cranberry. But we can’t help them, now. We’ve done what we can. All we can do.”
She sat beside him, slumping. “What if it’s not enough?”
He stared out at the burning city that had been their home for their entire lives, trying to find the words to answer her. He could not.
* * *
Inger had never seen a battle like this. Trottingham had been a tiny skirmish compared to the giant maelstrom of fighting that lay before the army of Nordponies. Their lines stood long and deep, the banners of a hundred minor lords and the forty thanes flying high above the warriors. Beside him, King Eberhardt watched the battle with a keen eye, seeking the place where the griffons were weakest.
At last, the king raised a hoof, and the horn of Saddlestead blew. It was joined by all the others at once, a deafening roar. Eberhardt drew his sword and held it high. The red sunlight glinted off of the steel. Eberhardt swept it down, pointing straight toward the griffons. The army charged.
It was exhilarating. Inger had never been part of a unit this large before, never been one of so many soldiers moving with a single purpose. For one brief, blissful moment, he forgot about Canterlot, about the fires, about the loss of his comrades and his fears for a beautiful pink mare, and the rush of adrenaline swept through him like electricity.
Ahead, the griffons turned to meet this new foe. The forces of Equestria had been bogged down on the east side of the field, their charge stalled and dispersed. Those now on the west reformed their lines, presenting a forest of pikes to the oncoming Nordponies.
Grypha was a hard land, filled with burning sand and little else. Her soldiers were equally hard, raised on blood and nursed on steel, drafted from the age of eighteen until the age of forty. They were mighty soldiers, born and bred to wage war, with six hundred years of history at their backs. Every day, they fought to live.
The Nordponies had been warriors for millennia before the first griffon held a sword. They lived to fight.
They met the griffons like fire meeting butter. Axes, hammers, hooves, and swords sliced through the griffons as their charge carried them forward, breaking the line of pikes like a child’s plaything. The south and the north collided, and the north pushed through.
Inger’s armor was soon stained with blood, his hooves aching wonderfully from the crushing blows he delivered to the invaders. Caught up in the momentum of the moment, he roared a battle-cry, pushing forward with the king into the heart of the griffons.
Eberhardt was like a wraith. His sword flashed everywhere at once, taking life like a scythe harvesting wheat. Griffons fell before him, their claws and heads removed by the gleaming blade. The king of the north had descended on them like a lightning bolt, and there was no escape.
The glorious thrill of battle surged through Inger’s veins like a drug, the energy of the ponies around him creating a feedback loop of violence and bloodlust. The visceral fighting punched forward, as they tore into the griffons. Some part of his mind warned him not to let it overwhelm him, lest he be lost in it forever, but with every griffon he felled, the warning grew fainter. A manic smile crept onto his face.
* * *
As Shrikefeather abandoned the crippled soldier, his mind whirled. What was this new force? The Equestrians in the far west, coming to aid the capital? Some hidden reserve of Canterlot’s own troops? Every military force in the country had been accounted for, their positions known to the kilometer, their every movement tracked. No Equestrian troops could have possibly snuck up on him like this.
His eyes widened as he took in the banners that flew from the onrushing army below. A great raven, a pair of elk horns, and a writhing serpent led the charge. For the first time in many decades, Shrikefeather’s spine chilled. This was not in the plan.
The Nordponies tore into his troops like rabid dogs, ripping them to shreds in moments. He watched in dismay as his formations broke, his griffons fled, and his plans began to slip away before him. Everything he’d worked for, all his efforts, tumbling into the first stages of collapse right in front of his eyes.
They had been no threat, it had been agreed. The thanes were too busy fighting each other to trouble with their southern neighbors. Many scouts had been sent to confirm this before the invasion planning could begin in earnest. How could they have resolved their differences in a mere four months? It was impossible.
A deep, rumbling roar rose above the din of battle. Shrikefeather’s fears vanished in an instant. A smile curled on his beak. The battle was not lost yet.
* * *
Rye felt hope spring in his heart for the first time since Eberhardt’s coronation. “They’re doing it, Cranberry. They’re breaking through.”
Cranberry was watching with her hooves pressed against her mouth. “Do… can you see gold?”
“Not from here.” Rye felt a wary smile on his face. “It’s working. The Nordponies are ripping them apart." All their sacrifices, all their trials, had been worth it in the end. Their home was going to survive.
A terrifying roar shook the world. Cranberry squeaked, her eyes going wide as dinner plates. Rye looked up above the castle, staring over the mountains, and then he saw it. A giant, red dragon, like a nightmare from his old bedtime stories, its ruby scales reflecting the already-crimson light like sparkling water.
The dragon soared over the peaks, descending on the castle. It lowered its head and fire poured out like a river through the battlements and towers. Giant clouds of steam from the boiling rivers shot up in white puffs. Leaving it to burn, the dragon continued on, streaking out over the city and into the air above the battlefield.
“MORTALS!”
Rye and Cranberry covered their ears, wincing as the dragon’s voice boomed.
“YOUR GOD IS DEAD. I HAVE CAST HER DOWN AND WRIT HER RUIN IN THE BONES OF THE EARTH, AS I SHALL WRITE YOURS. TREMBLE, BEFORE YOU DIE.”
He came flying down onto the army of Nordponies, unleashing blasts of fire large enough to consume dozens of ponies at once. Rye and Cranberry stared in horror as the dragon circled above, breathing indiscriminate death down upon his foes.
“It’s done,” whispered Cranberry. “We lost.”
Rye looked up at the titanic creature above them, and his eyes narrowed. He stood. “Not yet.”
Cranberry looked at him despondently. “What can we do against a dragon, Rye?”
“Not us.” Rye grabbed her hoof and pulled her up. “Come on. We have to get down there.”
“But you said—”
“We can’t fight the griffons.” Rye looked into her eyes, trying to kindle hope in them again. “But we can help stop the dragon.”
“How?”
“We have to find Eberhardt.” Rye looked back to the chaos of the battle, and swallowed. “The hammer-bearer’s task must be completed.”
Cranberry slowly nodded. “Then let’s hurry.”
* * *
Shrikefeather did not believe in destiny, but the timing of Merys’s arrival was unnervingly opportune. His momentary panic released in a laugh, as he watched the dragon tear into the Nordponies, wreaking absolute havoc on their forces. Once again, the day was turning in his favor. Only one thing remained.
“SHRIKEFEATHER!”
He turned in the air to see a wedge of golden blurs streaking toward him. Instantly, he folded his wings against his side, plummeting like a rock.
The Firewings soared overhead, missing him by a bare meter. His wings unfurled again, and he rose behind them. There were eleven pegasi, too many for even him to fight at once. He snarled in irritation.
His wings beat the air, and he whipped around to head for the floating fortress hovering above Canterlot. In Cloudsdale, he could even the odds. The pegasi pursued, but though they were fast, he was faster.
Save for one. A single pegasus with a mane of fire stayed on his tail, closing the gap inch after inch.
They flew through the red light, racing away over the chaos below them. Shrikefeather’s wings strained, but every time he risked a glance over his shoulder he saw the pegasi still on his tail. The air whipped past him, and the thrill of combat flying began to sink in. It had been far too long since he had felt it.
Cloudsdale loomed, and the general pushed for the clouds. He flew down, skimming one of the city’s rivers, rolling over onto his back. He grinned at his pursuers. Come, General; let us see how well you fly.
He took off into the city, and the pegasi followed. He swerved around towers of cloud and pillars of marble, threading through loops of cumulus and dark black whorls of nimbus, leading them on a dangerous chase.
The Firewings were good. They stayed on him through every twist and turn, avoiding the dangerous storm clouds and the tight curves that could send a flier into an uncontrolled spin. But one griffon could go where eleven ponies could not.
He tucked himself in and dived through a tiny gap in the clouds below. He emerged above the burning ruins of Canterlot, followed by a mere pair of Firewings; the others had hesitated to fly through the miniscule hole. He whirled to face them, disappointed to see that neither was the foe he wanted.
The two flew at him, hooves locked forward to attack. The general met them, flying straight into their hooves. He grabbed one with each claw and swung himself forward, letting the force of their blows carry him with them. His hind legs whipped up, the lions’ claws on both of them slashing into the Firewings’ unarmored bellies. He heard them cry out in pain, and released their hooves. They fell down toward the fires below.
The rest of the Firewings shot out of the hole, now in tight single-file formation. Nine was still too many. The general led them on, curving through the space between cities, a deadly parade of black feathers and golden steel soaring over fire and under clouds.
At last they reached the edge of Cloudsdale. The river of rainbow lay directly ahead, pouring over the side of the city. Shrikefeather headed straight for it. He splashed through, immediately whirling and raising a claw in preparation.
The first of the Firewings to follow him through was not his prey, but the claw slashed out regardless, and the pegasus’s throat vanished in a flash of blood. The pony fell away as the others rocketed through the rainbow-fall. Shrikefeather flew up, his eight pursuers staying tight on him.
They swerved through the city streets, dodging clouds and waterfalls. Slowly but surely, he led them into the industrial district.
As they passed the cloud foundry, the general turned his course to head directly toward it. He pulled in his wings and went into a steep dive, rolling out of it with flair just before he crashed into the cloud. He soared through one of the foundry’s shattered windows, still unrepaired from his conquest of the city. He swept into the building and disappeared from the Firewings’ sight.
Inside, the only illumination was the dim red sunlight that filtered through the ruined windows. Great vats filled with boiling water lined the foundry walls, the air filled with a hazy steam. The vats were giant, upside-down bell-shaped things, with huge bellows at their bases to breathe life into the fires. Shrikefeather disappeared into the machinery, flatting himself against one of the great vats and listening.
The sound of wings entered the foundry. A hard, cold voice called out. He might have mistaken it for his own, were it not female.
“Spread out in pairs. If you see him, yell first; don’t attack without backup. Start at the south end, we’ll flush him to the edge.”
Shrikefeather’s predatory smile grew. A pragmatist. How refreshing. He looked down at the gash in his armor, his beak curling. It seemed General Firemane would prove more of a challenge than her young commander.
He looked around for tools, distractions, anything he could use. The opportunity presented itself in the form of the cloud-vat bellows. He pressed down hard on the nearest one, releasing a blast of steam into the air.
“Over there! Yenna, Percival, swing right. Wheatie, you’re with me. The rest of you, into the air.”
Two golden-clad ponies appeared to his left, their images wavering in the steam. He was on them in moments, his claws slashing across the first unfortunate Firewing’s face. His second strike was blocked by the other Firewing’s helmet, as the pony charged against him. Shrikefeather dodged, and the mare collided with the cloud-vat, sending up a deep ringing that echoed throughout the foundry.
Shrikefeather backpedaled, sweeping behind another vat. He hit the next set of bellows, listening to the hisssssss! as the steam rose. The air was foggy and thick, stained red with the faint sunlight. He faded away, hidden from the ponies’ vision.
Above him, a pegasus landed on the rim of the vat, peering down into the haze. Shrikefeather grasped the bellows with both claws and pushed them down. The vat hissed, and a cloud of boiling vapor enveloped the Firewing. The pegasus cried out and fell, hitting the floor of the foundry with a hard ringing of metal. By the time two other Firewings arrived, Shrikefeather had already vanished like a wraith.
“Dusky’s dead, General!” called one of the pegasi, mournfully.
The general smiled. Only five to go. Then he would be alone with Firemane.
“That’s it. I’m not losing any more pegasi in here. Everypony, pull out.”
He listened with disappointment. He’d hoped she would not prove so timid. But then, “We’ll burn the building down, with him inside.”
“But Cap—General, this is the cloud foundry! Without it, we’ll never get the weather back to normal; not in our lifetimes!”
“I don’t give a damn, Wheatie.” Firemane’s voice was filled with a hatred that impressed Shrikefeather. “We have to kill him. Nothing else matters.”
I see I did not underestimate you, Firemane. Shrikefeather smiled. As eager as he was to see if she would carry through, he had future plans for this foundry. It would not do to let them torch it.
He burst from his hiding place, exploding out of the steam clouds toward the group of pegasi. He was on them in the blink of an eye, his talons flashing. Another pegasus collapsed, his throat a gory mess. Shrikefeather carried on past them, and alighted on the bare frame of one of the windows, looking down at the five remaining pegasi. He laughed. “You need to have a talk with your armor designers, Equestrians. Your necks make such welcoming targets.”
They flew for him, and he let them come. The first pegasus slammed into him, and they tumbled from the window.
The stallion was white, with a brown-speckled coat. He looked young for a Firewing, but he fought fiercely. Shrikefeather made to slash at his exposed flesh, but the pegasus smashed a hoof against his helmet, jarring him aside. The two fell, locked together, Shrikefeather trying to get a solid grip on the Firewing’s armor. At last his talons grasped the crown of the pegasus’s helmet. Shrikefeather swung around, pulling with all his might. He would garrote the pony with his own helmet’s chinstrap.
The Firewing gasped for air, his wings fluttering helplessly as they fell. Then, suddenly, he slipped away, vanishing from beneath the griffon. The strap had been poorly fit. Shrikefeather was left holding an empty helmet. The stallion crashed into him from the side, and Shrikefeather dropped it.
His claws slashed at the pegasus’s face, but the stallion ducked the blow. Shrikefeather snarled, and slammed his head forward, bashing against the pony’s. Stunned, the Firewing fell backwards.
There was no time to finish him off. Shrikefeather glanced up to see the others streaking down toward him like golden lightning.
Firemane shouted orders over the wind. “Sprinkle, see to Wheatie! The rest of you, with me!” The pegasus he’d wounded earlier in the foundry split off unsteadily to follow the stallion.
Shrikefeather decided he’d stayed in Cloudsdale long enough. It was time to give the general the tour of her home. Or what was left of it.
He soared down for the ruins of Canterlot, with the Firewings in hot pursuit.
* * *
The rock and snow were suffocating. The light was gone, somewhere in a distant, half-forgotten world. Celestia was drowning in the darkness.
It was not a new sensation. She had been drowning for centuries, foundering in the waters of guilt and heartbreak, struggling to keep her head above the waves. All her rage was gone, her fury spent, her wrath quenched by the cold truths the dragon had spoken.
She had failed in every possible respect. She had failed in her duty as guardian of the sun and her stewardship of the moon, failed as the leader of the government of the ponies, failed as the last warrior of the gods. And she had failed, utterly, as a sister.
But as she lay buried in the earth, she realized the truth. She had let her failures dominate her life, binding her with the fear of similar failings, fear of feeling the same guilt she had carried for three hundred years. And she realized how foolish that notion was. She would carry that guilt for the rest of her life, no matter what else she did; it was pointless to try to avoid it.
She had tried absolving herself through diplomacy, through mercy, and at last, through fire, and nothing had worked. The moon still stared down at her with baleful eyes, night after night, and it always would. Maybe… Maybe she should do the one thing she had never been able to do. The hardest act of her life, a painful, sad, pitiful thing. And yet, she began to see, it might be her only salvation.
Lunalevanah, my sister… I am sorry. I have wronged you. But… I can no longer dwell. The ponies of Equestria need me, and I have abandoned them. It’s time for me to return. I cannot do that with your memory haunting my steps. I’m sorry, my sister. It’s time to let go.
Celestia closed her eyes, sighed… and at long last, forgave herself.
The guilt slowly fell away, like heavy weights dropping from her chest. The memories of her sister faded away; not forgotten, but dimming like candles in the night, to join the rest of her history. She felt unshackled from her burden at last, free to live once more, to do her duty to her ponies.
But she could not help them here. Celestia’s horn glowed in the darkness. The earth began to move; slowly, quietly, but moving still. Above, the world waited.
* * *
They flew through the streets of Canterlot like fiery canyons, dodging the collapsing buildings and the flames below. Only two Firewings remained on his tail, the others that had pursued from Cloudsdale had been crushed beneath a falling tower when he led them along the wall. He bobbed and weaved, taking them on a dangerous route through the wreckage. Shrikefeather’s wings were getting tired. It was time to bring the chase to an end.
He abruptly turned in the air, as the two Firewings came flying in. He lashed out with his tail, catching the stallion in the face; the pegasus went careening off course. Firemane slammed into him, her hooves crashing against his armor like hammers. He wrapped his legs around her, pulling her tightly against him and trapping her dangerous hooves. He sliced a talon up under her chin, neatly severing the strap that secured her helmet.
“Come, general,” he growled, “Let’s see that mane of yours!”
Her helmet fell away, revealing her flying, flaming hair. Her face was half-covered by a ruinous burn scar, but her brown eyes were filled with a hatred unlike anything he’d ever seen before. She snarled and used the only weapon she had available, biting deeply into his claw.
Shrikefeather hissed and released her, and she spun away. He spared a momentary glance after the other Firewing, only to see that the pegasus had crashed into a building and now lay comatose in the streets. At last, she’s all alone.
With a roar, he flew after the pegasus general, baring his bleeding claws before him. A look of dismay crossed her face, and her wings beat hard as she evaded his attack.
Now the hunted had become the hunter, and Shrikefeather pursued the pony through the air. She flew north, headed for the castle above the city. He could see the flames from the dragon’s attack still burning in the golden spires and the towers. A sneer of triumph locked itself on his face. It was a fitting place to end this war.
They reached the castle as one, soaring into the raging inferno. Shrikefeather followed her red and yellow mane, feeling his victory close at hand. Before them, a vast sheet of colored glass loomed from the fire. The pegasus screeched to a halt, looking desperately around for an avenue of escape.
Shrikefeather smashed into her, and the two of them crashed into the glass.
* * *
Rye and Cranberry were surrounded by horrors. Bodies lay everywhere, surrounded by streaks of burning grass and splinters of wood. Above, the dragon breathed down indiscriminate death, roasting Nordponies with every exhalation.
They pushed on through the battle, ignored by both sides. Griffons and ponies clashed around them, fighting bitterly to the death, their weapons flashing and slashing as they died. They carried on, desperately searching for a sword-wielding pony with stark blue eyes.
The Equestrians ran through the mêlée, seeking out the largest area of battle, knowing that was where they would find Eberhardt. Ahead, the giant red dragon swooped down, raking his massive claws through the ranks of the ponies. The two of them skidded to a halt, watching with wide eyes.
“That thing’s huge,” said Cranberry, staring.
“Come on, Eberhardt’s got to be near the front, somewhere.” Rye led her on again, and they moved deeper into the battle. Sweat poured down his neck. He doubted even their Aurelisk scales would protect them from a blast of dragonfire.
But the more immediate danger was the weapons of the griffons. A trio of feathered warriors appeared before them, shrieking. Rye and Cranberry backpedaled, fleeing from their blades. Rye tripped over the body of another griffon, hitting the ground hard. He looked up in panic as the griffons descended.
A Nordpony flashed in from the side, sweeping his weapon and cleaving through the neck of one of the griffons. The sword was covered in blood, but not as much as the pony’s face and armor. He leapt on the other two, bringing his weapon down through the second’s shoulder and slicing one of its wings clean off. The third fled, but the Nordpony was faster, and it soon joined its brothers.
Eberhardt, for so it was, turned to them, panting. He shifted his sword to the edge of his mouth, and snarled angrily. “What are you doing here? We agreed, you were to wait behind!”
Rye stood, shaking. “How goes the battle, King Eberhardt?”
“We’re losing,” said the king brusquely, striding up to them. “The griffons are falling before us like autumn leaves, but that dragon is ripping us to pieces.” The great beast soared overhead, and the three of them ducked.
“Eberhardt, you have to use the hammer!” Cranberry’s eyes were wide and terrified. “It’s our only chance.”
“No,” said the king, slowly. He looked at Rye, who nodded solemnly. “You made me king, hammer-bearer. And a king, I can be. But I was never the one to wield the Hrafnhamarr.”
Rye knew how difficult it must have been to admit that, but he simply blinked acknowledgement. Beside him, Cranberry looked stunned. “But Eberhardt… you’re the bravest warrior in Sleipnord! Who else is there?”
Rye supposed he should have seen it back in the north. It seemed obvious in retrospect. But he’d been so focused on getting the Nordponies to help that the thought had never even crossed his mind that the hammer-wielder might not be one of them at all. He looked at Cranberry. “The hammer was never meant to be the symbol of the kings of Sleipnord. It was forged six thousand years ago for one purpose—to kill those.” He pointed up to the giant dragon in the sky.
Eberhardt unhooked the hammer from his side, and presented it to Rye. With a bow of his head, Rye took it back. He looked back up at the king. “Where?”
“To the front.” Eberhardt’s face creased with concern. “Good luck, my friends. Let us pray that the gods fight with us.”
He regrasped his sword, and swirled to dive back into the battle. Cranberry stared after him, her mouth open. Rye gripped the hammer firmly. “Come on. We need to find Inger.”
They stumbled through the battle. The fighting intensified around them as they moved deeper, closing on the thickest part of the violence. The hammer was hot in Rye’s mouth, the haft radiating warmth as it sensed the presence of the wyrm above. He blinked a drop of sweat out of his eye.
“Look!” Cranberry’s voice was filled with terror and excitement. Rye’s head tilted up to see a flash of gold in the red light. They raced forward.
Inger was locked in combat with a heavily armored griffon wielding a mace. The griffon’s weapon crashed down, but the pegasus dodged with grace. His wings flared as he smashed his hind legs into the griffon’s helmet, knocking it off-balance. He leaped onto the griffon’s back, wrapping his forelegs around its head. He roared and twisted, and with a crack the griffon went limp.
He landed on the ground as his enemy collapsed, panting, but with a smile on his face. He looked up and his eyes met Rye’s. The smile died instantly. His eyes widened and he turned to see Cranberry.
“No!” He raced toward them both. He came to a stop, reaching his hooves up to Cranberry’s face. “What—Cranberry, what are you doing here?” He looked suddenly terrified. “You two have to get out of here, now!”
“Inger!” Rye drew his attention at last. “That dragon’s going to kill us all unless we stop it.” He set the hammer down before his friend. “Unless you stop it.”
Inger stepped back. “I…” He looked at Rye, his mouth open. “I can’t, Rye.”
“You can. You’re the only one who can.”
“I’m just a soldier, Rye. I’m not—I’m no hero.”
Rye tilted his head with a faint smile. “You’d be surprised how often heroes say that.”
Inger looked dismayed. “I…”
“Inger.” Cranberry reached forward and touched his cheek. “You can do this. I know you can.”
He looked into her eyes, desperate. “How?”
She smiled back at him. “Because whether it’s fighting giant centipedes, braving the fierce cold of Sleipnord, or defeating a dragon, the stallion I love can do whatever it takes to save his nation.”
Inger’s face lightened at last. “As you say.” His eyes narrowed in determination. He leaned down and grasped the hammer. He lifted his head and looked at Rye.
Rye gave him a sad smile. “Inger… it’s been an honor. I’m proud to call you my friend.”
Inger bowed his head. “Not half as proud as I am to call you mine, Rye.” He looked back up at Cranberry. “I’ll return. I promise.”
“Good,” she said, teary-eyed. “I’ll hold you to that.”
His wings flapped, and then he was gone, rising above them. Rye and Cranberry stood together as the battle raged around them, watching as their friend soared away to meet the dragon.
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The SUSPENSE
2081494
It's killing me slowly.
I see the climax of your story is coming to an all time high. Please, continue
2082274
Drat, you've spoiled the twist ending where Mithrandir rides in on Shadowfax to save everyone by waving his staff to a dramatic Howard Shore arrangement.
2082287
I love you man.
2082287 Best twist ever!
An appropriate soundtrack for this epic near-final battle.
Oh what?!? All throughout this story, rye's had shit shovled onto him and now after all this he doesn't get to be the hero? Why you make him underdog if he doesn't get to be a hero??
I spose going there to get the nordponies is a feat in it's self 
silver linings I guess 
Somepony's missing, and I don't think Shrikefeather's noticed.
There should only have been one who was crushed, though. Two dead after going through the hole in the clouds, one dead and one mysteriously disappeared at the rainbow fall, one burned and one with a slashed throat in the weather factory, Wheatie injured and Sprinkle attending to him, and two still on Shrikefeather's tail; that only leaves one to have died under the tower unless the one who vanished came back or Inger joined the chase, and it doesn't seem like a chase that would be easy to join in the middle.
I return to a FINISHED STORY!? *reads so hard it ain't even funny*
Neat. volny.cz/petrvitek85/B-17%20gallery3/B-17G_formation.jpg
BLITZKRIEG!
He's SOOOOO gonna die.
2083418 I feel I have the right to say you don't know how this entire thing works. A better pre-final battle song. Better one:
About the only thing that annoys me is Celestia just 'dropping the guilt.' So many authors do this. I get it, you needed her to recover fairly quickly. It still annoys me: one does not just stop wallowing in guilt, it takes much, much more than that to recover from something like this. Especially considering Celestia has guilt from the last 6,000 years. But I won't let it bother me, because it's a small hiccup in an otherwise wonderful chapter.
I do find it kind of strange that the Firewings, Equestria's elite, would be so tactically mindless as to let Shrikefeather pick them apart piece-by-piece. I'll chalk this down to pure hatred clouding their judgement. At the same time, I don't think Windstreak is as 'scared' of Shrikefeather as he thinks. I think that's entirely how he's viewing the situation, and I'm betting she's got something in mind. If not, she'll think of something. She didn't retreat to the palace hoping Celestia would save her, that's for sure.
But I'm still not at all confident she'll survive this fight.
And where the buck is Inkpot and Apricot during all of this? I would think their despair at Merys' return would have been extremely motivating material for the readers.
I wonder what they're gonna do against a dragon...
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