Casualties
Stalwart watched Pathfinder, the old stallion having once more lost himself in memory. His hoof slid under his wing, rubbing at his chest where that old wound lay hidden. His face tensed, as though the pain of the injury was as present as it had been all those years ago.
Curiosity consumed Stalwart. Was it luck that saved a young Pathfinder, or perhaps fate?
"The Gods must have been with you."
"Gods." Pathfinder made a bitter chuckle and shook his head. He sighed and smiled, the same sad smile that followed him like a shadow through his long life. "I’ve seen so many things in my time, lad. The Rainbow Falls of Cathedral Chasm, the glowing strands of the Silken Catacombs. Stratopolis herself ablaze, the flames casting their glow for miles and miles.” Finder leaned back and sighed, his gaze drifting to the thick stain of smoke residue which painted the ceiling. “The lonely songs of the empty seas… All those places. All that time.” A soft, bitter chuckle passed his wrinkled lips. “I’ve never once seen any sign of the Gods.”
Stalwart pinched his lip between his teeth, then shook his head. “But to see all you’ve seen, survive the things you’ve survived. Surely—”
“If there ever were the Gods of old, then they’ve long since abandoned us to fate,” Finder continued, then rubbed a hoof against his eyes. “No, Stalwart, the Gods weren’t with me. Not me, not Longbow, not anypony else. All I had was a damn good medic who knew what to do." He grew silent for a time, propping his elbow on the table and resting his chin on his fetlock. “And for the longest time, I wondered why that griffon hadn’t just cut my throat and ended my misery, or why Summer worked so hard to save me.”
“You sound like you resent him for it,” Stalwart observed.
Pathfinder nodded after a few moments. “I did. I did. I thought it was cruel of him. I wanted to beg him to do it.” Pathfinder chuckled, though it was bitter and his lips were turned down in a tight frown. “Time heals all wounds, they say. That’s a bunch of crap. All time will do is provide at best a bit of numbing to the pain. Be that in a hearty ale, a home cooked meal… the kiss of your lover’s lips.” Pathfinder smiled from the memory, though it brought a curious glisten to his eyes. “So many moments that his mercy granted me. I’ll never forget Schafer. The only… decent griffon I ever met.”
“What happened to him?”
A breath, slow and deep drew in through the old stallion’s nose. He stared into his empty mug as though searching for resolve hidden away at the very bottom. With a deliberate slowness, he turned his attention to Stalwart.
“Summer.”
It wasn't the feel of griffon blood drying into her coat that bothered Iron Rain so much as the smell. The feel had a certain charm to it; rich, warm, then tacky, like her enemies were still pulling at every hair and feather, desperate for her permission to fade away. A permission that she only gave when she was good and ready to. Granted, the taste that it would leave on her tongue when she inevitably went to preen would be awful, but it was a price she was all too willing to pay for the thrill of battle.
Despite all her experience, she never got used to the smell of an infirmary. Battlefields were open and expansive, and at least on the Nimban Plains there was always a strong breeze to carry the stench away. Rain always suspected it was the confinement of it that bothered her.
Hastily raised canopies kept the worst of the weather off of the wounded and dying. Unfortunately it also kept the smell from fully dissipating, even with a steady wind. The pungent, sickly sweet scent of infection, metallic blood, and putrid death permeated everything.
Ponies like Summer who had learned to suffer the smell, screams, and groans carried no small amount of respect in Rain’s heart.
Most of Nyx had been more than generous in opening up their homes to the battered Nimban population. Nearly every place of residence had taken a few of her ponies in, though the vast majority were still forced to live on the streets. Even then, with the legion taking up space, food, wine, and water, she had heard no complaints, and Nyx had her gratitude for that.
Still, Rain had no illusions about her situation. Nyx couldn’t support the Nimban survivors, the shattered Legions, and its own population for long. The best she could hope for was a safer place for her ponies in the fertile heart of Cirra. A place they could organize and supply before taking the fight back to Gryphus with maximum prejudice.
Pushing her way through a cloth door, Rain entered a small room that looked no larger than a storage closet. If there had been any furnishings they had been removed days ago, leaving only a solitary strip of bedding on the wooden floor, presently occupied by a stallion.
“Stone?”
He said nothing, nor moved to respond to her voice.
Rain took a step closer but hesitated in raising her voice. “Stonewall, can you hear me?”
Once more her query went unanswered with the large framed stallion burying his face into the pillow and trying to squirm further under the sheets.
Iron Rain made a heavy sigh and took a step closer. Her hoof reached out, gently patting what little was exposed of his filthy mane. “Rest easy, my friend. You earned it.”
“You should let him sleep.”
The stallion’s tone was factual, if muted in volume, and it made Rain’s ears twitch. She turned slowly until her gaze fell upon Haze, who was leaning wearily on the door frame. His wispy mane was flat, compressed tightly along the curve of his skull where his helmet had sat for the better part of the day. With a groan of effort he pushed himself away from the doorframe and stepped into the dimly lit room.
What drew Rain’s attention, however, was the look on Haze’s face. His lips were pulled downward in a restrained, but tight frown that matched the chasms seemingly carved into his brow from tension alone.
She minced no words and took a step closer to him. “Outside.”
Haze nodded, and once the two had slipped out of the room he addressed her. “They cut out his tongue, Iron. The bastards cut his tongue out and lamed his wings. He’ll never fight again. Hell, he’ll be lucky if he ever glides again.”
Rain nodded, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Who found him?"
"Windshear and Carver."
"I see." Rain closed her eyes and thought for a few moments, then looked to Haze again. "The medics have seen to him?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Let me know when he wakes up. I'll see about getting him placed in a more comfortable room."
Haze nodded.
Motioning for him to follow her, Rain began the long march out of the makeshift hospital. “Are the prisoners secured?”
“Yeah, I’ve got them split up individually and locked up in several basements.”
“Who’s guarding them?”
“Only Nimbans we can trust.”
Rain nodded. "What of the papers we captured?"
"Thorn collected them . They should be in your room," he answered, then started to frown. "Rain, what are you planning?"
“I need to get the civilians and children somewhere safe,” Rain answered, not stopped as she worked her way through the medical tent. “And I need to show Gold Moon that the Nimban Militia is still of value.”
Haze blinked several times and scratched at his snout with the tip of his wingblade. “We need medicine, followed by water, and food.”
“I know, Haze.” Rain stepped over the tail of a sleeping stallion who groaned and rolled in the throes of delirium. She glanced at him long enough to see thick bandages wrapped around his neck and a tourniquet where his left foreleg used to be. “Where’s Summer and the kid?”
“They were behind us when we left the camp. She wouldn’t move him until he was stabilized. Windshear and Carver were with her.”
“I see.” Rain pursed her lips and paused once they stepped into the sunlight. “See if you can find her. Tell her to take him to my quarters. She can work on the kid there. And see if you can find me some census maps.”
Haze recoiled somewhat, then shook his head. “Rain, what are you doing?”
“If I’m going to go head to head with Gold Moon, I need some information first,” Rain answered, almost as an afterthought.
Shaking his head, Haze stepped in front of her bringing them both to a halt. “No, not about that.”
“Then what?”
“The kid.”
“Returning a favor,” she answered with a heavy heart.
Haze frowned and took a step closer to her. “Sídero—”
She glared at him. “You know better than to call me that, Katachniá.”
“I know better than to be fooled by that tone,” he said as he placed a hoof on her shoulder. His voice dropped to a whisper and he leaned in closer so no prying ears would be privy to their words. “I know you’re hurting. I see you blaming yourself for what happened. But it wasn’t your fault, Iron. It wasn’t anypony’s fault we lost. You can talk to me, old friend.” He bit his lip, brows knitting together mirroring the worry in his voice. "If not me, then Thorn. Please, Iron. Please, just..." Haze sighed and let his head hang. "Just talk to us."
Rain said nothing, her lips pulled into a thin line with her eyes purposely kept out of Haze's view. She looked to the east, where the thick plume of smoke still rose from the shattered remains of Nimbus. Haze reaffirmed the grip on her shoulder and opened his mouth, only to have Rain pull her shoulder free and walk away. Only the soft, raw tone in her voice betrayed her thoughts. “And get me those maps as quick as you can.”
Summer drew the curtain on the window and looked to the center of the room. Pathfinder lay there, spread across a bed that had been the Mayor’s, and then Rain’s. His emaciated frame quivered with every gasping breath he took. She pulled a lantern closer to the table so she had more light, and sighed at what she saw.
Carver sat at the edge of the bed and wiped at Finder's brow with a damp rag. Windshear sat on the opposite side, his hoof gently petting the colt's ragged mane. Neither stallion said a word, nor exchanged a glance. Whatever thoughts flooded their mind they kept to themselves.
"His mane," Carver said, breaking the terse silence.
Summer and Windshear both took a moment to observe Finder's mane and raised their eyebrows in surprise with the sight of white creeping up from the roots of his chestnut hair.
"What causes that?" Windshear asked, glancing back at Summer with worry knitting his brows together.
Her wings shrugged, the metal scales of her wingblades scraping together in a discordant hiss from the motion. "Stress, maybe? Nopony knows for sure." Summer counted the few supplies she had left and bit her lip. "Carver," she said, without turning to face the stallion. "Cut some strips off the side of that blanket. I need more bandages.”
"Got it," he answered, taking the edge of the white sheet in his hooves then slicing through them with his wingblade.
“Shear,” she said, her hooves carefully moving Finder’s wing to expose his cauterized chest. “I’ll need sutures, prep a needle like I showed you.”
“Consider it done.”
Filing that to the back of her mind, Summer turned back to the nightstand where she had meticulously laid out all the supplies she had left.
She didn’t need to worry about her tools. Summer was well aware of how her scalpels, hooks, and saws held up from procedure to procedure. It only took some basic maintenance to ensure they lasted for a good long while, and Summer ensured they lasted for as long as possible. What she worried about was medicine. There were simply too many wounded, and not nearly enough to care for them all.
Returning her attention to Pathfinder, Summer forced herself to take a deep breath and recalled her master’s teachings.
Summer’s hooves moved at a deliberate, slow pace, feeling every inch of every bone. She started at the tips of his wings and carefully moved towards his shoulders, checking to make sure that his bones were still set correctly. Satisfied that nothing had been jarred out of place in the flight back to Nyx, her hooves moved on to inspect his rib cage. Even a foal could tell Finder had broken ribs, the difficult part would be determining how bad the breaks were. If they were fairly minor, then Summer could simply leave them to heal naturally. However, Summer could see where they were misaligned or shattered. Her hooves felt around the cauterized flesh in a methodical pattern. It was all too apparent to Summer that Finder would need surgery to fully correct the problem.
But there was no way she could do it now. Even if she had the medicine and assistants she would need, Finder was far too weak to survive the operation. He needed weeks if not months to regain some strength before she could even try it. As it stood, though, he barely had enough blood left in him to keep breathing, and she much prefered to keep it there.
Summer lowered her head and pressed her ear to Finder’s chest. The steady, if weak palpitations of his heart along with his ragged breaths gave Summer more hope than she dared to admit. Every beat served as a note of defiance. The proud will of the Legion that would carry them through the hardest of times. Summer lingered there, reveling in the sound until Windshear prodded at her side with the sutures held out in his primaries.
“All set.” Windshear passed her the threaded needle while Carver continued to make even strips of bandages from the bed sheets.
“Thanks.” Inspecting the knot on the line to ensure it was correct, Summer nodded, then set to work stitching together the burned walls of flesh. Finder made a weak moan when the needle pierced what was left of his chest wall and slipped through the tattered muscle. Windshear glanced away and closed his eyes while Carver lowered his muzzle to Finder’s ear, quietly reassuring the colt.
It only took her a few minutes to suture the wound, and Windshear dutifully prepared more while she worked. Once she had the flesh stitched Summer moved to the nightstand and took what little was left of the vinegar in her hoof. The pungent liquid spilt from the mouth of the bottle, upturned over a clean cloth. Windshear covered his nose with a wing, face twisted in a sneer at the odor.
Moving to Finder’s side, Summer gave her friends a look, and wordlessly they moved to hold the colt down again. He mewled pitifully when she pressed the cloth to his chest, hooves scraping at the sheets with his ruined wings ever so slightly twitching. Carver was the first to react, and promptly wrapped the colt up in a hug while Summer finished her work.
“Dammit,” Summer cursed at Carver. “Be careful!”
“I’m being careful,” he snapped back at her. “Just get on with it.”
Growling, Summer carefully cleaned the massive gash which extended from Finder’s chest nearly to his hip. The pale, scalded flesh glistened with vinegar, blood, and sweat behind her makeshift rag. Summer made a mental log of the wound, then quickly moved on to the next ones, a series of gashes on his flanks. No sooner did she press the cloth to them than Finder start to panic. Carver and Windshear held him tight with relative ease.
“Something’s wrong,” Summer said, more to herself than her friends.
Each gave her a look of concern, though it was Carver who first voiced it. “What?”
Summer’s eyes followed the contour of Finder’s body and seized on the deep gouges in his back and flanks. There were nine in total, of different lengths and depths. Three in particular looked as though meat hooks had been dug into the colt’s flanks, carving bloody ravines into his flesh when he’d tried to run.
It made no sense, even as torture, unless… Summer’s mouth dried, her heart clenched painfully in her chest, and slowly she turned to Carver and Windshear. “I… I need you two to step outside.”
“No,” Carver said instantly.
Windshear’s response was more cautious. “Why?”
Try as she might, Summer couldn’t force herself to look them in the eye. “Please... just stand in the hall and close the door.”
Carver and Windshear exchanged a glance, with Carver opening his mouth to speak first. “Summer—”
She looked to him, and the temperature of the room seemed to drop with her gaze. “Carver, please.”
Carver bit down on his cheek and exchanged a glance with Windshear. The blue stallion’s lips pulled into a thin line, and in a barely discernible motion, he shook his head. Swallowing, Carver sighed, and with no small amount of effort, pulled himself from Pathfinder’s side.
They moved past Summer, who stood motionless between them, and closed the door as they stepped into the hall. Silence, at once blissful and torturous filled the hall, stretching seemingly into eternity.
It started with the thrashing of sheets, then the clatter of tools, knocked from the night stand. Panicked gasps, muted by the door, and Summer’s voice cracking even when she pleaded for calm.
Windshear clenched his eyes shut and tried to will the sound away while Carver stood in silence. Then they heard a crash of tools, followed by a heavy thud from inside, and Carver was the first to wheel around and reach for the door. Windshear caught him, though, wrapping his forelegs around Carver’s and wrenching them away from the door.
“Let me go, Wind,” Carver growled.
“I can’t,” Windshear hissed in reply.
Carver tried to tear himself free, only to be clutched tighter by Windshear. “You have to. He needs us!”
“Yeah, he does,” Windshear agreed, managing to wrap a hoof around the back of Carver’s head. “But he needs us later. Not now.”
The door opened just enough for Summer to peer through with a look of barely contained fury etched across her narrow face. “I need water... and wine.”
Carver shook his head. “Gold Moon’s Requisition Staff took control of all the remaining wine supply. They’re only giving out rations per medicus request.”
Summer shook her head. “No, you go to Legate Rain. Tell her that Summer requires wine for the Kid. She can see me if she needs to know why.”
“Summer.” Carver took a step nearer to the door, only to be stopped by her hoof pressed firmly to his chest. “What happened?”
“Carver,” her voice quavered, yet her tone was firm, brokering no room for argument. “Now.”
He wanted to argue with her. To push past her and go to Pathfinder’s side. But Summer presented an indomitable wall and Carver saw no way to crack through it. Slowly he lowered his head in resignation, and with her nod of approval he turned and started to walk away. Windshear trotted up beside him and attempted to drape a comforting wing across his back. Carver growled and shoved it off, tears flowing freely from his eye.
Nimbus had been destroyed. The Fourth and Fifth Legions slaughtered. What little was left of the Eighth Legion was depleted and had fled with haste to the questionable safety of Nyx. The Second and Sixth Legions had also reported heavy casualties in their efforts to stem the tide of griffon aggression. What was left of the Cirran army was disorganized, demoralized, and in full retreat along all fronts.
The spear was broken, the spiked shield shattered, and Stratopolis, the very heart of Cirra, was exposed.
Magnus’ hordes—no, Gold Moon shook his head, a horde was disorganized, easily splintered and routed through disciplined action. What faced Cirra now was an army every bit as organized as their own. Well equipped, disciplined, and lethal in their purpose. To say nothing of the griffon emperor himself.
Gold Moon shivered. Magnus had made the elite Nimban Palatial Guard look like hapless foals. He had slaughtered Gold Moon’s own Praetorian Guards almost as an afterthought. Moon barely recalled the unexpected reinforcements that had come to his aide, and they barely escaped with their lives.
The Praetorian Commander shook his head. There was nothing to be gained by obsessing on the past. He had far more pressing concerns demanding his immediate attention. Outside of the Mayor’s home where he and Legate Rain had taken up temporary residence, there were thousands of wounded, dying, and demoralized soldiers clogging the narrow streets of Nyx. On top of that were the tens of thousands of Nimban civilians who had suddenly found themselves refugees in their own lands. Nearly all of whom had fled with none of their worldly possessions. Supplies were being stretched too far, too fast. If a plague didn’t kill them all, starvation certainly would.
Knocks on the door drew his thoughts from the chaotic reports before him. A middle-aged pegasus, slight in build with an insouciant appearance stepped over the threshold.
“Commander Moon, Legate Rain is here to see you.”
Gold Moon took a breath then simply nodded to the stallion. “Send her in, and see that we are not interrupted.”
The stallion nodded and pulled the door closed. Gold Moon waited for a moment, then allowed himself a breath. He felt strange without his gilded armor, but it had been damaged almost beyond repair at Nimbus. Coupled with the bandages wrapping his body and Gold Moon looked more like a battered legionnaire rather than the Commander General of the Cirran Legion.
Gold Moon stood up straight just as the door opened, Iron Rain stepping in with a purposeful stride.
“Commander Moon.”
“Legate Rain,” he returned the simple courtesy with the smallest nod of his head.
“I trust you’re mending well?”
“Alas, Iron, you’ll have to wait a bit longer before you spit on my grave.”
Rain smiled. “And here I was about to give you a gift, Moon.”
“I know all about your griffon prisoners, Iron,” he said dispassionately. “Must I tell you how utterly reckless you were this morning?”
“I had it on good intelligence that there was a griffon encampment on the doorstep of Nyx,” Rain countered, managing for once to keep her voice at an even tone. “There had been no scouts reporting large scale enemy activity anywhere in the surrounding area, nor have any patrols gone missing. Unless you’re getting different scouting reports than I am, Commander.”
Gold Moon sighed and shook his head. “We are in a precarious position here in Nyx, Iron. The sightlines are poor, supply chains are exposed, and any attack could rush the city before we could mount an organized defense. Attacking their camp to rescue a few walking wounded was impractical. You’ve—”
“So I should have left our brothers and sisters, not just Nimbans but Cirrans as well, to be tortured and die?” Rain demanded, her calm facade cracking with anger.
The answer was simple, cold, and wholly logical, like the Praetorian Consul himself. “Yes.”
Rain scowled. “We never leave a soldier behind.”
“We can’t afford to be sentimental right now,” he reprimanded her quickly. “What happens when a messenger or a supply train arrives to find the camp destroyed and their comrades massacred? They will seek revenge, perhaps bringing half a division or more.” Gold Moon rubbed his hoof against his forehead, wincing from the discomfort that the simple action caused. “Casus belli under the best of circumstances.” His gaze shot upwards with a stern frown etched upon his muzzle. “You have incited them, Iron. Incited our enemy to attack where we have limited defenses at best! . Can we muster a defense of all the civilians, the wounded, our supplies, water stores, and farms?”
“With respect, sir,” Rain said, stepping forward. “I believe I have a solution for that.”
Gold Moon narrowed his eyes, regarding the tall mare with a curious expression. “Go on.”
“I’ve looked at the same census maps you have, Moon, and we both know Nyx doesn’t have the resources to support my civilians for long. I want permission to move them west towards Stratopolis. I will take what’s left of the Nimban Militia and form a rapid response legion. If you won’t let me take the fight to the heart of Gryphus, then at least allow me to stab at vulnerable spots. I also need medicine for my wounded.” Rain reached her hoof under her right wing and produced a stack of papers, which she offered to the Commander. “Captured papers from the prison camp. I’ve been able to translate some of it, but I’m afraid my hybrid is a bit rusty. All I need is the material support and I can ensure more, both in prisoners and papers.”
“You’ve thought this through, I will concede that,” Gold Moon said as he limped around the table towards her. He took the papers and set them down on the table. “But your request is denied.”
Looking at once stunned and furious, Rain opened her mouth to protest, only for Gold Moon to cut her off.
“Legate Rain.” Gold Moon clasped her shoulder with a hoof, his eyes locking with her own. “Your father was proud of you to the very end. And Cirra will reclaim Nimbus, you have my word. Right now we do not need an unaccounted for legion starting fires wherever it pleases. You would certainly do damage, but you would have no support should you be cut off, and worse still you could pull too many griffons to an area of operations we cannot adequately defend.” Gold Moon shook his head and released Rain’s shoulder. “No, Legate Rain. We need to concentrate on rebuilding our legions and crushing the griffon hordes before they can reform. I need you to prepare to move your refugees. You are right, Nyx cannot support this population for long. They need to be moved, and I will consult with the Senate as to where they can be placed.”
Moving back to his bed, Gold Moon sat down with a pained grunt. “Is there anything else?”
“I sent for Senator Celsus yesterday,” Rain said after several moments. “With good winds he should arrive within the week.”
Gold Moon was silent for a moment, then nodded once. “Very well. You’re dismissed, Legate.”
Rain turned sharply and marched stiffly out of the room. Gold Moon watched her leave, noting her set jaw and trembling wings. He sighed when the door closed, then made a modest smile.
“Iron Rain. You might just make a good Legate one day.”
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"Kid, I've flown from one side of this country to the other, and I've seen a lot of strange stuff, but I've never seen anything that makes me believe there's some all-powerful Gods controlling everything. 'Cause there's no mystical ponies in the sky controls my destiny. It's all a lot of... simple tricks and nonsense."
Can't wait until Wind and Stone Episode VII.
God filly, you get any more into blood and I'm going to have to start calling you a hemophiliac. Seriously though, this sounds a touch kinky.
Well, I guess she likes dancing in the rain of her enemies.
Pretty good, btw i see the reason why the empire was splitting in two (Due to demand of gold forming there version of sengoku period, where it's every soldier try to get a foothold till grover united the griffin into one new kingdom with the idol of boreas (Btw boreas was the Greek god of the cold north wind and the bringer of winter. His name meant "North Wind" or "Devouring One". Boreas is depicted as being very strong, with a violent temper to match. He was frequently shown as a winged old man with shaggy hair and beard, holding a conch shell and wearing a billowing cloak.)
6847819
Iron Rain is fucking nuts and I love it.
m.popkey.co/1ab0b8/bdGQ9.gif
"Did you ever hear the tragedy of Darth Plagueis the wise? No...."
Much better and sensible than Senator Fahrenheitus.
Man, the situation is desperate! I wonder how these lovable scamps will get out of it! Hopefully it involves copious amounts of blood and guts.