Chapter 15
There was very little indication that this day was going to go horrendously wrong, but there never is, you see. Atrocities have the nasty tendency to sneak up and pounce when one is entirely unprepared. I suppose that’s part of what makes them atrocities.
It was the turn of the Two Sisters Brigade to occupy the frontline trenches. This side of the ridge had been turned into a fortress to rival the one we would be hurling ourselves against very soon; the blockhouses had been completed, one every thirty yards or so in a jagged, wobbly line along partway down the slope, while the network of half-built trenches, observation posts, sandbags, and foxholes crept on ever closer to those formidable walls. Though many of the engineers had been poached to assist in the construction of the mine under our hooves, a few remained to work day and night to bring our ponies closer and closer, inch by inch, to the enemy. Overnight, a shallow trench, bolstered by sandbags and piled rocks, would appear a few paces ahead of the one behind it, manned by a team of unlucky ponies almost daring the Changelings to take a potshot at them from the safety of the walls. This would then be repeated, over and over, night after night, creeping ever closer.
Despite this, the Changelings were being quiet. There had been a year of very little of note actually happening in this war, at least from my perspective, but that was when we had advanced no further than the distance from my Canterlot apartment to the closest statue of Celestia; here, however, we weren’t so much on the doorstep of the Changeling Lands but had gotten one hoof stuck in the front door while our other groped for whatever cash, keys, or valuables were in reach. I’d have thought that the enemy would have done something to dislodge us from our position by now, before we could fully entrench ourselves and become harder to move than a maiden aunt in her favourite chair, but thus far they had all seemed quite content to sit back and watch. Indeed, standing out on the foremost trench with a pair of binoculars aimed at the ramparts, I could see sentries peering back at me from above. Either they were building to something or we were about to march into a trap, and the only way we could find out was to let it happen.
The Night Guards had occupied this section of the frontline for a few days now, forming a rota system by which some companies remained on the forward picquets while the others remained in reserve. We were, however, spread rather too thinly for my liking, but nopony in any position of command believed that the garrison in Virion Hive was at all capable of posing any real threat to our position. Thousands of ponies remained behind the relative safety of the ridge in the camp, whereas a mere single brigade held the front line. An aphorism about the self-plagiarism of history springs to mind.
After a dull breakfast of dry oats washed down with what passed for coffee out here, I was due to undertake an inspection of Captain Red Coat’s earth pony company on the forward trenches. They were due to be rotated out that afternoon, and regulations dictated that the regimental commissar should be on hoof during the process. Quite why a political officer needed to be present for this, or at all for that matter, escaped me, but as I was quite eager to be back on the safer side of the ridge I thought perhaps my presence could speed things along. Few things seemed to motivate a soldier to work faster than a stern-faced commissar periodically checking his watch and scribbling down names in a notebook, I found.
I sat down in the trench while Captain Red Coat chatted with a lieutenant about something, I can’t remember exactly what. The trench was little more than a modestly long and uncomfortably narrow ditch topped with sandbags, so my hindlegs were bunched up awkwardly to allow my tall and still somewhat chubby frame to fit. It was so narrow, in fact, that it allowed no room for a pony of any stature, let alone one of my not-inconsiderable height, to turn about face on the spot without bumping one’s nose and/or rump into either the excavated earth or a wall of sandbags. One had the choice of either reversing or rearing up on one’s hindlegs and pirouetting one-hundred-and-eighty degrees, using one’s forelegs on the wall for balance. The latter, however, meant that one’s head popped up over the top, and while I had been assured that the Changelings weren’t taking potshots at ponies with their shiny new muskets, the lingering pain and stiffness in my left flank cheek meant that I wasn’t about to take that risk again.
As I said, I don’t recall the conversation. All I do remember of that day before it happened and all Tartarus broke out was the way a clod of the hard and dusty earth I leaned against poked into my scarred back; ignoring the creeping headache as I tried to manage my water ration for the day; and, as ever, the sweltering heat and humidity worsening as the day bore on. The cannons continued to fire, and by that point the entirety of the top of the ridge was almost covered entirely by white-grey smoke. The faint breeze had blown the sharp, acrid tang of burnt gunpowder our way, mixing with the lingering smells of rank sweat and body odour.
In addition to Cannon Fodder, Red Coat, and the lieutenant, there were five ponies crammed into this little stretch of trench. They had clearly been there for quite some time, and the foul-smelling bucket at the far end that I steered well clear of was evidence of that. One soldier stood on his hindlegs and peered over the top of the pile of sandbags, balancing himself with his forelegs on a set of grooves cut into the earth. The others were huddled in the trench beside him, either snoozing, reading, chatting, or just staring into space. Another tried to stave off both soul-crushing boredom and the stiffness in his joints by trotting on the spot, and occasionally pacing up and down the short distance between the end of the trench to where his comrade lay lengthwise at the bottom stretched as far as the meagre space would allow.
I wished Red Coat would damn well hurry up with whatever it was he was discussing. This trench, this shallow ditch I had curled up in, marked the furthest extent of land liberated thus far. If I were to stick my hoof out over the edge of the parapet and touch the parched, dead earth beyond, it would cross that dotted line on Market Garden’s map that delineated friendly from enemy territory. The sooner he wrapped this up the sooner I could be as far away from that line as I could reasonably be without deserting.
The artillery barrage was constant from dawn until dusk, with the occasional salvo at night just to keep the Changelings from getting too comfortable, and try as I might I could never get used to the sound. The staccato cracks each varied in pitch, tone, and volume, as each gun had its own distinct voice. After a day of this and the dull emptiness of life on the frontline in general, I had learnt to identify individual guns based on the sounds of each one firing. The timings, however, appeared to be completely random. One cannon would fire, then a second later another one, more muffled by the distance. A few more seconds would pass, during which one’s mind drives itself into higher states of anxiety in expecting the next one, and then the next salvo takes one by surprise and the whole process starts again. It had become a grim orchestra of war, and each day I longed for nightfall and some blessed silence.
So when I’d heard a ripple of artillery fire that did not match what I had become somewhat accustomed to, I knew instantly that something was amiss. It had come from precisely the opposite direction, muffled by a greater distance, and of an altogether different register and tone to our cannons. Captain Red Coat stopped speaking mid-sentence, and his ears twitched to follow this new sound. The lieutenant lifted his head, and looked up and around as though he might be able to see where it had come from. The pacing soldier stopped in the middle of his stride, and the dull, meaningless chatter of the troopers came to a slow, faltering halt. Silence, except for the sound of our cannons continuing their discordant symphony, descended like a heavy, smothering blanket.
The pony at the parapet pointed at something beyond the sandbags, out into the emptiness of no mare’s land, and bellowed, “Incoming!”
The cry was repeated across the line, like echoes. I dared to look up and saw the sky streaked with grey-green lines of smoke, like flares. There were dozens of them, perhaps more, rising from behind the fortress walls, and having reached the height of their parabolic arc through the sky they descended down upon our position.
“Get down, sir!” Cannon Fodder shouted. He grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me to the ground. The rough wall scraped against my wool coat, tearing a few new holes. I curled up there, huddled in the bottom of the ditch and cursing my lack of a helmet; it was all well and good having this star spider silk armour but arguably the most important part of me was still terribly vulnerable. On reflection, it was probably useless against artillery anyway. There was nothing for it but to place my hooves on my head, curl up in a ball, and close my eyes and wait for it.
The seconds dragged on. All around I could hear a frantic pell-mell of activity. Ponies shouted, pushed, and shoved against one another as they packed into the trenches that would offer some modicum of protection, and then silence but for the continuing rumble of artillery and the hushed, panicked, rapid breathing of the ponies around me reasserted itself. Here and there, from all around, I would hear a faint clink of armour moving, or a yelp or a whimper. Cannon Fodder was pressed against me, and another soldier on my other side. The burning heat of their armour warmed by the morning sun singed my fur.
These were mortar shells, I assumed; despite my deliberate lack of interest in such things, some of what I had heard Bramley Apple say about his beloved artillery pieces had somehow penetrated through my wall of ignorance. They fired explosive shells at a high trajectory, such that they would fall directly on top of the hapless infantry cowering in the trenches below. I’d seen our artillery use them to deadly effect on Changeling hordes, so I knew that if one landed dead straight into our trench none of us would survive; I’d be ripped to shreds, torn bodily limb from limb, and then scraped off the walls of the trench and shipped back for eternal internment in the family mausoleum.
There was nothing for it but to wait and it was agonising. I could only curl myself tighter into a ball against that trench wall, as though I could will myself into the protective embrace of the earth itself, or at least position either Cannon Fodder or the soldier next to me so that they would take the brunt of the blast.
It would come soon, in seconds maybe, either I would hear the crash of explosive shot detonating around me and the horrendous screams of the wounded and dying, or nothing at all for eternity. Yet all I could hear, again, was the panicked breaths of the ponies around me and my own heart thumping wildly in my chest. It still would not come. My hooves itched; something was desperately wrong, but I daren’t open my eyes to see. Our artillery had stopped firing.
My own breathing had become sharper, shallower, more rapid, and it stung. Something smelt strange, like the ballroom of my palace after the maids had mopped the floor, but a thousand times worse. Acrid, pungent, painful; it was getting stronger by the second, so strong that it burned with every breath.
Something was stuck in my throat. I coughed, which felt like a knife to the ribs, and my eyes opened. All around was smothered in a greenish-yellow fog that was utterly incongruous with the clear, hot day. It clung to the ground, pouring into the trench and settled at the base. The figures of ponies half glimpsed in the smoke writhed as if being burned alive, the one closest to me clutched at his throat, blood frothing at his blackened lips and eyes wild with terror.
Sheer, utter, and total panic broke out. Hoarse cries of agony filled the air, cracked by the ruined throats and lungs. Muskets fired wildly at an unseen enemy, as sudden and bright flashes of flame amidst the swirling fog.
Raw terror gripped me before I could fully comprehend what was happening. Immediately I seized the lip of the trench behind, facing the ridge, and tried to scramble over it. Cannon Fodder had somehow dragged himself up and over, and he seized my hoof and pulled me up. It was agonising. I was being burned from the inside, with every breath fueling the flame consuming me.
Something pulled at my hindleg. The pony I had sat next to clung to it desperately, his face pale, drawn, and bleeding from the nose, mouth, and eyes. “Please,” he croaked, “help me.”
I kicked my leg free, pulled myself up to unsteady hooves, and ran up the hill, leaving him to die. Those of you reading this who think to judge me should consider this, had I stopped to pull him free I would have died alongside him and I dare anypony with a sliver of a sense of self-preservation, hero or otherwise, to say they would not have done the same in my position. Anypony who tells you otherwise is a liar or an idiot. Besides, I am the one who has had to live with this.
This fog pooled around my fetlocks, flowing over the ground and around my hooves to find the recesses, ditches, and gullies in the earth. Yet all around it was still dense enough that all that I could make out of the panicked soldiers fleeing in terror were half-glimpsed shapes, disturbing the smoke and sending it swirling in fragmented clouds. Some ran, others crawled, and one or two I saw collapse mid-stride into a heap and never to rise again. The sharp, acrid smell of it cut through everything else.
I gasped, choked, hardly able to breath; every gasp of poisoned air was like red-hot needles in my lungs and a claw squeezing around my throat. Our frantic run had slowed into a stumbling half-trot. The ends of my hooves felt like lead, and I could scarcely summon the effort to place one in front of the other were it not for this insensate fear driving me onwards. My eyes, too, were not spared, stinging like the blazes and streaming tears that blurred my sight.
Aside from these glimpses of shadows in the mist, the only ponies we saw were dead or very near to it. We would stumble upon these bodies as we ran; each was twisted into grotesque shapes as they had succumbed to the gas, clutching their ruined throats or faces as they had fallen and writhed in the paroxysms of an agonising death. Their flesh had turned sallow and pale, except for their faces, which had broken out in blotches of black, blue, and blood-red like victims of plague. Sightless, bloodied eyes stared back to mock me with the horrifying fate that awaited.
It was not just the ponies either; animals had crawled out of their holes and died. Between the bodies of ponies were those of the small rodents that lived unseen in their underground burrows and birds that had fallen dead out of the sky. Even the plants had suffered; those few outcroppings of long dry grass and the small shrubs nestled against larger rocks had withered into limp, grey, brittle strands. The gas, whatever it was, seemed to kill whatever it touched.
Out of the choking fog emerged the squat, square shape of a blockhouse. It seemed to represent safety, of a sort, from this poisoned air, and out of a lack of anywhere else to go we headed straight for it. The gas was endless, all-encompassing, as though the entire world had been consumed by it. Cannon Fodder and I crawled up to the wooden door, the both of us on the verge of collapse, and pounded our hooves against it.
The door opened, revealing Sergeant Major Square Basher with a sopping wet feedbag over her mouth. Her bloodshot, weeping eyes blinked rapidly, and then, as though she had suddenly remembered who we were, seized the both of us by the shoulder each with her strong forelegs, and pulled us inside. She turned and pushed the door shut behind us with her hindleg, which she held there to keep it closed.
Two dozen haunted, ghostly faces, lit by dim candlelight, stared back at me. The ponies they belonged to huddled against the walls, clutching their sides and groaning in pain. A few others were laid out on the floor in rows, each dreadfully still until, from time to time, one would suddenly erupt into a great, rasping fit of protracted coughing. Their whole body would convulse as though shocked by lightning; limbs drawn in, clutching heaving chests, and their heads rocked forwards with hideous, growling barks. Then it would fade once more into silence, and the pony on the floor would go limp again. Like Square Basher, most ponies here had a wet feedbag over their muzzles, tied tightly just behind the nose and mouth with the excess string. A few others had bits of torn cloth instead, or ripped lengths of their own uniforms.
I staggered inside for two, perhaps three, steps before my legs gave out under me and I collapsed in a wretched heap on the floor. If I bruised my muzzle or twisted a leg I’d have never known, because the burning agony inside me had become all-consuming. It drowned out all other lesser sensations, except for fear, that is. The coughing fit had grown worse, and it felt like a sledgehammer to the ribs with each great, hacking expulsion. I wrapped my forelegs around my chest in an embrace and curled up in a ball, rolling onto my left side. My eyes clenched shut. Something was stuck inside my throat - wet, sticky, and slimy. My body shook with each cough, until that horrid, copper-tasting thing was forced ever upwards and I spat it out on the floor. When I dared to open my eyes again I saw that I had coughed up bloody red chunks in a dark crimson slime.
A pony pressed a water canteen against my lips and ordered me to drink. I didn’t want it, I only wanted to damn-well breath. Said pony, however, was terribly insistent, so I did as I was told and drank as much as I dared. It was a struggle though, with much of it spilling out everywhere, but it helped clear my throat a little. My head was lifted with a hoof and I looked up to see the half-covered face of an earth pony soldier, for his nose and mouth had been wrapped up with a wet white cloth that had been stained yellow. His other hoof reached about my sash, untied it, and then presented it before me.
“Piss on this, sir,” he said, “then wrap it around your face.”
I squinted up at him. “What?” I blurted out, or tried to at least; my voice was a raspy crackle, gurgling whatever liquified remains of my lungs still clogged my throat, and thus sounded like a broken gramophone.
“Sir, would you rather I did it for you?” he said; I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me or not, as the light was dim and I could only see his wide, teary eyes. “I was an alchemist before the war. I know what this stuff is, I’ve seen it before. The ammonia in urine will help neutralise the gas. It won’t be much but…” He trailed off and shrugged. Though much of his expression was hidden behind his improvised mask (and now I understood what the stains were), I could tell in the plaintive, defeated look in his eyes what he had intended to say and, wisely, decided against voicing it in front of an officer - it’s better than nothing, and we’re all going to be dead soon anyway so it won’t matter.
[This is a myth, ammonia does not neutralise chrysaline gas. However, it does react with water. It has not been possible to identify the former alchemist mentioned here, but it is likely he knew about this and thought it best that the soldiers use the most readily available source of ‘water’ without using up valuable water rations. As an aside, the Changelings’ tendency to name things after their queen can get confusing.]
So I did the deed, despite the audience of ponies watching me, and wrapped the sopping wet, uncomfortably warm, foul-smelling red silk sash around my muzzle. It made me feel slightly better, albeit merely as a palliative of sorts that would only delay the inevitable; I was dying, I was certain of it, as I had taken a rather nasty dose of whatever poison gas the enemy had seen fit to inflict upon us, and the damage to my lungs, already having received a fair old battering from certain expensive habit of mine, was likely fatal. Raw fear had turned to a quiet dread that seemed to rest upon my shoulders like a cloak made of iron, but being in a fair old state with my panicked flight and the grim realisation that, aside from a miracle, there was nothing that could be done about it.
Here, the air seemed clearer, if only by a tiny degree; with the door held shut by the Sergeant Major and the many loopholes in the walls plugged with cloth rags much of the gas had been kept outside. The acrid smell of the gas, sharp and acidic, too had faded somewhat, and was almost overwhelmed by the stench of urine and smoke. A small pile of charred wood and ashes that was once a chair testified to a pony having the idea of trying to dispel the gas with smoke, to which I assume his comrades had objections when it failed to have the desired effect.
Amidst the gaunt, bloody, and scared faces I spotted the mutilated one belonging to Captain Red Coat, who sat in the corner of the room near the door. His head leaned drunkenly against the wall and his one good eye was closed. He appeared to be sleeping, but as I staggered on over, my hooves having carried me thus far and proving reluctant to keep at it without a rest, he lifted his head with great effort and stared at me. Nothing was said as I sat next to him, though the soldier next to him budged up to make room and caused a small domino effect of such similar motions with those resting against the wall.
We sat in silence for some time, partly because I struggled to think of anything to say that would come close to explaining the magnitude of what we had just been through, but mostly because talking hurt. Well, everything hurt, and more than just my chest with every raspy, shallow breath. The fire that scorched me from the inside had spread to every portion of my already-battered and weakened body. I focused on my breathing, steadying it, trying to suck as much of the relatively fresher air in here as I could through that soaked sash, but it never felt enough. Soon, the headache was accompanied by a sense of dizziness, and the ends of my hooves tingled. Still, the cool stone of the floor and walls was soothing against my coat, as was the solid dependability of Slab still nestled safely in my inner breast pocket. Now that I was no longer gripped by a state of panic I could take stock of the situation.
I paused and strained to listen, beyond the coughing and moaning inside these four walls, to hear the muffled thunder of our artillery unleashing Tartarus upon the enemy in retribution for this atrocity. Yet that damning silence persisted still, and that leaden cloak of dread felt that much heavier as the implications of that were slowly pieced together in my mind. Whatever this foul new weapon was that poisoned the very air, its effects were spread much further afield than our small portion of the frontline, for that nigh constant barrage to stop meant that the crews there had suffered the same effects as we had. There was no way of knowing what was going on out there; for all I knew our tiny group of survivors could have been all that was left of the battalion, or the brigade, or the division, or the corps itself.
“Is this everypony left?” I said, and every word was like razors against the inside of my throat. Nevertheless, I felt the queer need to say something that might at least prompt our senior officer here to take some form of action - hopefully to run away further, if I had any say in it.
Red Coat rolled his head on his shoulders limply, and I shuddered at the sight. With his makeshift mask stained with tiny spots of dried blood, his one good eye red and other grey and empty, and the burnt half of his face with its rippling layers of twisted, puckered, scarred flesh, he looked like a corpse that had been re-animated. In fact, everypony around me looked at least some shade of dead, with some teetering very close to that desperately thin line between life and whatever fate lay beyond it. I imagined that I didn’t look much better, but I know I certainly felt it.
“Don’t know,” said Red Coat, his voice thin, raspy, and punctuated with sharp gasps for breath. “Others in the other blockhouses, maybe. Our TACC didn’t make it. No idea what’s going on outside.”
“There must be somepony out there.” I looked around at our plucky band of survivors again, noting that most were earth ponies with the odd unicorn. “Where are our pegasi?”
“Flown away, I guess.” Red Coat shrugged. “Or dead, like the others.”
I noticed that the brass and steel of his false limb had lost its sheen, having turned a dull greenish black. Looking down at the metal accoutrements that adorned my uniform, the brass buttons and silver and gold medals, revealed that the exact same had happened. The elegant crescent moon that hung from my breast was mottled with that same discolouration. The armour, too, of the soldiers here had likewise reacted to this gas, taking on this sickly black-green shade that looked unsettlingly like Changeling chitin. If it did this to metal, I dreaded to think what it had done to my insides.
Square Basher snorted and stamped a hoof on the floor, cracking the paving slab into a spider’s web of thin fissures. “Cowards,” she spat.
“We all ran away,” said Red Coat, sneering at his sergeant major. “They just ran away further. You’d have done the same.”
“Sorry, sir,” she said, drooping her ears. “It just ain’t right, sir.”
“Nothing about this is right.”
Silence, or merely the absence of conversation, fell upon us once more. Seconds, minutes, hours passed, I don’t know; perhaps I had fainted for a bit and was roused by Cannon Fodder, or truly only moments had slipped through our hooves. Either way, my shoulder was jostled by a rough hoof and I found myself looking up at the pale, teary, gas-stricken eyes of my aide.
“Sir, Changelings,” he said, his voice muffled by the stained feedbag over his muzzle. He pointed in the vague direction of the wall where the door was.
“They’re advancing up the slope on hoof, sir,” said Square Basher, her tone flat, emotionless, and defeated. She peered through one of the loopholes higher up on the wall, having removed the rag that was supposed to have stopped the gas from seeping through. Being a taller mare, almost on par with my stature, she had to lower her head to squint through it. “Taking their time, too, the bastards. If you pardon my language, sir.”
Red Coat lifted his head and craned his neck forward. His posture was tense, not so flaccid and limp as it was before, and a kind of nervous excitement seemed to suffuse his very being at the sound of this horrible news. Contrast, if you will, the utter dread that had consumed me; it was something of a relief, though a very minor one, that the gas stinging my eyes provided a plausible excuse for my occasional bouts of sobbing. I could understand it, though, we had been attacked by something that we could not possibly fight or defend against, and now, strolling leisurely up that hill on the assumption that everypony was dead was such an enemy that we could, albeit with great difficulty now, kill.
“How many?” asked Red Coat.
“Hundreds of them, sir,” said Square Basher, stepping away from the loophole. “They’ll be here soon.”
Red Coat rose to his hooves unsteadily, but his prosthetic limb, creaking a little heavier with the corrosion eating away at its workings, seemed to keep him upright. He leaned on it like an elderly stallion with a walking cane. As he looked over at the stallions gazing back at him, a tenser sort of quiet descended, and even the agonised groans of the more severely wounded seemed hushed. The ponies on the floor lifted their heads as much as their failing strength would allow, and looked to their officer. There was a growing sense of anticipation, a change in the atmosphere of this thoroughly miserable place, as he seemed to be piecing together some sort of plan. Clearly, I had to nip this in the bud.
“I hope you’re not considering what I think you are,” I said. “Nopony here is fit to fight.”
He looked over his shoulder back at me, his one good eye fixing me with a glare. “Princess Luna would want us to make our stand.”
“Princess Luna isn’t here.”
“There’s nopony else left,” he said. “It’s just us, sir. If it wasn’t us it’d be some other poor bastards. It’s just bad luck it happened to be us.”
“We’ll all be killed out there,” I said, sweeping my hoof in the direction of the door.
“No different to staying here, then. We’re all dying anyway.”
Square Basher pulled her musket from her shoulder, sat on her haunches by the door, and went about the mechanical process of loading it. Ears were folded back and her eyes wide in with fright she was doing her level best to suppress, but when she primed the pan an errant shiver of her hoof scattered much of the powder on the floor. I heard her curse under her breath, taking a second to collect herself, and she carried on. As she finished and shouldered her loaded musket, her body shook with a series of deep, heavy coughs that sounded like a bear being repeatedly struck by a train, and each time the feedbag around her nose and mouth became more and more stained with black-red flecks.
“This is no way for a soldier to die,” she said. “Sir.”
I fell into a sullen, contemplative silence once again, staring at the rank, disgusting puddle of dissolving lung tissue I had coughed up on the floor earlier. He was absolutely right; most, if not all of us, were dead ponies walking. The gas had already seen to that, and it was only a matter of time before we would succumb to it. Yet once it sunk in there was a kind of tranquility that came with this acceptance. With my fate sealed, I no longer had to consider the consequences to myself in the long term; there was only the present, the next few minutes or so, and what I could do with that little time remaining. If this was to be my end, our end, then perhaps it should have some meaning to it, and if we could take some of the bastards with us the better.
There was nothing further to say. I stood, fought off the wave of nausea and dizziness that accompanied any activity more strenuous than simply sitting there and trying to breathe, and followed Captain Red Coat outside. The soldiers, those who could, filed out after us, clutching muskets and bayonets.
The sight that greeted me as I emerged blinking into the bright sunlight was a vista of death and desolation that stretched as far as the walls itself. The malignant green fog had faded, leaving only small pools of the stuff collecting in the cracks and recesses of the ground. Here and there I could see a shallow ditch or crevice in the dry earth, and from it seeped wispy tendrils that crept along the ground with the dull, tepid breeze. Bodies twisted into unnatural angles littered the slope; some were still inside the trenches, collapsed at the base or stretched over the lip as they tried in vain to crawl out, but most had fallen as they had fled. Everything, even the plants and insects, was dead. The small trees and shrubs that had managed to eke out a modest existence in this barren wilderness had shrivelled up into jagged, broken claws that grasped in futility at the skies above. And all around, pervading this, was that sharp, acrid tang of the gas itself still lingering, which almost smothered the more earthy, familiar, but still-disgusting stench of death and blood.
Everything was dead, except us and the Changeling horde advancing up the slope.
True to Square Basher’s word, they were indeed taking their time; nothing should have survived, so why bother rushing? Yet now as still-living ponies stumbled, staggered, and crawled out of the blockhouse before them, pale and coughing up blood, the sight had stopped the entire swarm in its tracks. They were, perhaps, a scant thirty yards from us - close enough, at least, for me to see the expressions of utter shock and horror in their abominably un-equine faces. One, a figure that towered over the smaller drones that could only have been a Purestrain, stared in slack-jawed, uncomprehending disbelief at the sight of us; despite the gulf in species and differing facial structures, that look was wholly unmistakable.
The entire front few ranks of the swarm milled about in a state of confusion. Drones stopped and stared, others seemed to bicker, while the more enterprising amongst their vast number tried to ready their muskets in spite of the jostling about from their comrades. From our vantage point somewhat above them, I could see that the greater mass of the horde behind them had yet to see that, despite whatever it is their leaders had told them, there were yet ponies capable of putting up a fight. They pushed against the front ranks who, for whatever reason, seemed reluctant to advance further to sweep away the pitiful resistance our hoof-full of survivors could muster.
Captain Red Coat pulled away his makeshift mask, revealing the monument to the ravages of war that was his face, now rendered all the more horrifying with the effects of this gas. The exposed scar tissue had turned an ashen grey, such that he resembled more than ever a rotten corpse somehow given an imitation of life; certainly his stiff, lumbering gait didn’t help with that resemblance. He dragged himself along the ragged line of battle that the tattered remnants of his company had formed itself into, and then, apparently satisfied that everypony was as ready as they could ever be, drew himself next to me at the far end of the line.
He rasped out the order to present. The earth ponies aimed their muskets, squinting unsteadily down the barrels at the chaotic mess of the Changeling horde. A few in the front rank of the swarm had managed to organise themselves somewhat, and reciprocated the motion to level their own muskets in our direction. I held my breath, waiting for the storm of lead that would come our way, but, somehow, an act of Faust perhaps, we were faster.
Red Coat shouted the order, and our thin grey line barked out a thin, rippling rapport of fire. It was broken and ragged, and far from the disciplined, simultaneous volley the instruction manuals called for. The front rank of the swarm before us dropped to the ground, collapsing in a heap. Those behind stepped over the twitching, bleeding corpses of their comrades unlucky enough to have been in the front, and took aim.
This was it, I thought; the end. I closed my eyes, waiting for a tiny lead ball to rip into my flesh and send me on my way to whatever fate I deserved. It would be charitable to say that I prayed right there and then, for as a rule I try not to trouble the divine, should it exist, of my mere existence when there are rather more deserving ponies around, but I came desperately close. I heard the staccato crackle of distant musket fire, coming from the left this time, but I still flinched. My breath, what was left of it, caught in my throat, but to my surprise it was followed by another and another.
I opened my eyes. The front rank of the enemy had been decimated again by another volley, with drones lying bleeding on the ground before their comrades. Looking to the left, past our line, I saw that more survivors had witnessed our suicidal last stand and decided that they wanted to join in. They, perhaps two dozen earth ponies and unicorns, had drawn up in a line next to ours and had unleashed that second volley upon a stunned enemy.
Cannon Fodder tapped me on the shoulder and pointed past my head to the right of our formation. There, more ponies, likewise pale, limping, coughing up blood, staggered in ones and two out of the blockhouse adjacent to ours. The grey-green mist was stirred up by their hooves, lingering on matted, sweat-stained coats, to give them a horrendously ghost-like appearance. They arranged themselves into something approaching a line alongside ours, took aim, and fired a third volley into the enemy. The hail of lead crashed into the horde, felling a few more. But even if our flagging troops could keep this up, it would be no use; sooner or later the Purestrains would get their collective acts together, impose their malignant hold back over their panicked drones, and attack. I could see it; the swarm appeared to recoil from the meagre volleys like a wild animal that had been stung, but where drones had fallen to our muskets those who hadn’t lost their wits advanced to the fore.
Captain Red Coat trotted ahead of our line, drawing his hefty Pattern ‘12 sabre in a fluid motion. Standing there, almost daring the Changelings to shoot him, he reared up on his hindlegs, holding his sword as though to stab the sky above.
“We will teach the Changelings to fear the dark!” he roared, his voice cracking with a throaty gurgle. Despite the ruin in his lungs, his voice was loud and clear, cutting above the din of the skirmish. “Luna’s Own Night Guards! Fix bayonets and follow me!”
Bayonets were drawn from scabbards, and while some ponies rammed them into the smoking muzzles of their muskets, twisting to lock them in place, others simply discarded their cumbersome guns and held their blades as wicked daggers. A cheer of sorts rose up from our meagre ranks; distorted by gas-burned throats, it sounded more like the roar of daemons than any equine battle cry. Red Coat dropped to all-fours, swinging his sword in a great arc towards the oncoming horde, and the Equestrians surged forwards.
It was madness; sheer, utter, bloody, savage madness, but even I was caught up in the spirit of it all. Swept along by bloodlust and a thirst for revenge, I galloped down that slope as quickly as my broken body would allow. Our formation fell apart, splitting into smaller groups of ponies as each, suffering under gas injuries of varying severity, struggled in their own way to close the distance with the enemy. Most could gallop or at least trot, but many still could only limp along pathetically behind us. Fewer still, those whose bodies were closest to surrendering to the ravages of the gas, crawled along on their bellies, and their eyes burned with a kind of bestial hatred.
We collided with the swarm. Grey coats and grey armour rushed all around me, growling, cursing, and yelling with raspy, hoarse voices, thrusting and slashing with bayonets. I saw Red Coat himself plunge straight into the horde first, swinging his sabre down at a hapless drone that was too slow to pull the trigger of his musket. It bit into the skull, and then was torn free with a spray of ichor and grey brain matter. I was forced into the press of bodies, hacking at any sight of black chitin with my sword. What followed was a swirling mess of such savage fighting I had never seen before or since. Ponies, driven mad with the terror and pain of the gas attack, ripped mercilessly into the enemy. Those who should not have been able to even stand had pushed themselves beyond the limits of what their bodies were capable of, and stabbed, slashed, bit, stamped, and kicked at the Changelings. The famed discipline of the guardspony, touted as the thing that gave us the edge over our enemy, was utterly gone. It was no longer about victory or even mere survival, there was only vengeance.
The world darkened suddenly, like an unscheduled eclipse of the sun. Rain fell, slowly at first as huge, fat drops of water dribbled from above, then a veritable torrent of it was unleashed. It thundered down, soaking me to my skin in seconds, but the onslaught of water had dispersed the lingering wisps of the gas that had collected around our fetlocks. The dusty earth turned into a filthy, stinking grey sludge, mixed with blood and ichor and Celestia-knows what else, that squelched under my hooves. I dared to look up, away from the chaos in front of me, and above us the ponies of the MWC, clad in their sky-blue flight suits, urgently pushed huge, grey storm clouds into position directly overhead. Others hovered close by, beating their wings furiously to generate a chill wind over the battlefield.
A shrill cry of a bird of prey pierced through the clamour and noise of the battle. A flock of Griffons raced through the sky above, then the formation split into squadrons and descended upon the Changeling horde. I suppose it might have lasted five or ten minutes, but I have no way of knowing for certain. It felt like seconds, or perhaps that’s because of gaps in my memory; all that I recall are snapshots of blood and gore, the stained black and green sabre in my magic, and Changeling fangs. A stallion stamped on a fallen drone’s chest until nothing remained but an ichorous smear. Another bled profusely from a grievous wound in his neck but still he relentlessly slashed at his killer with his bayonet. We pushed forwards, driving deeper into the swarm itself, until it melted away into nothing and I stood there alone and surrounded by the dead and dying.
I staggered about in this glimpse into Tartarus in a daze. There was a sharp taste of copper in my mouth. Somewhere in that fight I’d lost my hat, and for some reason that I still can’t explain I thought it was very important that I find it. So I wandered between the mutilated bodies and the teams of medics to search for it in the mud. Stars danced in front of my eyes, and my vision swam drunkenly, veering from left to right with each step. Somepony called my name, Cannon Fodder I think, but I ignored it. A big Griffon with ichor stains on his beak seized my upper forelegs with his strong claws and barked something in my face, but I couldn’t hear or understand a word of it. I coughed blood onto his breastplate. Everything in my vision turned red, and then faded into darkness and silence.
***
I was on my back, held down by a warm and heavy rough fabric. Bright lights shone in my face. Something was stuck in my throat, all but choking me. The acid stink of the gas filled my nostrils. Obscure shapes, indistinct and fuzzy, swam before my eyes, coalescing into nightmares resembling deformed ponies. There was one by my right; a towering, monstrous figure in white and gold peering down at me. I flinched away from the creature, but a stab of pain shot through my chest.
The thing seized my hoof, but in an instant the panic that had gripped me faded. Soft, warm, and gentle, it stroked the back of my hoof in a tender way that brought back a flood of distant, happier memories of long, hot summers in Canterlot with...
“It’s alright,” said Princess Celestia. “I’m here. You’re safe.”
Trying to lift my head up made my vision lurch drunkenly, and my stomach responded in kind with an ominous gurgle, a sharp painful cramp, and the bitter tang of bile up the back of my throat. I gave up and let my head fall back onto the soft pillow and stared up at the ceiling.
“What?” I croaked out. Blinking rapidly seemed to clear my vision a little, and the blurry white-and-gold mess purporting to be Auntie ‘Tia slowly sharpened into the tall, beautiful, all-loving Princess I remembered. She smiled down at me, but her eyes were rimmed with tears that sparkled in the harsh light.
“Oh, Blueblood,” she said, holding my hoof in between hers tightly and crushing it against her soft, fluffy chest. “Something terrible happened, but you’re in the hospital now, and the doctors are going to take good care of you.”
“Oh, aye.” Another pony-shaped blob swam into view, and turned into the visage of Doctor Surgical Steel. The old stallion looked tired, with dark rings around his small eyes and a slump to his otherwise sprightly posture. “I always do. How’re tha feeling, son?”
“Could be better,” I said. It was the sort of answer that was expected; ‘alone, tired, afraid, and in agony’ would only have upset Celestia and have been of no help to anypony. My memory was fuzzy, and then and there, probably drugged up to Cloudsdale and back, I had only sharp, vivid snapshots of what I had been through. I remembered, however, my aide, and I couldn’t see him in the group around me.
“Where’s Cannon Fodder?” I asked.
“Here, sir.” The pony in the bed to my left raised a hoof and waved it in my direction. I felt an instant, gratifying sense of relief. “I’m fine, sir.”
Surgical Steel arched an eyebrow and cast his analytical gaze up and down my bed-bound form. “Your Highness,” he began, which was never a good sign as ponies only addressed me as such when about to give me bad news.
I squeezed Celestia’s hoof weakly as he continued: “Tha’s suffered damage to t’ entire respiratory system; mainly chemical burns to t’ upper airway, bronchi, mixed airway, and alveoli, resulting in a pulmonary oedema. That tube up t’ nose is what’s keeping thee alive for now, pumping pure oxygen into what’s left of your lungs. T’ good news is tha can expect to fully recover with supportive care in two to three weeks, or faster if tha had stopped smoking when I told thee to. T’ bad news is Canterlot’s sending a specialist down here to fix thee up in time for t’ Big Push.”
He shot a glare at another pony-shaped blob, this one taller and darker than he, and even with my blurred vision I could make out the disapproval etched with every line and crease on his face. This figure stood at the foot of the bed, apparently distracted by something else, turned its head and slowly, elegantly stepped closer with a familiar chime of silver horseshoes on tiles. The blob shifted into the shape of Princess Luna, whose approach sent the good doctor scurrying out of her way. Her thin lips pouted and her eyes hardened into a glare; she was angry, that much was certain, and could only just barely contain it for the sake of propriety.
“I swear,” she hissed, lips turning back into a timberwolf’s snarl, “we will make Chrysalis pay for this outrage! Poison gas! Truly, the cowardice of the enemy knows no bounds.”
“Luna,” whispered Celestia across the bed, “please, not now.”
The Princess of the Night glared at her sister, then slowly released the breath she had been holding. She turned her attention back to me, lying there helplessly and gasping for air, and her expression softened. Her hoof, cold but as gentle as the moon on a clear December night, stroked my cheek.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “You’ve been very brave, my nephew. Your valiant charge stopped the enemy from re-taking the hill and capturing our cannons. Such valour is the greatest exemplar of the most noble traditions of our Night Guard.”
Bravery had nothing to do with it, thought I; death seemed imminent and there was nothing else for it, and I would always take the slim sliver of a chance of survival over none at all. Besides, if anypony deserved whatever laurels that were to be bestowed for the charge that apparently saved the entire I Corps, though from where I was standing it seemed the MWC and the Griffons arriving right at the nick of time had more to do with stopping the Changelings than our meagre show of defiance, it was Captain Red Coat. It was he who mustered the broken remnants of the Night Guards for the famous counter-attack that had since become one of those great myths about the war; looking back, while I certainly saw expressions of shock and horror in the faces of the enemy, including the Purestrains, I sincerely doubt that they honestly thought they were being attacked by revived corpses of the dead. It was simply more likely that, as I had initially thought, they simply expected to face no resistance at all and had reacted accordingly when it became thoroughly clear that whatever Odonata or Chrysalis had reassured them was wrong.
“Red Coat?” I said. “Did he…?”
“There were too many of us,” said a voice from the bed to my right. I rolled my head over on the pillow, looking past Celestia’s larger frame to see Company Sergeant Major Square Basher lying there. She had likewise turned her head to face me, and I could see that there was a translucent tube inserted into her nostrils, which explained the unpleasant sensation I was feeling in my throat. It was a shock, however, to see this strong, physically-imposing mare laid up in bed like that, looking weak and pale. I dreaded to think how I looked.
“I don’t think we should talk about this now,” said Doctor Surgical Steel. Square Basher ignored him.
“The medics were overwhelmed, sir,” she said. “They had to help the ones they thought had the best chance of making it. They picked you, sir, and me. The Captain, they said, Red Coat was too far gone to help. He-” She stopped, sniffed sharply, and then rolled over onto her back and carried on, speaking to nopony in particular now. “A sergeant is supposed to look after her officer - make sure he keeps out of trouble, keep the troops in line for him, keep him safe.”
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t bloody fair. A medic had made the cruel calculation that my life was worth saving over Red Coat’s, and that’s why I lay in this soft bed while his body was being boxed up and shipped back to his family with our flag draped over it. There was nothing but this hollow, empty sensation of numbness in the pit of my stomach. All I could do was lie back and stare at the ceiling with its faded, cracking paint, and think how it could, should, have been me. Then Luna had to speak.
“A glorious end,” she said solemnly, bowing her head. “There is no higher honour. We will remember him.”
Shut up. That’s what I wanted to tell her, and I’d wanted to say that to her for quite a while now. There was nothing glorious about Red Coat’s death, or that of any other pony in this damned war, and yet I found myself incapable of voicing that sentiment. Princess Luna meant well, of course; it was the sort of thing that a princess was supposed to say when confronted with this sort of thing, and as I lay there on the bed, gazing up at her with her head lowered in what looked like an earnest mark of respect for the fallen warrior, I wondered too if she in truth felt the same way that I did. Perhaps, I thought, the two of us were not so different, really. We were both royalty, for one, bound by the iron chain of tradition and propriety that forbids us from voicing the inner truth of our feelings. Just as I could not tell Luna that her words of glory and honour in death were merely convenient lies to perpetuate this awful war, she too could do little more than parrot such notions to justify to herself and her subjects, as all leaders must, that it was all worth it in the end.
She meant well; ponies only ever mean well.
The time slipped by strangely. Celestia and Luna remained by my side, though I fear I was hardly a considerate host. From time to time one or the other would drift away and speak with the other patients or the doctors and nurses. Visiting hours were soon over, however, more quickly than one expects, and Doctor Surgical Steel returned to shoo the Princesses away. Celestia squeezed my hoof and kissed me on the forehead, like she used to do when I was a colt, and stepped away. Luna protested a little, but the doctor had managed what I thought was impossible for mortal ponies and pulled rank on the Princess - in this hospital the word of the doctors and nurses was law, and she needed to leave. As she sullenly slipped away, the noise of her hooves striking the tiles somehow dimmed and lacklustre compared to their usual sharpness, she looked at me over her shoulder and seemed to mouth the words ‘I’m sorry’.
Alone, exhausted, and thoroughly miserable, I thought to rest my eyes for a moment, and found that I slipped into a fitful sleep. Yet even slumber was no escape for me from the war, for I dreamt of wading through a fetlook-deep pool of blood, sticky, thick, and congealing around my hooves. It stretched from horizon to horizon, and stank of decay. In the receding darkness I thought to see flickers of shapes resembling ponies in armour, stalking aimlessly through this vast, endless sea of blood, searching for something. When I looked down, I saw that the ichor through which I waded was not red, but a deep and unnatural shade of darkest blue.
Above, the sky was leaden with an impenetrable overcast of clouds. Yet, as I wandered alone, a small crack of light splintered the heavens. A single beam of cold, white moonlight shone from this hole in the sky, cast down onto a single spot but a short distance away from me. A tall, dark figure sat on her haunches with her head bowed in the centre of this bright spot, and I saw that this lake of gore receded from the touch of this blessed light.
I stumbled towards her. There, Princess Luna, lifted her head and watched me approach with her usual stern, cold, patrician bearing. My hooves splashed in the blood, staining my coat this peculiar, sickly shade of blue until they resembled dapples. As I stepped into this cone of moonlight, however, this ichor evaporated away, leaving my pristine white coat clean.
The ground beneath my hooves was polished marble, as I stood there and stared at Luna, unsure of what to say or do. Around us, beyond the reach of the light, the nightmare continued, though it seemed to slowly shrink away.
“Auntie, I-” The words got stuck in my throat; how could I possibly explain what I felt, what I was going through? What mere equine language could possibly give even the slightest indication of the depths I had fallen to?
“I know,” said Luna. She stretched out her forelegs wide invitingly. “It’s alright, Blueblood. I’m here.”
I staggered forwards, and then fell into her embrace.
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This just took a big flying leap into World War 1, while Equestria is still stuck with 17th century warfare.
Assault of the Dead men.
Another month, another great chapter to this saga.
Jeez, it kind of make sense that it would be Chrysalis who would come up with poison gas but damn this was horrifying. Did you read biographie and records of WWI for this chapter? But why didn't the canon on Equestria side fire on the approaching hoard? Did the gas reach them too? Did the Changelings timed their shot with the wind changing direction?
The part with Celestia and Luna was really touching and it must be hell for Celestia who raised Blueblood. But it's Luna and her dominions over the dreams that make this interesting. She probably know way more about Blueblood, his thoughts, his presumed view on himself that ignore all the bravery he is capable of and how little he value himself in face of the others. The Trauma and horrors Luna must be culling every nights...
I was surprised that there wasn't more comments from Celestia on this chapter, especially the ending part but seeing the horror of the event or how personal that last part was, she probably abstained from writing anything because it would feel hollow. Fitting.
But still, getting put back on the battlefield so fast? I am of the same opinion as the Doctor, that excessively cruel and reckless (at least that's what I felt he didn't say).
But damn I know Red Coat was going to die since he was propped up in the earlier chapters. I was hoping he would have been there for a couple more "books" since I found him interesting but alas, the war claim another victim.
How he is getting attached to Slab is both adorable and cause worry for his mental state.
Here is what I think the information to deduct and fallout of this chapter could be:
- the expedite research on military gas mask and their production. (A model per species I guess.
- General Garden Market must be fuming that her plan got derailed like this.
- the other fronts could have suffered from the same type of attack or will soon before the ponies adapt to the strategy.
- they now have muskets from the fallen changelings. That mean they now have clues to find their makers and if they were stolen or sold to the Changelings.
- the Changelings have access to mortars and probably other pieces of artillery. Not good.
- they have a way to manufacture poison gas. Frightening enough but it's not something they can produce naturally. That mean some of the hives have the infrastructure to make this and they have a way to aquire the base components or someone is selling them the mixture along the musket and Artillery. But with a name like Chrysalis Gas, it feels like the first option is more likely.
- despite the hive mind, the drones were really poor user of the musket they had. The shock must have been too great or they have poor drilling in using those. Maybe a mix of those.
- there is likely more than a few Purestrain in the fort on top of their General. That's logical to hold a Fort-city like this one but that's worrying.
- the fact that there was little perceived actions from the Changelings hoards during almost a year is kind of indicating that they were up to something. I guess the usual army stuff is obvious like fortifying their position, breeding new drones, gathering ressources, moving troops, spying, assassination and sabotage, etc. All of this was happening on Equestria side too but the lack of reaction or big news from the other fronts mean they were probably stalling for time. And in MLP/WH40K? That can mean anything like: searching for ancient a magical artefacts in ruins, making a deal with another faction or since they are Changelings manipulating other nations to do their bidding, making new monsters, massive rituals, super weapons, etc. Chrysalis probably have multiple plans in the oven.
10627630
Thanks! I was a bit nervous about this one.
Yes, I did do a lot of research into this, in particular first hand accounts of survivors of gas attacks on the Western front. This being Blueblood's own myopic view of things on the ground, there are two possibilities - one is that the gas did reach the artillery, and the second is that the artillery held fire for fear of hitting any survivors and, this being a new weapon, nopony knew how to react. Of course, we'll have to wait for Celestia to add extracts from history books to this for more detail.
Alas, that's the fate of characters in war fics. I did agonise for ages over Red Coat's fate, but I feel that for the purposes of the story that I want to tell it's the right choice. Anyone can die.
10627834
Well, I guess we will need another character to fill the wh40k cyborg placeholder.
There is a feeling that this will also be a magi-science field that will see rapid development within the story.
10627834
Reminded me of the Attack of the Dead Men, right down to the chlorine gas attack.
Attack of the Dead Men - Wikipedia
We’re re-enacting the battle of kunersdorf, which asshole brought mustard gas?
This was a good chapter
10628055
Exactly. And because it must be posted.
I love this chapter.
Can't wait for the next one
Huh... wow, thought about it and with that new gas weapon the importance of Cloudsdale Weather Pegasi troops will be of even greater importance within the army. The need for water to cancel the gas and wind to disperse or direct it towards somewhere armless will be crucial.
That good for Cloudsdale recognition but bad for the Equestrian overall side because it ties a lot more Pegasi to that unit who will have to hang in the back at the ready and not in the thick of the fighting to counter Changelings flyers. Ponies could counter with bad weather for flying but they can't conjure a proper storm that easily and it would also create bad conditions for the rest of the ponies. Changelings might gain air superiority where they can deploy Chrysalis gas if the ponies does find a tactic to compensate.
They have only so much Griffons in their army, cloud Fort are probably very static and hard to use, as for blimps... we need to see how they would fair as mobile fortresses for the flyers and Artillery post but...
Also the need for water on the front probably doubled with that new gas. Emergency showers, water for treatment in the medic tents, etc. Logistics, Engineering and R&D might have to put their head together to solve this problems. Drinkable water was already a luxury in that desert...
This is the scariest chapter yet. The sheer terror in everyone present is amazingly evocative. And having read some diaries from soldiers who lived through gas barrages, you seem to have written it flawlessly.
Also back a dozen or two chapters wasn't there a bit iwth the Wonderbolts and trying to weaponize the weather?
This war is hell, and escalating something fierce.
So the gas comes out eh? Turnabout being fair play, it is time to bring out the shotguns.
In the First World War there was a Russian fortification that the Germans gassed the defenders. The Russians had no gas masks etc. They launched a counter attack against the Germans suffering the effects of the gas. When the Germans saw the corpse like men, faces wrapped in bloody rags it was as if the dead had risen up against them and they fell back.
This chapter reminded me of that.
10629768
Oh yes, I had that in mind, though getting first hand accounts from the Eastern Front is a bit trickier. Something similar happened in the Second Battle of Ypres, when Canadian and assorted French and French colonial units counter-charged a German assault after a gas attack knocked a hole in the Entente's frontline, which is where I did most of my research.
I didn't expect the gas attack but you managed to portray the horror of chemical warfare in the trenches in a very vivid way.
I wonder how the ponies will adapt their strategies (or worse, how they will not, in pure WW1 armchair general fashion).
Seeing Red Coat go like that was very saddening. I had expected him to survive and look even worse than before, a living testament to the horrors of war. But I understand why you took that decision. War is hell, after all.
i.imgur.com/LrynIAc.jpg
That was a horrifying look into our own history... and I will miss Red, I liked him as a character. Now I wonder if the one of the princesses will drop an asteroid on Chrysalis's hive in retribution... Or maybe it will give Luna an idea on a new superweapon...
derpicdn.net/img/2019/12/17/2223141/large.png
10629762
I would say that they're already using shotguns, more of less. The muskets are most likely smooth bore flintlock or matchlock guns. Oftentimes loaded with a "buck and ball" load. Round ball may actually be better as it has to get past the changeling chiton to do serious damage.
This chapter hit me a truck.Im a weak bastard and got teary eyed at the end. Simply wow.Everything about this chapter was amazing.The confusion as the Gas hit.This stunned atmosphere..Helpessness. Horror of it all and the Resolve of Red Coat and others in this sytuation. This was amazing potreyal. I can only imagine how it was for real soldiers during World War 1. Fantastic writing.
Thank you for taking your time writing this fic. Your fiction made me read Ciapias Cain books as i wanted more this all. I was worried i would be spoiling myself heavily but yet here we go.You managed to put your own orginality throught out entire fic . Brilliant.
Im looking forward to more!!
10632098
I was thinking more Winchester 1897 trench gun. Nothing says fuck you like 5 rounds of slamfire 00 buck.
10627834
If you eventually introduce WW2-era vehicles into the Blueblood Chronicles, I recommend checking out videos from the German War Files. They cover Panzers, the Stugs & Hummel guns, various planes, and submarines. The full set of videos can be purchased from Magic DVD, note that Youtube's collection is incomplete and has bad sound mixing.
The German War Files - Panzer V
Great story can't wait for updates
Gr8 chapter.
Brilliant even to the point that I had to comment.
2 points for you to consider
1 - if you pomp "pure oxygen" into lungs you will cause more damage ... that's why the first pomp's used to "help" people sick of "the current unpleasantness" were destroying lungs of patients faster then the virus. Pressure is also a thing to keep in mind.
2 - three weeks to recover from a gas attack ? That's some serous plot armor.
10637413
The doctor said 'for now', but I see your point. Chalk it up to Blueblood not paying attention (and my unfamiliarity with medical things).
The research I conducted indicated that one recover from chlorine gas poisoning in a matter of weeks if emergency care is provided very quickly. Also, I've indicated elsewhere in this series that the Royal Guard makes use of alchemy to enhance healing.
This chapter made me cry. First, with the gryphons swooping in like Tolkien's eagles. Then later, in the hospital, learning that Red Coat hadn't made it. And finally, with Luna's embrace in the center of Blueblood's nightmare.
Good work.
The changelings have upped the ante arms wise. Is it Chainsword time?
I rarely comment on the new chapters, but this time I cannot stay silent. This was an absolutely superb piece, definitely the strongest and the most emotional chapter of this whole story.
I look forward to the inevitable fallout that will follow. One point that I think no one in the comments mentioned yet, I wonder if there's going to be a reaction from Twilight?
10628636
Dang it, I was actually planning on posting that song! XD
I find it rather rich that luna would claim cowardice on the part of the changelings while her Army's strategy of busting into a city presumably filled with civilians while a series of cannons turn the enemy army into piles of gore from thousands of feet away. and their apparent goal is the outright extinction of their entire race. Course my armchair moralizing probably doesnt help but I've always been of the opinion that if peace is a lasting goal war should be miserable as possible for those fighting it and that civilian casualties only calls the nation involved to sink to ever lower blood frenzy
It is a little odd I find myself rooting for the changelings despite what most would consider a depraved war crime of the highest order but it helps that the equestrian military is incompetently arrogant all the way up to princess luna and theres a sick satification in watching them be repeatedly taken down several pegs as the hell of war continues
To those of you curious as to why I think civilian casualties should generally be avoided tactically is the understanding that if you make the war personal to the citizenry they will bay for your blood as their homes and families are threatened. Which Adolf likely should have foreseen and not bombed London when apparently public support of war with nazi germany had people pushing for peace, at least until the german airforce in what I can only assume is a misguided attempt to break the morale of the british people into surrendering. Those of you pointing out Japans surrender when their civilians were nuked I am led to believe that what amounted to a military coup is what forced japans surrender.
Attack of the dead men. I do believe this is where the author Drew inspiration correct me if I'm wrong now in a wonderful video format.
According to the internet, lungs can heal themselves. After poison gas exposure? Probably most will heal more or less completely if given good food + good rehab. Some will develop chronic health problems.
So, yes, if given prompt medical treatment Red Coat could have survived & even likely recovered.
Blue Blood seems to have PTSD + Survivors Guilt.
Not fair. That's not fair! It's against the rules!
10898815
Expect the captured ponies aren’t “civilians” they are slaves where death would probably be a preferred alternative than their current lives.
Getting nazi vibes here. Not quite familiar with mustered gas but I know it recks havoc in the lungs
Given the technology shown so far, I was expecting quick lime shells to make an appearance at some point. changelings opening with chlorine gas was a bit of a well placed blindside.
Attack of the Dead Men. This chapter has shades of that battle.