When your only means of communicating are through letters across the world through two major wars, long-distance relationships are tough. Especially when it's for ten years. But as the fire consumes the world, they also are the only way to go on.
Paige and Cyril are a bit of an odd pair. She's a Riverlands pegasus traveling to Equestria. He's a griffon soldier in the Reichsarmee trying to live up to the family name. But when they meet, it seems like they might be able to move past those differences and make it work. Except this is the year 1007 ALB, the year of great change in the world. And the only way these two are going to stay anywhere near in contact for the next ten years is through their letters, through multiple wars, occupation, POW camps and the insanity of the world itself. Join them on this incredible journey through their pens, as the faith of talking to someone a world away is the only thing keeping these two together.
Warning: profanity, graphic descriptions of violence, scenes of war and psychological trauma
This fic is based on the events in Equestria at War, a mod for the game Hearts of Iron IV, and Griffonia at War, a submod for the same game.
Cover art credit goes to independant artist, loki!
A similar map of Zebrica, the southern continent, though admittedly without color, also by CopyOkapi, also on the reddit! https://i.redd.it/k4oi8sew22y91.png
The sea breeze always blew in warm and gentle from Sky Bay this time of year, carrying the salt smell over the port city. Rottendedam was one of the primary ports of the Griffonian Empire left in the current day. White and tan houses hugged the waterfront, an abundance of bridges, docks and quays let the entire city access the port as griffons went about their day. Rottendedam was a center of commerce, tourism and colonial power, which to contrast also bloomed the gardens it was so proud of, primarily tulips but also other flowers as well. Griffons didn’t usually carry such a reputation of being good gardeners, but Feathisians were proud of this niche part of their heritage. The old city held onto its charm compared to many other griffon towns of similar age or more, and a large part of that was the color and vibrancy of these flower gardens. Another part was the bright and chipper character of the residents as well.
Cyril had to admit, compared to many other places in the Empire, Feathisia certainly felt a step and above more cheerful. The young griffon compared the lanes of cheerful market-goers and happy gossip to Griffenheim, and the difference was startling. Even in the grips of an economic crisis, the Rottendedam locals seemed optimistic, hopeful. He passed a police officer in his blue uniform, the lawgriff tipping his helmet in greeting before going on down the street at an easy amble, whistling casually. A shopkeeper haggled with a customer, and after only a few seconds of easy conversation, the two parted on good terms. A cluster of chicks poured past, chasing a wooden hoop down the cobblestone lane. Quite a scene.
Much as he liked taking in the sights here, Cyril sighed and continued onwards. He had a reason for being here, and while there was no rush the sooner he got it over with, the better. He liked touring Rottendedam, and as such the fact he had to be here for unpleasant business left a bad taste in his beak. So, he squared his shoulders, flicked his wings and continued down the boulevard towards the harbor.
This opened into a plaza of sorts, where tables and chairs were assembled towards a rope barrier, overlooking the ships in port, a cruiser from the Ducal Fleet anchored further out overshadowing the fishing boats and cargo trawlers. Here the sea breeze was especially prominent, the salt air a constant to his senses so he had to struggle to smell the cafe nearby, busy serving girls rushing platters back and forth, taking orders while fending off the advances and flirtatious nature of the unruly sailor griffs mixed into the common crowd here. The smell of roasted fish and salted pretzels rolled over Cyril, and he considered stopping to get a bite to eat. His unpleasant task might be easier with a full stomach, after all.
It was then that, for just a moment, the crowd enjoying their lunch parted a quick moment, and he got a rare look through the griffons in his way to the other side. In another story, Cyril might have rolled his eyes, insisting there was never a storybook moment like this in real life, cynical griffon that he was.
But there she was. On the other side of the plaza, studying a book in front of her with rapt attention, a plate of pretzels in front of her as well as what looked like some sort of sandwich. Cyril knew Rottendedam had a pony minority from across the sea, but he still hadn’t seen or met many personally in his life. She drew his curiosity for a moment in that base manner of spotting something new and different, a break from the banal of his life. Her coat was a pleasant off-white shade, her curly mane a light grey with a single purple stripe. The wings on her back fluttered idly as she studied whatever was in front of her, and that emblem the ponies called a ‘Cutie Mark’ was an open book with a quill. Her colors seemed to shoot out in the mostly tan and brown city, surrounded by griffons in ordinary drab clothing, and Cyril’s eye was caught by her stark coloration. Something drew him in, and he began to press into the crowd.
But then the cruiser in the harbor blew her horn, a sign of departure, and Cyril started at the noise, looking first to the warship, then to the tall structure across the bay. The Vlootacadamie stood tall and imposing, a sign of Imperial glory in the city. What was he doing? He had a goal here, one he needed to accomplish today. He sighed, shaking his head as he began exiting the crowd again. No reason for him to get sidetracked just because of a mare that caught his eye. He glanced over her way, then stopped again. He couldn’t hear from across the plaza with so much noise, but three griffons had stepped towards her, townies who were approaching. And Cyril didn’t like the look on their faces.
He glanced up at the Vlootacadamie in the distance, then back to the pegasus. She might not be in trouble. For all he knew, the mare was more than capable of handling herself. But the situation still bothered him. He looked up at the structure once more, then down to his uniform and back up to the mare, who had just realized the three griffons were making a ring around her.
“Boreas dammit,” he cursed, pushing through the crowd more forcefully now. He was across the plaza in seconds, leaving many griffons in startled protest and annoyed at the rough treatment. But he finally could hear what they were saying.
“Listen darling,” one said, leaning over close to her, an arm around her back as his talons lightly scraped the table. “You shouldn’t be out and about by yourself. Ponies in Feathisia aren’t very liked, ja? You could be in danger.”
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” the pegasus replied cautiously, glancing back and forth between the griffs around her. Her Herzlandisch had an accent, clipped and refined, from someplace definitely not within the Empire. “Please, I’m just trying to eat some lunch.”
“Don’t be so rude, schatje,” said a second griffon. These drakes looked like merchant marine sailors, griffs who manned the cargo ships and came into port only once every few months. So, of course they were the type to come let off some steam by looking for a good time. Or a bad one. “We’re just trying to have some fun.”
“Listen, I should go,” the mare said, standing from her seat and slipping beneath the arm of the first griffon. But the third one, easily the largest of the group, planted himself in her way, leering down.
“Who said you could leave?” he rumbled. The pegasus grit her teeth, glancing around nervously.
Abruptly, the second griffon was yanked back by his shirt collar, dumped to the cobblestones of the plaza. The first whirled around at the noise, only to be shoved back into a table, sent tumbling over steins. Cyril turned to look up at the burly griffon, who was just as flummoxed by the young soldier suddenly appearing in their midst.
“How about you back off, before I claw your eyes out?” he hissed, tail whipping in agitation.
“Piss off, Herzlander,” the burly griff growled back. “This has got nothing to do with you. Don’t care if you’re Reichsarmee, I’ll dump your corpse in the harbor if I have to. No love lost here.”
“She already said she’s not interested,” Cyril glared, not flinching a step back, even as he could hear the other two getting to their feet behind him. “So step. Back.”
Cyril was under no illusions. He wore his grey Imperial Guard uniform and nothing else. No enchanted knight’s plate, no flak jacket, nothing but cloth. But finally faced with somegriff that appeared to be an actual threat, and drawing the stares of the entire plaza, the three sailors’ courage dried up.
“Let’s go,” burly griff muttered, turning to shove through the crowd. His companions, now without their heavy hitter, turned and ran after him, one giving a last glance at Cyril and flaring his wings as a threat. But the soldier stood strong, and held his position as the attackers retreated. Only once they were out of sight and the crowd filled back in behind them did he let a breath out of his beak, one he didn’t even realize he’d been holding.
“Good riddance,” he muttered as the adrenaline bled off him, leaving him shakey as he turned back to check on his would-be victim. “Fraulein, are you-“
But instead of finding her a quivering mess, on the ground trying to cope with the situation as he’d expected, the Pegasus was instead seated back at her table, chewing on a pretzel thoughtfully, watching him carefully. Her eyes were purple, he saw. A very odd shade that reminded him of a cluster of crystals he’d seen used in making enchanted metals. He blinked, surprised in more ways than one.
“...alright?” he finished, though his question was certainly answered.
Fortunately, she smiled back, finishing her bite of pretzel. “My hero,” she replied in that accented voice, and he couldn’t help but feel she was teasing him a little. She gestured to the chair across from her. “Do you have a moment for your damsel in distress?”
He scoffed, rubbing his beak before he grunted, taking the seat she offered. Suddenly feeling very foolish, he shifted awkwardly. All his bravado, stolen by a simple gesture.
“It’s alright,” the mare said again, holding up a hoof to the passing server. “Can I get a Braufenweisen for my rescuer?” She glanced over at him once more. “I assumed that would be alright? You look like a Braufen griff.”
“It’s fine,” he muttered, watching her carefully. It was true that Braufenweisen was his favored drink, but how did she know that?
“Most Herzlanders, especially Imperial military, drink Braufenweisen just out of tradition,” she explained as if she could read his mind. “Not to my taste personally, but I understand the appeal.” She held a hoof across the table to him. “Paige Turner.”
“Cyril Duskwing,” he replied, taking her hoof uncertainly and giving it an awkward shake, unsure of himself again. She was unlike most ponies he’d heard of, who were so brimming with overwhelming ‘positive’ energy and feelings of ‘harmony’. Then again, most of those stories were about Equestria. Was she a Riverlands pony?
The confidence in her face suddenly shifted, and now she was the one looking awkward. “Right, sorry. You did do me a favor with that rescue, I shouldn't be making you uncomfortable.”
Cyril chuckled, reaching over and toying with a pretzel. “Something tells me you might have at least had it under control, right?”
Paige smirked again, some of her confidence coming back. “I grew up in Rijekograd. Socialist protests every other week. Not my first time in a bad situation, sorry to say.”
“Sounds like my intervention was...unnecessary, then,” Cyril replied, taking the offered bottle as the server returned, smacking the cap off on the edge of the table. “Cheers.”
She lifted her own tankard, and the two clinked a quick toast before taking large gulps. At the end, she smacked her lips, closing up her book to make sure it didn’t get stained.
“No, I -am- very grateful. Three on one is never good, and no matter the race a female can’t say she doesn’t like being rescued by a male in uniform.”
She smiled again, the good kind that he liked that made him buzz at the base of his hind paws, and he was certain he hadn’t drank enough for it to be the beer. He took another sip, trying to distract himself a moment.
She gave him a quick up and down, checking his lapels for a rank pin and the state of his uniform, while inspecting his face once more. Young, barely enlistment age, black feathers with a strong axebeak. The poster child of an Imperial soldier.
“What’s a Herzlander Guardsgriff doing out in Feathisia? You’re a ways from home.”
“Military business. Of a family matter,” he replied, shrugging as he knew it made little sense.
“Military family then? Old tradition?” Paige asked, idly blowing a lock of grey and purple mane out of her eyes, her attention locked in on him. Truthfully, Cyril hadn’t felt this much like the object of such intense focus since Reichsarmee training, when the instructors were looking for any fault to punish, harshly.
“You could say that,” Cyril replied dryly, taking another gulp of the beer. “You’re very observant.”
“I recognized the name. I learned Herzlandisch by reading newspapers. A LOT of newspapers.
“Oh, then you saw my name all the time,” Cyril said, chortling before taking another drink. “Not that it's done me any favors. Suddenly, just because I’m a Duskwing I'm supposed to be an ubergriff, or I can get favors or a hundred other things.”
“Sounds rough…” Paige replied, frowning as she went from studying Cyril to her drink. “My family’s all noponies. My mother works with clocks while my father mans a riverbarge hauling freight.”
“Rijekograd, right?” Now it was Cyril’s turn to arch an eyebrow. “So what are -you- doing on the other side of Griffonia?”
“Ah, you’re smarter than you look, Herr Duskwing,” Paige chuckled, pleased to have her own game turned on her out of the blue for once.
“Nah, just a little snap reasoning,” Cyril replied, smiling back. ”Now c’mon, out with it. What’s the story?”
She smiled back, pointing down next to her seat, where he finally spotted a single suitcase, up on its side with the handle folded and wheels sticking out.
“I’ve been accepted for a scholarship at the Luna Nova Academy. It's an amazing opportunity, and the best place to study advanced magical theory.”
“Magical theory? But you’re-”
“A Pegasus? Yes, I'm aware -I- can’t cast magic, but there’s far more to study than practical usage! According to Star Swirl’s theory of manativity, for example, the energies of both magic and life can be said to run parallel with each other, rather than one dominating over the other! And I'm going to be looking into that!” Paige was practically giddy in her seat, bouncing with glee as she chartered off obscure knowledge of magics that were of little use to Cyril himself. “Isn’t that amazing? Imagine the kind of work I can do!”
Cyril blinked slowly, not sure what to say, and the off-white mare began spinning down from her intellectual enthusiasm, realizing she may be speaking over his head. Now a bit sheepish, she merely shrugged.
“It's an amazing opportunity, is all. And my boat leaves tonight.”
“Tonight?” Cyril tried to keep the disappointment out of his tone. After all this time, and pretzels and beer, he’d started giving a bit more thought to the idea of asking to spend more time with her. But if she was leaving… “Well, good for you. I’m uh...certain you’ll do well.”
Paige gave him an odd look there, tilting her head to the side. “You really mean it?”
Now even more confused, Cyril went with it. After all, she was leaving, what could a little unfounded positivity hurt? “Well, yeah sure. You seem like a smart filly. Way smarter than me, anyway.”
“You’re not as dumb as you think Cyril,” Paige returned, continuing to fix him with that odd expression before she smiled and asked “Hey, weird question; do you want to keep in touch?”
“Keep in touch?”
“Okay, are you a griffon or a parrot now?” She giggled, and he coughed, no obvious response coming to mind. “By letter. I...kinda feel like I want to keep talking to you. But if you have to head east, and I’m going west, that's going to complicate things, yeah?”
She pulled a piece of paper and a quill from her bag, rummaging for ink. “I can’t say when I’ll be set up, but I know the Academy’s address.”
Abruptly, he was reaching across the table, tearing the paper in half and picking up the quill. “Then you should send me a letter first, Ja? After all, my mother's address isn’t changing. You can let me know when you’re set up.”
He smiled at her, and she smiled back, delighting at the practical genius of the seemingly small detail that had shot over her head.
“Okay. I think I'd like that.”
With that, reluctant to part, the two ordered another round of pretzels and beer, spending the next hour talking about Griffonia, Equestria, arguing about history, pointing out things in the harbor, ignoring the stares sent their way by the crowd. By the time the two finally rose and moved away, they were speaking like old friends who would dearly miss the other’s company.
Little did they know as they went their separate ways, the two would not meet in person again for ten years.
Vlootacadamie “You’re looking good, Cyril.” General August Duskwing, member of the Imperial general staff, glanced up from his paperwork, looking over the young griffon in his fresh Reichsarmee uniform before returning to his work. “Hope you’re not here asking favors already.”
“No, Uncle.” Cyril fidgeted awkwardly, glancing around the general’s office. Temporary though it had been, this place was General Duskwing’s for several weeks, and it showed from the handful of certifications and novels he’d brought, a couple of them being ones he had authored on modern infantry tactics. “Mother said you wanted to speak with me?”
“And you came out to Feathisia to do it?” Duskwing’s tone was both humored and a bit dumbfounded at that.
“I assumed you’d be too busy once you returned to your duties.”
Duskwing thought that over for a moment, then nodded slowly, understanding. “I suppose I have little time for home life these days. I apologize, Nephew.”
The general shut his current book before looking up at his nephew more carefully, more studiously.
“You’re going to embark on a great journey, Cyril. Things in the world are changing, and the Empire must change with it. Before your father died, I promised him I'd look out for you. But Duskwings don’t ride off each other, we make our own glory. So I let you go through training, alone. And you did outstanding. But now comes the part where I step in.”
The general tapped his talons on the desk, pondering a moment as Cyril watched carefully, wondering where August was going with this line of reasoning.
“General Synovial believes we are ready to field our own separate panzerwaffen formations. I’ve been working with him during exercises, and we have a new prototype landship to replace the Airbender. Nephew...I can pull a few strings, and get you assigned to the first panzer division in training. You’ll literally be making history for the Empire. And it's much better than being some grunt in the trenches. So...what do you say?”
SS Jolly Sea Jewel As the passenger liner finally pulled far enough away that Griffonia disappeared over the horizon, Paige felt a pang in her chest, her wings ruffling anxiously. Even before she left Rijekograd, she’d been experiencing apprehension, homesickness and a little paranoia. The River Union was unstable, risky territory, but Equestria wasn’t entirely safe either as the Changelings over the border proved. What if she wasn’t good enough for the Academy? What if she got deported?
She wished she’d had more time to talk to Cyril about things. They were just getting to know each other and now they were going to be half a world apart.
Well, they had their letters to look forward to, and she’d have to simply work towards getting a ticket back to the Empire during a break when she could manage it. That was still entirely feasible.
The world couldn’t change that much before then, right?
First, let me express condolences for the death of your Emperor. I only heard the news after I'd just gotten off the boat in Manehattan. Your homeland and mine haven’t had the best of relations in history, but I understand Grover V did his best with a bad plate, and genuinely cared for his subjects. I’m sure you’re devastated.
On a brighter note, Equestria is such a marvelous place. I’ve never seen a land so bright and lit up. I’ve only seen Manehattan and the countryside, but so far it's unlike anything back in Griffonia. I’m writing this on the train, but I’ll be sure to send it once I stop at the end. Should give me a day or two to get it written up.
I keep thinking about our conversation before we said goodbye, in Rottendedam. I know it was literally the only thing we said to each other, but it still sticks in my head regardless. I find that, despite having just met you a week or so ago, I miss you already. Strange, isn’t it?
Wishing you well,
-Paige
Sent April 16th, 1007
Paige,
Thanks for your words. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel about the Emperor’s death. He’s such a distant figure on the throne, sometimes it's hard to relate. The whole Empire mourns, however.
The Empire’s in chaos right now. The Regency Council is doing their best to hold things together, but from what I hear Griffenheim’s become a political shit pile. The Archon and the Duchess of Strawberry are having it out, and apparently they’re giving high-level commoners the vote alongside nobles in the palace. Things must be more desperate than even I thought. Every griff's trying to take what they can, sometimes I wonder if anyone’s trying to save it. Sunstriker Clan broke ranks with us as soon as word of the Emperor's death got out. Let’s hope those traitors are the last.
I’ve been assigned to the ‘Synovial’ division, a panzer testing unit. It's strange to jump from infantry tactics to panzer, much more technical. They’re running us on these new prototypes, something called an ‘LI-1’. Not too sure how it differs from the old Airbenders I see parked in the yards here, but from what I hear it's supposed to be the end result of study with the Changelings. I will say, it's nice to be inside of something instead of trekking across muddy fields. They’re talking about big changes to come. I don’t know how I feel about that.
Some news of your home, in case you were wondering and the newspapers out there hadn’t updated you yet. Chancellor River Swirl won your election. I wouldn’t even have known if I hadn’t been watching the papers. You kind of opened my eyes to the wider world, and now I’m not sure I can go back from that now.
I think back on our talk too. Rottendedam was just a few weeks ago, but I miss you too. Writing this feels like the only thing left that’s normal these days.
I remembered something you said last time while I was out on the town. I’m sending a few fliers from the university of Griffenheim in this envelope, stuff about a lecture on theoretical enchantments. I know it's not the newspapers you were all about, but I hope some of the more intellectual terms would give you a challenge to learn. Maybe not.
I’ll write again when I can.
-Cyril
Sent May 9th, 1007
Dear Cyril,
Thank you so much for the fliers. It's fascinating to read about the university’s curriculum in a different language. Herzlandisch was always a challenge for me, so you’ve provided me with plenty of entertainment. Though, I’m afraid I already know most of what they have to offer me.
I’m settled in to the university. It's a wounderous place, full of bright minds. I don’t know what I expected, but I’m surrounded by prodigies who are even younger than I am. I’m suddenly so nervous. Classes are supposed to start soon, and then I can get a measure of myself, I suppose. I've been studying like mad in the meantime. The library is plenty well-stocked with far more advanced technical tomes and scrolls than I had imagined.
I found out something fascinating while I was here. Apparently there's a healthy population of batponies in Equestria, though you’d probably know them better as thestrals. There haven’t been thestrals in the Riverlands since, well, ever. Or at least, it's not well covered. My roommate Gloaming Bright is one, but she’s not eager to open up. I think she’s a bit defensive. There’s not many other thestrals here, if any. I want to say I understand her situation, given I’m the only Riverpony here I know of, but somehow I think it's not the same.
It's interesting what you’re describing. I’m not much into mechanical engineering myself, but I do know Changelings have some of the best technical knowledge in the world. That’s going to be some top quality machinery you’re in, if it had their input. Are you sure you’re allowed to talk about military hardware like that?
Its later. I started this letter earlier, but I stopped for a while. I knew I'd miss home, but I didn't think it would be this bad already. I haven’t even heard from my parents yet. Or my other friends. Just you so far.
Thank you, Cyril.
Sincerely,
-Paige
Sent May 28th, 1007
Paige,
I’ve heard about thestrals before, but they were always stories, just a legend about creatures of the night come to snatch bad chicks from their beds. I had no idea they were real. That’s a little unnerving. If half the tales about them are true, you need to watch yourself. I have no idea why Equestria would let such creatures into their academies. Just watch yourself around them.
The tension is getting worse over here. As well as our problems at home, Longsword just broke into a civil war a few weeks back. You probably read about it in the news. Could be that’s why mail from your home is having trouble getting through. Still, can’t say no one saw it coming. Only so long you can push creatures around, ponies or griffons, before somecreature snaps.
I’ll tell you what I’ve read up on from the Riverlands. Apparently, after the coup Lake City installed some Prince. So much for democracy. I don’t know much about the underlying history there aside from what public school taught me, and that was still a bit lacking. Apparently there’s some other tensions going on in the east, so much so that the Order of Hellquill actually starting building a grand fortification project, something called the ‘Ostwall’. I don’t know much aside from what I’ve been briefed, and that didn’t tell us too much either. You’re average Imperial grunt isn’t very smart. A lot of us can’t even read. Most of us enlisted either out of family pride or because there aren’t many options outside of the elite merchant and scholar families. It's just kind of our fate.
One more thing, you probably haven’t heard but the Reformistan has been suppressed in the east. Apparently, they stopped being very popular in the Griffkrieg Basin. Most of us are saying good riddance. They have a bad rap here too, rest assured. A few of them came west from the fighting in Longsword and the purges in Hellquill. From what I heard, they were shot.
On that subject, I got a letter from my uncle. Apparently, the MfÖS saw me as a risk and were about to bring me in for questioning before he intervened. So I’m sorry if I have to be a bit more vague in the future. But I can tell you one thing; whatever is happening in Griffenheim, in the Imperial palace, its seems like High Kommand is getting ready for something serious. That prototype I mentioned we were field testing before? We’re getting more of them, a lot more. Our training regime has gotten more serious. We’re trained on all stations, but Sergeant Hellseig seems to think I have a thing for the 3.7 cm, which is a delight to fire on the range. We’re getting issued new arms out of the reserves, and I’m seeing more recruits coming out of the Crona training camps than were even in my cycle. More and more planes are flying overhead, and they’ve even got this new light bomber called a ‘Griefvogel’. The Luftstreitkräfte have to be happy about that, I imagine. Imperial Guard training was intense, but it seems they’re overhauling our combat capabilities something fierce. Someone knows something, and the more I’m seeing a buildup, the more worried I get.
Stay safe, okay?
-Cyril
Sent June 22nd, 1007
Dear Cyril,
A bit more cheer before I go into the grim news. Yesterday was a festival known as the Summer Sun Celebration. I didn’t know much about it, but I got a recommendation to go into Canterlot from one of my classmates, so I stretched my wings for a bit. You’d love the countryside, I think. Nothing but green forests and small towns as far as the eye could see. Reminds me of home. Gloaming didn’t come with, which I suppose makes sense as a creature of the night not wanting to celebrate the sun. Still, she seems like she could really use some cheer. She’s into her studies harder than I am.
Canterlot is about the prettiest place you’ve ever seen, and I’m not talking grand or large or anything like that. Griffenheim has size on this place, but Canterlot is gorgeous. That’s not a word I use often either. The whole city is made of white walls and boulevards, ornamental lightposts and archways, gardens and fountains. Its seems as if this city was built from the ground up to be as beautiful as possible, even the manufacturing plants which have their smokestacks piped underground to keep the sky as blue as possible. From an architectural standpoint, it had to have been done by magic. No other method comes out this clean.
The ponies had the place decorated from roof to street, every building. Strings of lights, sun lamps, pictures of the sunrise. A local school apparently had every colt and filly draw pictures of Celestia and they had all of these all over the place. Carnival games, shows, fireworks. It went all night, and I honestly lost track of the time until morning. Now I warn you to keep an open mind about this next part. They gathered us all in front of the castle, where Princess Celestia actually put on a demonstration of raising the sun. I know what you’re going to say, but it's a proven fact that she has command over the sun, not Boreas. She’s not my ruler either, but the evidence has shown that if she is unable to, the sun doesn’t move without her. I didn’t stick around long after sunrise anyways, since I had a flight back, but I heard the celebration went on the rest of the day as well. I’m all for a late-nighter every once in a while, but I had too much to get back to.
I heard of another affair up north called the Crystal Fair. I was told its a lot like the Summer Sun Celebration, but in the Crystal Empire. While it sounds like fun, I was too late to buy tickets to that one. Besides, my studies are already keeping me busy. Perhaps I'll read about it when it happens. Bound to be a newspaper article about it if it's such a big deal.
Okay, now the grim news. The story about Longsword hit the papers the other day. Good riddance indeed. The Reformistan are monsters. I’m actually relieved even the Empire thinks so. The attitude about the fight back here is concern for the ponies, but I’m worried about the implications. Its sounds like East Griffonia is heading for a bad time. I don’t know if you still hear about Prywhen these days, I’m certain that’s old news. But before I left, there was a lot of ponies worried about what the end of that fight would mean for the region.
I had heard about the Princely Restoration in Jezerograd. Grand Prince Heavenly Snow is the name of the latest legitimate heir to the throne. It’s honestly just a bunch of military minds who want to use a figurehead monarch to fix their problems. Lake City was never a very straight democracy, and this just proves it. Not that that’s a real issue. Half of the Riverlands are monarchies of some kind. I’m just concerned what else they’re going to pull in the name of past glory.
You mentioned your uncle in your last letter, but I’ve never heard you talk much about your parents. What’s the rest of your family like? I told you about my parents, but I didn’t mention my brother Brook Runner. He’s a businessstallion working in Coltovac, with a position in the shipping industry. I say ‘businessstallion’ but he sees himself as a bit of a river pirate, even though he’s not a criminal. That I know of, anyway.
I think you’ve gotten the wrong idea about thestrals. Gloaming’s the only one I’ve spent a lot of time around, and she doesn’t seem anything like the old stories. She eats fruit, not blood, she doesn’t terrify anyone. Honestly, she really gets picked on herself, just for being a thestral. Maybe the world’s been a bit too hard on them. Gloaming certainly just wants to be left alone. I’ll do some reading on this, I feel like we may only have half the story here.
You asked me to stay safe, but from what it sounds like you’re in a lot more danger than I am out here. There’s all kinds of outcomes I can think of for that and none of them are good. Whatever happens with you needing to keep quiet, I understand. I just hope you don’t get into something that’s too much to handle. I’d hate to lose my penpal after we’ve just gotten started.
Sincerely,
-Paige
Sent July 16th, 1007
Dear Paige,
I’ll ignore the religious debate you just brought up, since I know that’s not what you’re getting at and I’m not a very fervent temple goer anyway.
All these festivals and fairs in Canterlot. It sounds like Fastnacht, which is essentially like the Summer Sun Festival except with less sun-raising demigods and more drinking. The high point is Rosenmontag, where a grand parade is put on to drive evil spirits out of the home with merriment. You just missed it in Rottendedam. A shame too. Feathisians love Fastnacht, especially Weiberfastnacht. The Thursday before Fastnacht, we set out a grand feast for the community, and eat our fill to prepare for the festival. I missed the last one myself, not all of us got the opportunity to go home for the holidays. We had some good beer to make up for it, though. Canterlot sounds unreal. Like, literally unreal. No industrialized society can make a city look that nice. It all turns into ugly towers and city blocks, no matter how hard they try. Suppose that’s the benefit of Pegasi weather control and unicorn magic.
My family is a bit of a hard subject. My father was a soldier in the Reichsarmee, military police. He inherited a lot of the chaos and disorder in the Empire left over from the Kemerskai Meuterei. One day, he was shot during a riot in Romau, and my mother was left with me and my younger sister, Sophie. My mother did her best, but there was only so much a millworker could do to feed two chicks. I enlisted as soon as I could, so now there’s more money and fewer beaks to fill at home. But my mother didn’t agree. She didn’t want me to be swallowed up by the same chaos that took my father. Uncle August promised her he’d watch out for me. He’s the one who got me into the panzerwaffe, so he’s holding true to his word.
Your brother sounds like a smuggler, Paige. I’m not even joking here, you need to ask him. I’ll bet you twenty bits.
I’m not saying I’m absolutely right about thestrals. Not saying I'm wrong either. Most of what I know is from old legends. But you seem to be interacting with them more than I ever will. I just want to point out that reputations come from somewhere. Be careful around them, that’s all.
I don’t know if its war. I just know that things are getting bad out here. Word from Longsword is getting worse, and I hear plenty of officers are grumbling about intervention. I looked into Prywhen like you asked, and it's not much better either. Refugees are travelling hundreds of miles to get nowhere, really. I also found out that there’s been a hold order on all mail coming west, given the state of things. No safe route, apparently. So if you still haven’t heard from your family, I am sorry. With all the violence in the east, postal lines are all messed up.
I got my claws on a newspaper about the Riverlands Hoofball Cup. I’m not sure if you’re into that sport, but I decided to send it west. I also bought a book for you called Of Things That Never Happened. I didn’t read it myself, a lot of the words are too advanced for me. But I thought you might like it, and it's another way to practice your Herzlandisch, so I got you a copy.
I can’t imagine what it’s like at that school. The only time I’ve been to a university was to visit Uncle August and that time I stopped by Griffenheim University. It's so far beyond me- (the next part is scratched out with several lines)
Equestria sounds like a nice place. I don’t know if I’ll ever see a land like that. It just seems like Griffonia is doomed to war and chaos and grim circumstance. I want to come visit next time I can, but with training ongoing right now, I don’t know if I’ll ever get the leave for it.
This next part I’m writing from my panzer, Ludmilla. Testing is ongoing. They’re drilling us as much as they are testing the tanks. Now we’ve got artillery panzers, flakpanzers, panzerjager. They’ve turned this into a major training and development field. New stuff at home too. They’ve done an overhaul of industrial production in Griffenheim, and Sophie says they changed teachers at her school. She’s a lot more into her classes now. My mother is happy, and so am I. Maybe the Empire’s not going to war. Maybe we’re just taking precautions. The Emperor’s death threw a lot of us for a loop. Maybe that’s what it took for things to change. A huge crisis. The Regency Council’s definitely trying, for all the issues they’re apparently having. The newspapers aren’t divulging much, but the military rumor machine is running full tilt.
We’ve been saying how much we miss each other. If I can score some leave when you’re on break, where would you want to meet? I don’t know that I can afford a boat trip to Equestria on a zoldat’s salary, but I can get back to Rottendedam. How about it? First chance we get, beer and pretzels back by the harbor? I’ll buy.
Yours,
-Cyril
Sent August 14th, 1007
Dear Cyril,
I am so sorry this took so long to send! Your letter didn’t get to me until the beginning of the month, and then I got so bogged down with my classes. It took me forever to write you a response.
I loved the book. It's a little thin on plot, and the author seems like he’s putting too much of himself into the character sometimes, but the internal turmoil and dialogue were stellar. You really should give it a try, it's not as bad as you think. Though, given its about a Republican agent, I think your superiors might frown on that. So I got you the newest Daring Do book! ‘Daring Do and the Forbidden City of Clouds’. I’m a big fan of the series, and I didn’t know if you read it. Sorry it's not in Herzlandisch. I don’t know if they published it in anything but Equestrian yet.
I finally heard back from my family. I was so worried about them when you told me about the mail holdup, I sprang for a dragon to send a notice. Imagine my surprise when I got a reply the next day! They’re fine, thank Gods, just worried since they had learned their mail wasn’t getting through. News of the wars out there has the while Riverlands on alert. Apparently Prince Heavenly Snow has been making a lot of firebrand speeches against griffons, socialists, socialist griffons, you get the picture. He’s apparently not willing to let ancient history go, and Lake City is behind him on that. The context is a bit much to get into here, but I recommend you check it out in a library if you can get to one. If you’re interested.
Gloaming’s finally started opening up. We have Advanced History of Arcana class together, so we’ve been study buddies a little bit. According to her, thestrals have been suffering the same sort of distrust you’ve been having, through stories and their strange appearances. It's actually really heart-breaking, but a lot of thestrals live in the jungles and hinterlands. Ponies don’t like them, and she’s had to deal with that her whole life. I’m not going to call you close-minded, but I’d really appreciate it if you try to look at this with a bit more open perspective. I started looking into it, and I found a charity group that’s trying to raise thestral awareness. I’m thinking of joining up. This is the same kind of issue ponies in East Griffonia are facing, and I know plenty of those who were personally affected by that kind of mistreatment.
It's nice to hear more about your family. I’m sorry about your father, and my heart goes out to your mother and sister. It sounds like your family has been through quite a bit. I hope you’re not going to war either. With everything that's happening, the last thing Griffonia needs is more chaos, and I don’t want you in the line of fire.
Rottendedam sounds great. I know you said you don’t know when you’ll next get leave, but let’s hope it’ll be around my holiday break. I have most of December and part of January off. I know it seems like a ways off, but I’ll be taking my midterms before then, so the pressure will be off me and that’ll hopefully be enough time for things to calm down back east, enough you can get out to Feathisia.
Now it just seems like forever to wait. A few months turned into an eternity.
Sincerely,
-Paige
PS. And I apparently owe you twenty bits. Please find enclosed.
Sent Sept 8, 1007
Dear Paige,
I always feel like my letters are packed full of more bad news than yours ever are. I hope this doesn’t continue being a trend, not that I’m wishing any misfortune on you.
It's my turn to apologize for taking so long. We were out on maneuvers in Hellheim, practicing battle tactics with infantry and panzers combined. A Changeling actually gave us a lecture on revolutionary panzer strategy and combat lessons. Made me feel like I was learning something worthwhile at last.
I heard, and so will you soon. The Prywhen fight is over. The communists won. I understand that doesn’t carry the same sense of dread for you as it does for me, but it could really still be a problem. Word is the Empire might blast through Blackrock to intervene. Then again, there’s no movement south. They haven’t pulled any of us out of training.
I’ve been sorted into a new unit. We’re not Imperial Guard anymore. From the briefing we received from Field Marshal Bronzetail, we’re regular Reichsarmee now, us and a bunch of divisions. I’m getting transferred out of the Synovial division and into the 3rd Panzer Division. Apparently the Regency Council made the decision after the Archon insisted on a reorganization of Imperial forces. This is big. Those panzers I mentioned before (let’s not give the censor a reason to start cutting) are much better than we thought. We’re riding in better versions now, and we know what we're doing. Sergeant Hellseig has me permanently assigned on the gun. The battalion are my circle of friends now, and Ludmilla the 2nd is our trusted chariot. It's a unique bond, almost like family.
I’m not labeling all thestrals as bad or anything. I just haven’t had much reason to trust-(the rest of the sentence is scratched out).
I’m just gonna drop it. You have your reasons, and I’m okay with that, honest.
I’m trying to read the book, but it's slow going. I’m not so good with Equestrian. I have to find the words that are close enough in Herzlandisch, and then look over the whole sentence again. By the time of this letter, I haven’t even finished the first chapter. Its a bit frustrating, but I'm keeping at it.
More units, more gear. Word is, we’ll be getting AA guns supporting us. No neighboring army has a decent air force until you get to Aquileia. Which means these are meant to kill Knights. That thought always leaves a bad taste in my beak.
End of the year is a ways off. Lucky me, that’s when High Kommand gets charitable with leave. Rottendedam it is then. Once we get a day, I'll wait for you in the harbor. Then I'll take you out for dinner like I should have six months ago. Can’t wait.
I met one of the Princesses today! Actually spoke to her face to face! Shook hooves even! Apparently, Princess Luna wanted to come tour the university in order to see how some new educational reforms are shaping up, a new budget got passed. Anyway, I was in my Theoretical Magicks class when she stepped in to look us over. She’s so tall, I almost didn’t believe it! I saw Princess Celestia before, but there was nopony nearby for me to judge the scale next to her. Luna stood head and withers above anypony else, and she was so beautiful and regal! She’s the one this university is named after, and she came around and shook hooves with-
(Several lines underneath are scratched out furiously)
I should just start a new letter. I have never-
(More scratches, just for the next sentence)
You know me, Cyril. I’m not one given to celebrity worship, and the Princesses are not my sovereigns. But I swear when Princess Luna entered the lecture hall today, my mind went for a trip. I don’t know if this is all alicorns, but maybe this is why they inspire such fervent loyalty. Gloaming’s still going on about it. Apparently Princess Luna went out of her way to find the only thestral on campus. It’s good to see her laughing and smiling.
I know you're more of a traditional mind, but I hope I can bring you around on thestrals. It’s really not fair what they’re going through out here. Did you know a large portion of thestrals on Equus are forced into frontier neighborhoods? The southern jungles are full of thestral villages and tribes. There’s even Nightmare Moon cults out here. Think of them like the Sunstriker Clan berserkers the Empire has so much trouble with. They’re not bad ponies, they keep to themselves. I just feel like there’s more we can do to help them. I wish you could understand.
Midterms are coming up in a few weeks. I might not get back to you for awhile. Want to start my university career out strong, and that means getting good grades on these exams. Every day is extra assignments and every night is study hall. I’ve got a crystal matrice model I’m behind on and two essays I can barely start. Gloaming just seems to rock the whole thing. I don’t know how she does it, but she makes me feel like a little filly. I’m glad she’s here to help me.
You’re part of the reason I can’t focus, by the way. I can’t help but worry for you too, with all the violence and disorder out east. I know you can’t give me much but sweeping details, so I did a little reading at the Ponybucks coffee shop. They’ve got a lot of newspapers there, and one of them had an article on the ‘Griffonian Kaiserreich’s Militant Resurgence.’ Apparently, ponies are saying that the Emperor’s death set off a chain of dominos. It was mostly somepony bashing your Regency Council about jingoism and what happens when the values of Harmony are rejected. Personally, if this is what an Equestrian pro-Harmonist has to say about the opposition, I’m not inclined to join his party. But it told me of the stark lack of information around here. It’s just surface details. Photos of military parades in Griffenheim, Imperial Knights training with swords, planes overhead. But they’re all selected shots. This journalpony isn’t the only one railing against your nation. So, while I understand you needing to be vague, can you tell me anyway? I know so little aside from textbooks from when I was back in Rijekograd. And you’ve opened up to me about the army and your family. But what’s home to you?
I figure that, and trying to figure out that Daring Do book, might be enough to keep you occupied while I’m up to my wings in schoolwork. Wouldn’t want you getting bored, now would we?
Yours,
~Paige
P.S: I saw a little bistro in Rottendedam when I was there. It really caught my eye but it seemed too much for me by myself. I can’t remember the name, but I know I can point it out to you when I see it. Dinner sounds amazing, I’m counting the days with bated breath.
Sent October 18, 1007
Dear Paige,
Its started calming down around here. They’re not trying so hard to run us into the ground, gives us a bit of downtime, so it's a good time to take it slow and focus on this letter. It's also a great time to tell you about my crewmates, and what’s happening here.
Ludmilla the 2nd is an LI-2 Ausf D light panzer. I’m allowed to say that now its been declassified, but expect stuff to get censored anyway. Our Changeling instructor (the name is cut out) walked us through her operation practically while she was being designed during the prototype phase. We may as well have had a hand in making the improvements. She carries a 3.7 cm main cannon, which I am the proud operator of. So far as I hear, a lot of this trial and error is being recorded by the Changelings and sent back to their homeland, so while we get a lot out of their designs, I can’t help but feel like we’re just the test rats.
Sergeant Alrich Hellsieg is our panzer kommandant. He’s a veteran of the failed revolution. When he was an infantryman, a bullet turned his kneecap to powder. Now he has a severe limp, but he makes up for it by spitting insults and invectives at us all day long on how terrible we are. He’s an excellent leader, and all the abuse he heaps on us makes us better at the end of the day. Well, that’s what I try to tell myself, at least.
Lance Korporal Hans Bluetalon is our driver. He’s been in a few years as well, so he’s a griff to go to when you have questions. The problem is, he takes his ‘big-brother’ attitude a bit too far at times. We’re both learning the same thing at the same time and he keeps going on about how much more experienced on panzers he is. Which can be a bit annoying.
Zoldater Erika Grimquill is our new radiogriff and loader. In the last model panzer we didn’t have enough room for one, but the newer variant put another seat in. She mans the wireless set and loads my 3.7 cm. For a radiogriff, she’s a bit of a loudbeak and she’s got a pretty nasty attitude at times. Always flares her wings, looking for a fight. But we did learn that her mother sold out to the Republicans up north, and even now works for the Skynavians. We’ve been informed by MfÖS to keep an eye on her as a potential security risk. So that may have to do with her attitude. Which I’m not too happy about. All this backstabbing and mistrust is exactly what got us to our current political crisis in the first place.
My regiment is the 41st Panzergrenadiers. We are responsible for assaulting enemy fortifications and rendering them null for infantry to move up and occupy the area. We’re being trained in ‘wolfpack’ tactics to take on enemy forts in companies to break up enemy fire. No word on anti-panzer tactics yet however. Apparently enemy panzers are not being seen as a factor yet.
You asked about my home, and I have two answers for you. Right now, the Reichsarmee is my home, and while I can’t say which base I’m posted up at, I can tell you a bit what it's like. We’re usually up early morning for calisthenics at sunrise. Pushups, stretches, ground laps and flight sprints. This is just for an hour, but it's good to get exercise in before we’re crammed into the panzers. The rest of the day mostly goes how I imagine the film reels and stories might portray it; training all day, classes and equipment maintenance. But where an infantrygriff just takes care of his kit and that’s it, we’re panzergriffs. We have to look out for Ludmilla, and right now the officers are breathing down our necks for perfection. I have to memorize every moving part on the panzer, how to change a track and how to drive the tank and spot for a gunner. They fitted a machine gun onto the turret, but so far that’s just for Sergeant Helseig. It may sound boring to you, but there’s something to be had from the stability, the knowledge that this routine is going to be the same tomorrow. It helps, y’know? No stress about your work versus home, buying food or paying bills. After the nobles take their piece and the Empire skims tax off the top, what’s in your pocket usually stays there. It’s not too terrible. I mean, aside from the prospect of war, that is.
But my home is in the outskirts of Griffenheim. My mother Margot lives there with Sophie, and she says she has no intent to leave. I grew up in a small apartment on the Industrie side, facing towards Crona. The outer districts are much bigger than the city proper, almost like cities in themselves. My mother’s worked at a steelmill since my father died. Before that, she was going to school to become a teacher herself, but she always says you have to put reality first. I always felt sad that she had to give up her dream to take care of us, but she’s never made us feel terrible about it. Sophie’s in primary school right now. She was barely a hatchling when Father died, and she doesn’t remember anything about him. Maybe that’s why she’s always the happier one of us all.
Industrie was always a hard place to live. It’s mostly factories and wharfs. Material gets hauled in from the countryside and turned into workable products here. The river is always full of gunk and it's dangerous to even touch, so no one dares to drink it. Accidents happen all the time in Industrie, and some of the street gangs even operate in the open. The only roads that are actually paved there are the important ones, the ones the nobles care about and finance. Otherwise, it's mostly muddy slosh. My father and uncle enlisted to get out. Uncle August got the attention of a general, and was promoted for it. My father meanwhile kept managing riots and disorderly soldiers until the day he died. Just goes to show how difficult it is to get out of this life. That’s why I send back whatever I can to mother. Make it easier so she doesn’t kill herself at the mill. And I think I’m getting it, I really think I’m changing things for her.
Mother doesn’t know I’m writing you. Not that she dislikes ponies, I’m just not sure what she’d think about (several words are scratched out) whatever this is. She has enough to worry about, I’d rather not (several more words are scratched out) Forget it.
Griffenheim proper isn’t bad. It’s tall towers and open boulevards. A lot of the buildings make you think you’re still in the age of castles and swords, but that’s the point. It carries a lot of culture in its stones, and we’re proud of that. Oktoberfest was a few weeks back, but I didn’t get leave for that either. It’s basically a week long drinking binge across the country and the end of September. Its lost prominence in the outer territories. I know it's practically illegal in Wingbardy. But we got an extra ration of beer back at base and a night off, so it wasn’t all bad. I still remember the beers we drank in the harbor in Rottendedam. I can’t drink beer anymore without smelling the sea breeze. So, I blame you for my lack of focus too.
Anyway.
Go into the Imperial City today, and everyone’s getting ready for Geheimisnacht, where we dress in fierce costumes and do mock battles to scare off evil spirits. Its a night of magic, so the occasional wayward ghost or ghoul isn’t unusual. The last time an actual monster came to Geheimistag was a century ago, I think. That’s more an issue in the countryside. But we dress up anyway, and decorate the buildings with skulls and strands of lights. We carve pumpkins into jack-o-lanterns like ponies do, and set them outside as our loyal sentries. The temples get a lot of traffic too, griffins coming in to try and say a prayer to Boreas and Arcturius, though this is also the time of year that Maar worshippers cause havoc. But last time I was in Griffenheim on leave was a few days ago, and the attitude was good. The markets are full of pumpkin beer, pumpkin pies, spiced sausages, caramel apples. Music playing all day in the squares. Candlemakers are working overtime to produce this year. With electric lamps becoming more common, business is falling for them. Everygriff keeps congratulating me for being a zoldaten. I even had a few chicks ask if they could get a ride on a panzer. The autumn air feels good. It’s a different atmosphere in the Empire than it was a few months back. The countryside’s leaves have mostly changed colors, and it's getting colder. We’ll likely start seeing snow by early November. There’s a few farms and small towns near the base we travel through a lot on maneuvers. They like us there. Military means griffons to sell food and drink to on the way. Better than the rations waiting back in the canteen on base, for sure. But they’ve collected the autumn harvest
I’ve never heard you go on about any famous figures before. I’ve heard of Princess Luna of course. But it must be another thing entirely to meet her face to face. I suppose that would be as if Archon Eros himself toured our base. I know for a fact that would cause a huge stir. I may not be a frequent temple-goer, but a lot of Imperial soldiers come from religious families. That, and the more veteran among us say you wind up doing a lot of praying one way or another. So is alicorn the term for a pony with horn and wings both? Are all alicorns demigods? Can anypony just become one, or are they considered a separate tribe like pegasi and unicorns?
Look, Paige. I’ve got nothing with -you- trying to do more for thestrals, but I don’t know anything about them aside from what I’ve heard. It's a little hard for me to have (the words ‘knowledge’ ‘wisdom’ and ‘ambivalence’ are all scratched out) perspective on them. I’m not saying don’t be her friend, I just don’t want you hurt because one of the old stories winds up being true. That’s all. I already asked to drop it. Please? I feel like we’re not quite going to see eye to eye on this.
You wouldn’t be at that school if you hadn’t earned it. So be proud. If you feel like (somegriff is crossed out) somepony else has gotten ahead of you, use that to push yourself to be better. Rise to their level. I know it's easy for me to speak of here while you do everything you listed off in your letter, but I just know you’re going to do amazing. Look where you’re at, Paige. You’ve already got a (foot is crossed out) hoof in the door. It doesn’t matter how good (everygriff is crossed out) everypony else is. Just you.
And just so I’m caught up, what is a matrice?
Back again, later. I took my time with this letter, so I’m writing it over the course of a week. I’ve seen the journalists you wrote about. They show up to our bases in the public areas, they’re in Griffenheim and up at the palace. They’re taking photos of what they want, writing what they want. Equestria doesn’t have a good opinion of us, same as your country. A lot of creatures have the same idea. It seems no matter what, we’re always the bad-griffs. I don’t take it personally. But if the newspapers are that skewed out there, I’ll get some local papers here and send them to you. I can’t promise they’re any more honest, but maybe between the lies and the propaganda you’ll find some truth.
I’ve been working on this letter a while, and it seems like long enough. Hopefully, if I send it tomorrow with the post it’ll reach you after exams, so you’re not as distracted. Any idea when you’ll get the results back?
By the way, I’m on chapter 3 now.
I’m sure we can find that bistro. The harborfront is all about serving the sailors coming and going and the dockworkers, so a lot of bars and eateries are out in the port. Let’s just not meet the same way we did last time. I’m not sure my pride could take another hit like that.
-Cyril
Sent November 13th, 1007
Dear Cyril,
Midterms are finally over, thank the Gods, Princesses, whatever you want to thank. Nothing but week of grinding studies, tests and endless lectures. Your letter showed up exactly when I needed it to, right as I was finished last week. Finals for the year aren’t until May, so I’ve got until then to prepare and panic.
Okay, matrices. Hmm. Okay, let me see if I can explain like this; a matrix is a series of numbers or of patterns that are internal to the subject, and are what give it form. For my assignment, I had to assemble a series of arcane patterns together to create a small magic crystal, which inside can hold arcane power. It's a relatively new but very exciting field of study, and my professors hope it can help catapult us to the next level of magic study by allowing it to be collected and store like an electric battery or a tank of gasoline. Imagine, refined crystals that can be manufactured to hold power. A future with no batteries, no oil, no diminishing fossil fuels. Just magic crystals, perfectly natural and replenishable. It's still a long way off, and we may never get there, but the possibility is so amazing it astounds me that I get to work with this. I obviously can’t create the arcane power in the crystal myself, but luckily I don’t need to so long as I can get a unicorn to charge it.
It’s good to hear you have family and friends to lean on. From your grim letters, I was almost afraid you didn’t have anyone else in your life. I know your family may not approve, but I hope that in time I can get them to like me. At the very least, I wouldn’t mind meeting your mother and sister one day. I know it probably won’t be for a few years down the road if we’re lucky enough to still be (underneath several scratches, the word ‘together’ is barely legible) talking at that time. Your uncle, well...I get the feeling he wouldn’t like me much either.
I’ve heard of Oktoberfest and Geheimenstag before. The first one is still popular with other griffons out east, I used to see the Griffon Quarter in Rijekograd bringing out casks and kegs into the middle of the street and just drinking for days straight. I’m sorry you missed out. But Geheimenstag sounds like an Equestrian holiday out they call Nightmare Night. I was caught a little unprepared when on the 31st everypony just showed up in costume. If I heard correctly, the costumes serve a similar purpose to yours, but these are meant to scare off Nightmare Moon specifically. Or, they were. Apparently Princess Luna turned that tradition around a few years back. Truthfully I’m not sure what they dress up for now.
But good news! The group I volunteered for, the Batpony Acceptance Team (“Go BATty for Equality!”), got word that Princess Luna is setting up new reforms to grant equal rights to thestrals with Celestia’s backing! I’m sorry you don’t see eye to eye with me on this. Maybe I can change your mind eventually. But I spent all of yesterday handing out fliers and pamphlets to everypony in the quad. Gloaming’s not too thrilled about the announcement. She seems to think this is a short-lived publicity campaign, and the only one she trusts out of all this is Princess Luna herself. That makes me sad as well. I thought I’d been getting through to her, but I’m afraid now she just sees me as hopping on a fad bandwagon that won’t get anything done.
I’m a little iffy about visiting Griffenheim itself. I’ve always heard such nasty things about it. Then again, you can’t call Riverponies the most unbiased creatures in the world. But if they’ll let me in, I could do it to visit where you grew up. There’s as many good stories as there are bad. I know its huge, but we don’t have to tour the whole place. Industrie sounds like such a rough place to grow up. I can see what you meant about the army being the only way to escape. How’s an average worker supposed to afford to leave on that salary? (rhetorical question, sorry).
End of the year’s finally coming up. With midterms over, it’s mostly just review lectures and final assignments to turn in for the semester until the end of December. I’ll get my results before Hearth’s Warming break, so I can at least get the anxiety of how bad I flopped out of my system. Also, word back from my parents; they’re not -eager- that I’m talking to you, but they’re not telling me to burn all the letters and issue you a hate note either. So, hopefully, good news. My brother though, sent me a surprise; enough bits to cover a trip to Rottendedam, a little bit of fun out there, and the trip back! And here I was thinking I’d have to eat ramen noodles the rest of my stay here.
I can’t wait to see you. Just another month, and so far, it’s all getting
(The following writing is more rushed, almost scribbled out)
Cyril, I had to send this letter out to you today. It's all over the news, King Sombra just reemerged in the Crystal Empire. Gods, that sentence feels like it has no impact written out. I don’t know how and the news isn’t saying. But the border is not far from here, and by the time you get this letter I may not get another chance. The most I’ve got is that Crystal loyalists went through some kind of ritual to resurrect him, and most of the army has mutinied with him. The royal family is on the run and the Equestrian National Guard is all over Luna Nova, heading north. The Guard commander told everypony to stay calm, but be ready to evacuate at anytime. So far the headmaster is telling all the students to go back to business as normal. I guess it's one thing to live with a former enemy over the border, but its another for a war to break out nearby.
I’m really worried now. The National Guard set up a camp just outside the school. There’s Royal Army recruiters and MPs all over the place. I can hear planes flying overhead all the time. All pegasus students have been told not to fly outside the gymnasium so they can keep the skies clear.
Okay, maybe I’m scared instead of just worried. Sombra’s got a dark reputation, and the last time he returned, the Princesses and the Elements were barely able to stop him. Now, he’s apparently got an army and the Crystal City right off the bat. I don’t know what else is being done to stop him. But I just hope it gets rolling soon.
Cyril (the rest of the sentence is scratched out)
What do I do?
(The following is much calmer, written almost like normal)
Sincerely,
-Paige
Sent December 1st, 1007
Dear Paige,
I can’t believe this happened. This whole time we were expecting I’d be the one at risk. I’ve heard stories of King Sombra, and none of them anything but terrifying. Most of them are spooky shit we tell around the campfire to scare everygriff. We got the news just after you sent your letter (so, before I got it. Means I’ve had a few weeks to process). None of the officers treated it like a big deal, and I guess to them it really wasn’t, but the newspapers are going ballistic over it. Thought you'd want to hear, though its likely in the papers too; Duchess Eagleclaw was named Regent and Protector of the Emperor last night. The announcement was made to the army at large today. The Archon and half the Regency Council are furious. It seems huge, but I guess its a bit overshadowed but what happening over there.
I don’t know what Equestria’s defenses are like. But given what I’ve heard, it's not encouraging. Apparently, the Royal Army’s been a bit lax from the Long Peace. I hear there hasn’t been a large-scale conflict since Stalliongrad seceded, and they’ve gotten used to having all their problems solved by the Princesses and the Elements.
I wish I was there to help you. Or that you were here, out of the way. But we have to accept the situation, and put faith in Equestria’s army to end the fight quick. Word here is that New Mareland just sent an expeditionary force across to you. So, hopefully, this will be enough to hold the line while the Princesses get off their ass and do something about it.
Look, I’m sorry if I’m scaring you. We may be freaking out about this too early. Equestria hasn’t been invaded yet, and there’s nothing saying any invasion won’t be stopped before it gets to you. But the commander and your headmaster are right. You have to stay calm. Keep an emergency bag by the door at all times, full of everything you need. If you can’t leave yet, then at least make sure you’re ready to go at all times.
I just looked in an atlas. Luna Nova’s right in the way of a march south to Canterlot. If it comes to it, you’ll be evacuated for sure. Don’t worry about it.
Keep sending me your letters if you can. I’m not going to be able to walk you out of danger, but I can at least tell you what to prepare for. Surviving a war is a different game than lasting through a riot or a barfight.
Okay, Reichsarmee survival training, real fast. Thank Arcturius for those endless lectures. Here we go. If you’re forced to evacuate, stay with the convoy, no matter what. If you find yourself out on the road without military protection or a clear place to go, keep heading the opposite direction of the front if you know where it is. Try to stay out of big cities and away from harbors, they’ll be jampacked with refugees and a clear target for the enemy. Like me, you can fly, so travel light and stay off the roads. Fly at night if you can help it. Good places to escape to are forests and mountains, where you can wait for friendly help. Whatever happens, do -not- surrender for your safety. The enemy will broadcast deals and assurances. Trust me, you’re better off in a refugee center than a POW camp.
I don’t know what else to tell you. Everything else we’ve been told is all about getting back to a unit to rejoin the fight. You’re not a trained zoldaten, so that part of the lectures isn’t helpful. I need you to send me a letter back as soon as you can about what’s happening out there. Now -I’m- worried -you’re- going to get caught up.
Okay, I went back and read this letter again. If it's been a few weeks and Sombra hasn’t invaded yet, then we’re probably not going to see shadowponies storming over the horizon. Besides, by the time this letter reaches you, the whole situation’s probably changed. If you haven’t been forced to leave yet, then we’ve both overreacted. The papers are hilariously treating this like a backwoods affair. Like when Nova Griffonia marched into the Frontier back in September. As if an evil sorcerer king returning from the dead a second time and instantly launching a coup isn’t a cause for immediate concern. But believe me, I’m concerned. For you. And a bit for the Equestrians, too.
Tell me you’re safe.
-Cyril
Sent December 23nd, 1007
Dear Cyril,
I’m okay. We’re all okay. For the most part from what I’ve heard, Sombra’s Legions have turned west instead of south. Crystal units loyal to Cadence and Equestria are making a fighting retreat, trying to get out of to Equestrian lines. But the Royal Army’s stopped. They’re not advancing yet. I can’t tell you why. Long range holiday break’s been suspended. The army’s worried about traffic on the roadways.
Thank you for all the advice, Cyril. I packed a bag with all those bits, some cold-weather clothes and a few maps. I don’t know where I’d go. I know you said to avoid big cities and harbors, but that’s my way home. I’m pretty sure I can’t fly across to Haukland, even with the minimum.
I’m having trouble writing. Everypony’s kind of...muted I guess. All the energy on campus is gone. With the war just up north, we’re all just sort of waiting I guess. The recruiters are still here, though. There’s a line of ponies outside the booth everyday, either talking to the recruiters or signing up. All the holiday cheer has gone from the school. Even the BAT has kinda toned down. Now we just put up posters.
But last night was the Winter Moon Celebration. Last night I listened to a broadcast over the radio. Princess Luna herself in Manehattan lit up the night sky under the Winter Moon and said we all have to stand together. Ponies, thestrals, everypony. It was apparently a huge turnout.
I know I’m a bit more verbose when I write. I guess now my mind’s elsewhere. But Luna’s words last night really hit me. Gloaming went and enlisted. Gave up her education to go and sign up. I’m proud of her, I really am. She leaves next month for training. But between what she did, what the Princess said and what you’ve been saying, I’ve been thinking. I’m not at risk of being drafted here. I’m a foreigner. But if I go and volunteer, I’m sure they’ll overlook that. I’m stuck in the middle of this dilemma. I worked so hard to get this scholarship and I love this school. But I can’t sit by while other ponies are signing up. I’ve heard all the stories around Sombra. The rumors are flying. And with it so close, I can’t ignore it. So do I sign up and go fight for a country that’s not mine, or do I wait for that fight to come south to me?
I want your input, but at the very least, I think I’m going to go talk to a recruiter tomorrow. I’m not going to sign up yet, but I want to do something. I’ve never been good about just sitting around. I mean, maybe you’re right. This whole thing could just blow over and never come south. I could just keep up my classes and never get anywhere near a shadowpony Legion.
(The above writing is shakey, but the below is calm and ordinary, as if some time has passed between the two)
It’s all falling apart. I know you’re dealing with a lot over there, but things haven’t been so simple here either. Two weeks ago, half of the Regency Council walked out with Archon Eros. Its official. They’ve seceded. I don’t know the particulars, and lately I don’t exactly trust the newspapers, but apparently Duchess Eagleclaw and the Archon had it out, hard. Rumors say it got so bad that Knights from the Order of the White Lion and the Tower and Sword were squaring off with the Knights of Arcturius. The Barkginian Guard themselves almost got into it. Now, the southern part of the Empire’s gone. We really are falling apart here.
A week ago, Aquileia had another revolution. Another one. Which means there’s now another civil war raging over the border. Longsword’s just ended. Prywhen’s finally stopped. Now we’ve got one more war in Griffonia. Its insanity here.
There’s been riots all over the loyal Empire. Police can’t stop it. The Landwehr and the Imperial Guard can’t stop it. Chaos all over. So they called us in. They called in panzers to man roadblocks against angry civilians. It’s that bad. Or somegriff was that crazy.
We were ordered to (the location has been clipped out). It’s a town not far from Vinnin, within spitting distance of Griffenheim, so what happens there affects this place immediately. Griffons were freaking out about the secession, rioting in the streets, vandalizing and looting. Seems like the chaos was about to end, and now this. But we were to restore order. And that’s what we did.
I was told not to use the cannon unless I absolutely had to. So instead Sergeant Hellseig hands me his sidearm, shows me how to use it and then two mags. He tells me if it comes to it, don’t hesitate. Bold words for a griff on an MG. We set up Ludmilla at this checkpoint with a unit of military police soldiers, with me and Grimquill posted outside, waiting.
But the crowd comes down the lane, males and females both, young as teens and even a few older ones in the crowd. They don’t feel like that have a direction or a target. Just burning whatever they can because they’re angry and scared.
The lieutenant in command yells something at them, I think it was an order to stop, I don't remember, but the crowd keeps coming. He has the troopers fire warning shots over their heads, no good. Finally, he has Hellseig fire a burst to get their attention. They throw smoke grenades. Nothing. They’re still pouring on. We start getting debris thrown at us, incendiary bombs against the tank and the barricade. I heard a shot in the crowd. I knew it was about to get bad.
So the lieutenant orders the troopers to fire a volley into the crowd.
(The writing above is shaky, but below it seems to stabilize, as if calm once more.)
The Karabiner Kralle 06 is a 7.65mm rifle. Those rounds are based off hunting ammunition. The MG90 is the same caliber. So imagine what damage thirty rounds did at once on a bunch of ordinary griffons. A bunch of them fell. The rest of the crowd swarmed the troopers. Grimquill and I held our fire. We didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t the enemy we’d been trained to fight. This wasn’t a bunch of Republican shock troops or Aquileian fusiliers or Riverpony troops. This was a bunch of civilians who were just confused, angry and scared.
One griffon broke from the brawl, made for the tank. Just an ordinary Griff. Middle aged, probably a factory worker. I hesitated. Hellseig ordered me to fire. So I squared up and squeezed the trigger.
(Once more, the text appears to be jagged, shakey. The next whole line is scratched out. The writing then appears to clear up.)
This isn’t what I signed up for. But I wasn’t about to go out like my father.
(There is a visible space in the paragraphs, and the ink appears to follow a fold, as if the letter was folded up for a time before being resumed)
Maybe I shouldn’t have written that. Especially with your situation right now. The barracks are quiet now. Everygriff’s too on edge about what happened. Sergeant Hellseig says it doesn’t get easier. You just get more used to it. I’m not sure I want to.
If you still haven’t enlisted by the time you get this message, I’d recommend you hold off. I know that seems a bit off coming from me, of all creatures. But I enlisted to get out of Industrie. You still have your education. Equestria isn’t completely committed yet, and in the barest most heartless expression, it's not your country. You’ve got a lot of opportunities there. Of course, if you do volunteer I’d of course be very proud of you.
And worried for you. If things are getting bad over here, I shudder to think of how the war’s developing there. The papers still only publish the barest facts, but I think that’s more because we’ve got so much going on closer to home. How’s the university? I am of course hoping it’s alright for the time being.
Everygriff’s eyes are tracking the Empire as we slowly fall apart. The Regent Duchess has ordered a full mobilization of the Kaiserliche’s military force. I’ve been told we’re getting new panzers that just went through final testing from the Synovial division, something called a (the name is clipped out), but I’d personally like to stay on Ludmilla the 2nd as long as I can. We’ve been paired off with the 31st Heavy Panzer Brigade, which has an entire battalion of Beak landships, so we’ve got some heavy armor between us and whoever wants to take on the Loyal Empire.
Mother is worried, of course. This is the same sort of chaos my father was killed in. I’m not sure Sophie understands what’s going on. She seems just as cheerful as ever, keeps asking me the next time I’m going to come home. I wish I had a definite answer for her, but it doesn’t look like it’ll be anytime soon.
Don’t worry about dinner. I wasn’t going to be able to make it myself. Besides, it's a bit old-fashioned. What about one of those picture shows? They have a theatre in Rottendedam where they run them, but I don’t know what kind of selection they have, if any. Though I hear it's all Applewood films anyway. Talonsburg Studios hasn’t done anything the last few years but make propaganda pieces.
-Cyril
Sent January 29th, 1008
Dear Cyril,
The university’s been bombed, a few times. I think Sombra’s troops figured out the Guard was using it as a staging ground. They didn’t do much, mostly aiming for the Army troops forming up and heading north. But one of the wings was hit. No students have died yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Plenty of injuries. They’re talking about evacuating the school down south.
Equestria’s fully into it now. I hear all the propaganda about going to save the Crystal Empire. Evil shadow magic. Destroying the Crystal hordes. This is… not what I expected.
I decided against enlisting. Talked with a few recruiters, though. Army and RAF. That was a mistake, they chase me down whenever they get a chance. At first it was that foreign volunteers weren’t being taken quite yet. Now apparently that’s been cleared up.
Classes are going as best they can, when you have to keep running to a bomb shelter every other day. The Crystal War (newspapers are just so good at coming up with catchy names, aren’t they?) has thrown a bender in everything. So many students enlisted. Others went home, or transferred to a different school. All my classes are missing somepony.
But you’re right. I came here for a reason. I want to at least finish up my first year. Maybe then I can sign up and come back on this new education bill the recruiters are going on about.
I don’t want to talk about the war anymore.
That’s terrible, what happened to you! I honestly don’t know what to say or how to start. I’ve been caught in the middle of riots before, but I’ve never seen somepony get killed for it. And killing is another thing altogether. If there’s anything I can say, from what little I have heard of this, I can say a few things that might help you be put at ease. You did your job. You stood a roadblock, and these griffons were mad and scared enough that they charged a tank. It doesn’t sound like there was any good way that was going to end. At that point, it was you or him. None of this might help. I’m not there, and I wasn’t in that situation. You’re a good soldier, Cyril. You followed orders and did what you were supposed to in a bad situation. I know if might not help. But at least I want you to know I don’t think less of you for it.
I know you’re having trouble with the Daring Do book you’re on, but I sent you another one. Daring Do and the Marked Thief of Marapore. It’s one of my favorites. I always wanted to travel to exotic places myself. Equestria is the furthest I’ve ever been. Not quite so exotic, though. Maybe to the southern jungles out here, or someday all the way to Zebrica if I’m lucky. Though I hear there’s some issues in Abyssinia between the locals and the Wingbardy garrison. Maybe Maregypt or Hippogriffia would be a safer option. The Empire doesn’t have any overseas garrisons left, do they?
I miss you. Hard to believe it's been so long since we started writing. Talk about missed chances. I’m making the most of this, though. My family’s worried, of course. My father goes up and down the wall about demanding I come home, my mother tells me he doesn’t mean it and my brother says if need be he can see about ‘smuggling’ me out. I also got messages from a few of my friends back home in Rijekograd. I never thought myself a social butterfly, but now it's odd to go so long without hearing from them all. And it's not that many letters either. Still. It's nice to know they all care so much for me.
A movie sounds just fine. I never saw many of them myself. But with you, I’m happy to. After that, we can go for drinks if you like, though I know beer to you is more of a novelty drink. Sort of like soda pop.
Yours,
-Paige
P.S: the censors appear to be getting more diligent. Just warning you.
P.P.S: I paid a dragon to get this message over to you, extra quick. You sounded like you needed somepony to talk to.
Sent February 7, 1008
Dear Paige,
Thanks. You may not think you saying anything does much, but it’s amazing to have the support. I feel much better between what you and Mother have to say. Which is, amazingly, pretty similar. The riots have settled down. Enough that they’re not sending anymore panzers out there, at least. The Empire’s still in a shambles. They say the southern provinces have united into a ‘Holy League.’ Apparently Baron Leer of Angriver is determined to ‘return the Empire to the faithful’. So, things aren’t ever going to completely settle down.
I’m glad to hear you’re okay. I know that’s a bit of a tenuous thing with bombers overhead. But From what I hear, Equestria’s supposed to have a pretty large air force. Hopefully they’ll have the issue taken care of soon.
No, no frontier posts left. Unless Nova Griffonia comes back into the fold, I think I’m going to be staying here. Shame really. Wouldn’t mind a change of scenery.
Keep up the schooling as long as you can. The first year, at least for sure. But remember what I said; it's not your country. And you worked hard for that scholarship.
I went to temple today. I know that doesn’t seem like such a big thing, but I haven’t been to temple much since I was little. My mother stopped going after my father died. Definitely haven’t gone seeking guidance from the gods. I know you’re not very religious yourself, so I’ll keep it short. But there were a lot of soldiers there doing the same thing as me. Ever since the Archon walked out, temple has been a bit of an uneasy issue. But now, it can’t be helped. So I went and listened to the service, prayed for guidance. Then we sang what I think might be my new favorite temple song, ‘Der Morgen Kommt’. I doubt you’ve heard it, and I don’t think there’s many other translations, so it's good you’re fluent. Its all about steeling your heart through darkness, for holding on to your faith will see you through to the better dawn. That one hit me on a personal level, given what’s happening to you, me, and the rest of the world. That’s what we have to do, Paige. Just hold on and hold out for that dawn to come.
I haven’t told you, I’m getting better at Equestrian. I’m almost done with the first book you sent. I love it, and I’m happy you sent this one too. I know it's way too long to read a novel like this, but I’m kind of learning a new language too and I don’t get much downtime lately. I dug around a little, though, and I found you a new story you might like. Der Drache Krieg. Its an old novel about a group of knights from Vedina who have to hold out when the kingdom comes under attack by a horde of dragons. A bit dated, but I figure you might like a story about knights and chivalry. I liked it a lot. Just warning you, it hasn’t aged well.
You don’t talk about your friends in the Riverlands much. Then again, I suppose I haven’t asked much. I guess it never occured to me you had a social life back home. Thank you for taking such time to be concerned for me. I needed it. But the rest of the crew has been there too. We’re all there for each other after what happened. I am touched that even in your current situation, you still find time to worry for a griff on the other side of the world. But I fear it won’t be over any time soon. With Aquileia falling apart and now the Holy League rising up, things are looking to only get worse here.
Beer is a fact of life here. As soon as I turned sixteen, I was drinking it with dinner. Sophie complains that she doesn’t get any yet, but she will one day. And sooner than I like. But mother is adamant that she does not get any until she’s sixteen, and not one day younger. Soda is the novelty here. It's actually not that common, usually only found in import shops and at fairs and carnivals. If you want to start figuring out griffon beer with me, we’re going to need to set aside a whole day so you can figure out your drink. Everygriff has one, and you do too. That one beer that just has to be yours above all others. But we can do some of that after the movie. So what we’ve got so far is a movie, drinks for a bit and then dinner? Or should we actually organize the whole night once we get together again?
Sincerely,
-Cyril
P.S: thanks for the heads up on the censors. Uncle August had a talk with me about it too.
Sent March 11th, 1008
Dear Paige,
It's been a little over a month since I’ve heard from you. I don’t know what’s happening over there. The papers say some of Sombra’s Legions broke out further east, and that Trotsylvania fell. Looks like Equestria has been well and truly invaded after all.
It’s been quiet here. The political wildfire is still raging, but fewer riots have been breaking out. We’re more focused on training, coordination and equipment. They issued us a shotgun and some pistols for the panzer, for close defense they say. Bluetalon got the shotgun as our driver, and he’s not letting it go. Shit-eating grin and all. I was issued a P01. Good pistol. Like the one Sergeant Hellseig gave me.
Gods, I need better material to write about.
I spoke to my mother. Finally told her I’ve been talking to you. She unsurprisingly did not approve. She asked what the ‘nature’ of our relationship was. I wasn’t sure what to tell her, so I said we were just friends. She settled down after that. But it got me wondering, and I wanted to ask you before I read too much into what we’re doing. So here it is; what are we doing? I mean, we’re separated by an ocean, national borders and now a war. Are we just friends, or are we trying to be something else through just letters? I don’t know. I’ve told you more about me and my life than anygriff else. But the distance does bring it into question, doesn’t it?
Maybe it's the lack of response getting to me. I shouldn’t send this letter, just wait until you get back to me.
Well, I'm still writing. Call me crazy. Am I being crazy? I want you to tell me I'm reading into this thing between us too much.
I visited Uncle August. He couldn’t tell me much, and the censors would take what was there. But I think it's somewhat safe over here, for now. He also said he’s read a few of our letters, to make sure we don’t trip the censors again. He’s of a similar mindset to my mother, says we shouldn’t let this get too serious. I really want your feedback on all this, Paige.
I was thinking about us going out to Rottendedam again. If we can help it, we should take a whole day. Get started in the morning and explore the sights before we get to all the things we want to do.
Gods, this letter is a mess. Just a bunch of idle scribbles. But I'm sending it unedited. Guess we’ll both have to live with the result, since every other time I try to start over it comes out worse, if that’s possible.
Please tell me you’re okay.
-Cyril
Sent March 26th, 1008
Dear Cyril,
I’m sorry to have worried you so much. I’m fine, but we had a brief incident where a few bombing missions came too close for comfort. It hit the school proper, and I know we had a few students die. But it looks like they were aiming for the recruiting stations. That was only the start though. The army lost several soldiers off in the woods, mauled. I didn’t get a good look myself, but everypony says it was gruesome. They organized a mission to go take care of what they thought were commandos that had parachuted in behind enemy lines. Turns out, they were some kind of umbrum. Magical attack beasts unleashed in the forest. That’s all I got from the rumors. Gloaming got blamed for it. The other students started insisting she was working for Sombra, and must have summoned the shadowponies here. Utter idiocy, of course. But she’s still withdrawn. Whatever little sliver of personality I got out of her before the war started is gone again.
When the mail came in, I got both of your letters at the same time. I’m glad you’re doing okay, though it sounds like politics aren’t. I’ve been a bit isolated here. They’re still talking about evacuating the school, but honestly I don’t see the point. No one can concentrate on finals. I’ll have to transfer to a new school, and I don’t even know if my scholarship is going to be honored elsewhere.
Seems you’ve had a bit of a religious awakening, I guess. No you’re right. I’ve never been one to believe in faith and deities. We’ve proven that ultra-powerful beings exists right here, so why worship those we can’t see? That’s not a challenge by the way, I’m just explaining. Anyway, if you’ve found your faith to get through, I don’t mind. No worries from me. And I listened to the song. It’s quite beautiful. I can see why you took such guidance from it.
I understand your mother and uncle come from a traditional mindset. It doesn’t sound like they dislike you talking to me, so much as anything going further. And I have to say I think that’s incredibly bigoted of them. I know griffon pony couples aren’t common, but who’s to say that it's any of their business?
We never really defined us, did we? I know it's tricky, and maybe we’ve both been sidestepping around what -this- is. Always expecting we could pick up the discussion in person later. I like you, a lot. I really do. And from what I can tell, you like me too. We’ve been talking about dinner and stepping it up to movies, drinks and now a whole day together at some unspecified date. We’ve flirted, we’ve assumed and we’ve avoided the topic. But now, I guess it's out there.
Please, don’t take this the wrong way. But given what’s happening in the world around us and the distance between you and I, I don’t think we’re in any shape to explore whatever this is between us. I still consider you a good friend, and I want to keep writing you. And maybe, just maybe, we can finally figure out what this is when things clear up.
I’m so sorry.
Yours,
-Paige
Sent May 12, 1008
Paige,
I guess what you’re saying makes sense. With everything going on and letters getting interrupted every so often, trying to (the rest of the line is scratched out).
Okay.
New topic. Aquileia finally finished its revolution. The 2nd Republic was declared. I honestly don’t know what to think about a nation that has to build itself by overthrowing its monarch. All I know is that Feathisia is moving troops to the border of Skyfall and Griefwald. There’s talk about Imperial intervention. I don’t know what that means either. Uncle August won’t tell me, and Sergeant Hellseig just says waiting and seeing is our only real choice.
I finished the Cloud City Daring Do book. I really enjoyed it, once I got a handle on the language. Tartarus, I went back and reread it once I could better understand it. A lot more made sense. I started on the Marapore book. Do you like the one I sent you?
You know, you’re talking about finals, but you never told me about those midterms you made such a big deal about a few months ago. Actually, you haven’t really talked about your classes much at all. Hope that’s all still going well for you. Can’t be easy to support an advanced education with bombs going off and magic creatures in the woods. Say hi to Gloaming for me. Tell her I’m sorry she’s so unfairly mistreated.
I heard the Changelings invaded Olenia. That’s not a fight that’ll last long, mark my words. It seems like the last two years have just been full of all kinds of insanity, on both continents. I know you said Equestria is peaceful and I’m sure it's a beautiful place like you mentioned, but it sounds like that age is about to come to an end, especially if Sombra’s Legions are giving the Royal Army the fight the papers say they are. I don’t know what to do aside from tell you to take care of yourself, and try to do what you think is right.
My mother and uncle are old-fashioned, yes. There’s a lot of griffs who still tell the stories warning of barbaric Riverponies. Longsword and Hellquill wouldn’t be wasting time on the Ostwall if they didn’t. I agree it's xenophobic, but I’m used to it. I’m sure griffons aren’t well liked back east either. I also agree that’s the understatement of this century. But Longsword’s managing to make it work with ponies in their lands, and you know about the dogs of Bronzehill. So maybe there’s hope.
(Another line is scratched out)
Sorry. I know you said to leave it (more words scratched out).
Right.
Keep in touch. Hopefully things will get better sooner or later.
Sincerely,
-Cyril
Sent June 1st, 1008
Dear Cyril,
You were right about Olenia. The Changelings stormed over the mountains. Vaverfront fell yesterday. It won’t be long now.
I agree with you that I’m wary about Aquileia. They call themselves a harmonic democracy, but at the end of the day they did summarily execute their king and commit to a bloody civil war. Vérany and his supporters are a bit of a grey area over here. The school used to have a pro-Republic club on campus, but they’ve lost enough members to army recruitment and transfers that they couldn’t keep together. I know it means something completely different to you than a set of political morales, but you have to remember I come from a republic. My view on democracy is a little skewed.
You were right. Reading about a tale of chivalry and knights and dragons was a welcome change of pace. No politics for a bit, no connections to the real world, no impending wars or invasions. Just an old story about knights rescuing damsels in distress. You’re right, it is a bit outdated. But I think the fact it was so different from today was what made it enjoyable.
(The words ‘You don’t have to be awkward, Cyril’ are crossed out with a single neat line.)
Okay, sorry. I meant you don’t have to tiptoe around. We can still be like before, we just have to wait before we really start talking about us again. I didn’t mean to make things awkward, but I fear that my trying to set down some (boundaries is scratched out) precautions may have made this a bit...odd.
Okay, i’m moving on. I think I’ve made my point.
My midterm results came back months ago. Mostly B’s though I did get an A in Theoretical Magicks. Finals are coming up, and I honestly don’t feel ready.
I just stumbled on a few of our letters from last year. So much has changed. We have a bit too, I think. Just a bit more sad. A bit more serious. Let’s hope things can change again.
They’re finally evacuating the school. Canterlot University is full up, so they’re taking us to the University of Hoofington. I don’t want to leave, but they say it's not safe. I don’t know what I’ll do after finals. Maybe that’s a discussion for the next letter.
Missing you. Hoping we can get back to how we were when we started writing.
I hope I got the address right. Hoofington University General Dorm. Hope this gets to you.
I wish I’d been wrong. The newspapers are saying the Changelings swarmed Sakara yesterday. Everydeer in the defense is dead and the King finally gave up Hjortland. While I might say it was a lost cause since the beginning, it still makes me nervous as Tartarus. The Changelings occupy the second largest land area on Equus now. I know you haven’t met any Changelings yet yourself, but let me tell you most of them are single-minded sociopaths, with a bit of love for violence. I know the Empire had a Changeling mission here, but that doesn’t make us allies. Most griffs I know are pretty offput by them, but a lot of them like them enough that they stayed as long as they did. I know you’re pretty occupied between the move, the war and finals, but I just want you to stay aware of how dangerous they are, especially now with Olenia’s resources in their mandibles.
Okay, less politics. I’m just worried about you. Given our last conversation, I can only hope that things are getting better for you. The newspapers finally decided to treat the Crystal War as a major event, though its still being largely described as ‘Equestria walking into its own backyard’. So now you know the general Griffonian attitude over here.
Fewer politics. Life’s mostly gone back to normal in the Herzland. No more riots, no more chaos. All good for me, means I have to get put on riot duty less. We’ve gone back to training. The worst came down after all. Ludmilla the 2nd is gone, replaced by something called a LP-2 ‘Calico’ panzer (don’t ask me about the name, apparently the Gryphus South Continent Company invested some idols in the development with the Changelings). It's completely different from her predecessor. Different layout. Her engine is more powerful, and her armor is thicker. Totally different from Ludmilla, not that that’s always a good thing. The whole 41st is getting our LI’s replaced by these new systems, with promises for more equipment in the future.
We decided on a name. ‘Zola’ is what we’ll call her. Sergeant Hellseig himself painted it on the 4 cm’s barrel. Bluetalon keeps going on about how easy she is to drive, while Grimquill does nothing but bitch up and down the wall like back on Ludmilla. At the end of the day, this is still a good panzer. We’re lucky to have her.
Training continues, though now we think its war preparation. More infantry units keep coming into the Crona Training Fields. The 41st has been put into the 8th Korps, under Uncle August. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t a coincidence. Something big is going down in the Empire, but I couldn’t tell you what it is.
I saw Mother and Sophie the other day. She’s happy we’re mostly just shuffling around, like any mother would be. Sophie asked about my job, and I told her it's mostly just sitting around right now. She doesn’t know about the riot in (the location is clipped out). Mother didn’t tell her. And I’m not going to either. Industrie feels like it's changing. Apparently a new group called the Industrierat is making reforms to the district. Worker safety is increasing, minimum wage is going up, paved roads are being installed everywhere and modern machines are being enforced on the factories. While I’m happy that the neighborhood is changing for the better, I’m mostly happy for my mother. I’ve always been worried she had the more dangerous occupation of the two of us. Now she’s safer and the district is improving (apparently the local police had it out with a few streetgangs in some brutal crackdowns) I can worry a little less.
All in all, things are going back to the way they were. And honestly, I’m happy for that. Means there’s hope, right?
Let me know I got the address right. I get the feeling I’d go insane if I couldn’t talk to you anymore.
Sincerely,
-Cyril
Sent July 5th, 1008
Dear Cyril,
I’m fine. You got the address correct, though I wouldn’t advise you keep it. I got your letter during finals week, so I’m done here in Hoofington. Until they decide to let students back into Luna Nova, my scholarships is kind of up in the air. Though, I can likely leave a forwarding address.
This week, there was a tragedy. An ammunition ship in New Mareland detonate in a huge accident. Commonwealth troops are supposed to be landing in Manehattan to join the fight, and apparently the wartime preparations triggered some real issues overseas. It’s all been frontpage news. It's finally given me the push I needed. My first year is over. Finals are up. And ponies are dying. So, despite what you told me and my parents’ wishes, I finally made up my mind.
I enlisted in the Royal Air Force yesterday. I’m not in yet, I have to go for a physical check and then training after that. I’ve thought long and hard about this, Cyril. You should know this better than anypony or griff. You enlisted to escape your home, but I can’t sit by with nothing to do here and watch others go fight (the next words are scratched out) and die for my safety.
My recruiter said I’ll be in the bomber forces. Apparently they’re being rapidly expanded, and they need crewponies for the aircraft. Sombra’s air force is apparently small, so that’s the safest place I can think of to be. New Wellington modern bomber craft are replacing old Wheatleys, so they need more crew for bigger planes.
This isn’t something I can just ignore. I’ve been directly impacted by this. Sombra’s a menace to the whole continent. He needs to be stopped. By the time you read this, I'll likely be off to training. They’re apparently moving replacements to the front as quick as they can. Gloaming coming with. She enlisted the same time I did, though she signed up for the Army Pegasi Corps. They’re giving her grief about being a thestral, so the Air Force wouldn’t take her. I wish BAT was still around, but anti-thestral sentiment is even worse here in the south. Hoofington’s got a bad taste for thestrals, likely from proximity. Not even Princess Luna's reforms are changing that very quickly.
I already sent messages to my parents. They’ll likely disapprove. Too bad it takes six to eight weeks to get mail to the River Republic from southern Equestria.
I haven’t given up on academics, don’t worry. Sometimes, things just take priority.
“Left to its own circumstances, the world will stagnate and decay, never changing or moving forward. It is only by introducing strife and challenge that life, society and knowledge evolve.” -Conrad Dawkclaw
Save a beer for me?
Yours,
-Paige
Sent July 27th, 1008
Paige,
I don’t know what you were thinking. I never said I would stand in the way of you enlisting, I just wanted to make sure you weren't jumping (the word ‘claws’ is scratched out here) hooves first into something you weren’t ready for.
While I can’t say I approve of the air service (pilots are mostly nobles in the Kaiserliche Luftstreitkräfte, so to Tartarus with those assholes) I am of course proud of you enlisting. Though separated by an ocean, race and nations, we both set to something greater than ourselves. And you volunteered to actually go fight. I just did it for the paycheck.
I don’t know much about pony military doctrine, or Royal Air Force training. But if it's anything like Imperial Guard training, it’ll be intense. There will be times where you want to give up and walk away from this stupid endeavor. But you have to stick it out. When I enlisted, my Uncle August said something to me, and while the words have faded a little over the years (I I know, it wasn’t that long ago to begin with) I still remember the intent behind it. Seeing as how you’re about to go to war, I feel I should share them with you.
“You are about to embark on one of the greatest journeys of your life. In our short time, there is little greater one can do aside from volunteer to serve something bigger than themselves. You will be tested, you will be scarred and you will be forced to question everything you know. You may suffer. You may die. But by the end, you will stand head and shoulders above those around you, knowing what you now know, having seen what you’ve seen. You have put yourself on the line, and come what may you have become one of the few to have started down the road of heroes. Stand tall, stand strong, stand faithful and you will come out the other side.”
Again, I may not be remembering his words exactly, but I’m confident I got close enough to his intent. I hope I either catch you before you leave Hoofington or early enough in your training to have this message make a difference. You’ve become my best friend simply through our letters, and I want to be there for you, no matter the difference. And to me, that means every day counts.
You may not be the only one going to war soon. From what I hear filtering down, apparently the remaining Regency Council is full of hot debate. After the Holy League broke away, they started expanding their military efforts by a massive amount. There’s rumors that the Regent Duchess Eagleclaw is pressing for a reintegration of all loyal territories. This would mean, of course, that the nobles remaining would lose direct control over their lands, their private armies and a large portion of their incomes. From what I hear, the biggest opponent is Grand Duke Gerlach, who states (and I’m just relaying rumor here) that he doesn’t want all his hard work and reforms to go out the window with Griffenheim’s rule. So, on top of facing a war to reclaim our wayward southern neighbors, we may be facing war with our ‘loyal’ provinces.
I love the Empire, I do. But some days, it honestly feels like we’re too busy fighting each other than the ones that truly threaten us.
I finished the book. Both of them. Surprise! I wanted to let you know a few letters ago, but I decided to double down. Practice, memorization and a little bit of guesswork. I love these books. They’re my prize possessions now, and I’m looking into finding a book store when I next get a weekend pass. I want to get the other novels in the Daring Do series, and if I take what idols I have left after helping my mother and putting into savings from this month, I might have enough to get one or two. I make two idols a day, and I’ve gotten better with math since I joined the Panzerkorps.
Keep writing, if they let you. If I can’t talk to you, I’m going to miss you something fierce, and its way too easy for our letters to get delayed already.
Sincerely,
-Cyril
Sent August 25th, 1008
Dear Cyril,
Unfortunately, you didn’t catch me in time. Lucky you, that forwarding address I left worked just fine. I’ve been shipped off to the Cloudsdale Flight School. Apparently even if you’re a pegasus and even if you’re in a bomber some constant still apply. The registration process took less time than I thought, they did a one day health check and a one week background investigation. I was off to training July 20th, so if it makes you feel better I was gone even before you had a chance to send the letter.
Its free time in the barracks right now. I’m not going through pilot training myself, being just a low-end crewpony. The real pilots are all officers who go through months of flight school, though apparently the course differs for earth ponies and unicorns. Right now, it's mostly memorization of terms and physical exercise. The training sergeants are fierce, constantly on the lookout for weakness in ‘the crop’. They keep stating that if we’re not up for the job, Sombra’s umbrals will swallow us up. I learned the hard way its best not to ask questions or point out faults in logic.
I wasn’t very physically active before I enlisted. I know now that was a mistake. Flying sprints, no-wing dashes, weight training. Its intense, and I’m hurting in places I didn’t even know I had. I keep getting told this is light compared to what infantryponies get, and it honestly makes me glad I didn’t join the army (no offense intended).
I’m tired. Different day. Free time is short, I don’t have the endless hours I used to. Hard to go on sometimes. Lectures most of the day on the functions of the bomber, general maintenance, emergency procedures. They say it's (eight is scratched out) six more weeks of this. Meaning by the time you get a reply to me, I’m likely to be gone. So I set up a PO box in Cloudsdale, where all my mail goes these days, address included here. I’ll start sending forwarding addresses to it.
I wanted to say thank you for the inspiring words. And tell your Uncle August he makes very good speeches. Almost like its out of a history book of, oh say, famous Imperial generals. (wink wink). Secret’s safe with me. Though I am worried about a possible Imperial civil war too. Given the balance of power over there, you have enough to worry about without fighting each other. Wingbardy’s militarization going unchecked means they could conquer the whole south before the Empire responds, not to say what the Republic and Aquileia will do (before you say anything, don’t forget that I'm not a fan of ‘democracy by force’).
My parents are, of course, worried. They’re over the shock now. They just want me to stay safe, keep my head down, not take any risks. Can’t say I blame them. With what they keep telling us here, I sometimes wonder if I made a mistake. I could really die with this.
We did bombsight lectures today. And machine gun range training. It's a lot harder than it looks, to be honest. I suppose I’m lucky it's mounted, and I don’t really have to carry it. We all did horrible, of course. More pushups, more sprints. The way they talk to us, it sounds like nopony in the squadron can do anything right. I’m trying my best, Cyril. But it's just as weary as it sounds.
They give us news from the war. Apparently, Equestrian forces are within sight of the Crystal City. But losses are high. According to news, over a hundred thousand dead, wounded or captured. Commonwealth and Crystal Loyalist units are on the ground with us. The enemy is relentless. Apparently there’s no way to discern between Sombra’s followers and their mind-controlled Legionnaires. The Crystal air corps knows they’re outnumbered, so they tripled down on flak and shadow spells. We’re being told more air crew casualties are being inflicted by magic than actual fighter craft. That doesn’t make me feel much better about it.
From what I hear, this war could be over before I even go on my first combat mission. But then again, isn’t that what they all say? I get the feeling it's going to get a lot worse before it gets better.
My recommendation for the next one is Daring Do and the Eternal Flower. I know it sounds a little...well, flowery. But if you liked the other two, you’re going to love this one. Any recommendations for me? I might only get a few days’ leave before I ship out.
And thank you, Cyril. For everything.
Yours,
-Paige
Sent September 16th, 1008
Dear Paige,
Sounds like my timing was off. If it's only six weeks left, and it takes four weeks on average for a message to cross the sea, then I won’t get another chance to talk to you in training. And for that I’m sorry. We’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. The separation is amazingly horrible.
I don’t know much about aerial combat. I see Imperial planes flying overhead all the time, more and more and more of them. Fighters, bombers, CAS craft, transport planes. They fly farther and faster than any griffon strapped for combat. They fire bullets and drop bombs or griffons.
That’s the extent of my knowledge on air combat.
Listen, something occurred to me. Since it takes so much longer for letters to get from Equestria to the River Republic, I was wondering if maybe we could exchange our parent’s addresses. I can send letters to your folks for updates, and I’m fairly certain you’d want to prove yourself to my mother, change her mind in a way that I can’t. This is an idea that’s been bouncing around in my head for a while, but now you’re in the service it means you’ll be facing even worse mail delays, so I figured them having someone on this continent to let them know you’re okay would help out.
Plus, Sophie’s started asking questions about you. She’ll be thrilled to have a penpal.
You officially know more about the Crystal War than I do. Newspapers are still going on about it being trivial affairs an entire world away, though given what’s happened here at home I don’t suppose I can blame anygriff for thinking that.
Uncle August wrote me again. He can’t exactly call me into his command post to speak. That could be seen as favoritism. But he said he’s proud of what I’m doing, and I told him some more about you. He’s impressed that you enlisted, though as a proud Reichsarmee griff he is, like me, disappointed you chose the easy branch. But word from him is to give it your best, and give them a few pieces for him.
I got the book you recommended. Turns out it has a Herzlandisch version after all. But I got it in Equestrian. I knew you’d be disappointed if I took the easy way out, and this way nogriff else will want to steal it. Grimquill keeps calling me a sucker for taking the time to learn the language, but Hellseig approves, I can tell.
Word came down from the kaptein. The 41st is going through new tactics and maneuvers. Again. Apparently, we’re expected to be getting new vehicles again, and they’re testing ideas for something called a ‘medium’ panzer. It's supposed to move like Zola but hit almost as hard as a Beak tank. But they’re still in development, so I’m expecting it’ll be a while before we even use them. Which makes what we’re doing here feel kind of pointless, but I haven’t gotten answers from my kommandants before. I don’t expect any now.
I’ve been thinking about applying for mail order classes from Griffenheim University. I never gave any serious thought to going, always thought I was too dumb. But after our conversations and what I’ve learned from you and my time in service, maybe I have a shot. I was thinking perhaps something in mechanical engineering. Industrial expansion is booming over here, might be a good way to look into the future. Thank you for giving me the confidence I needed to even think about trying. Although, given everything, I may have to wait until next year before I apply.
Something new from me this time. There’s a book in the package for you called ‘Der Schwarzwald’. This one I know only comes in Herzlandisch. It's a thriller novel I read a few years ago, a bit more contemporary. It's about some hikers lost up north who stumble upon a dark secret in the frozen woods. The author apparently spent some time with the Arcturian Order, and her experiences up on the Dread Peninsula inspired her writing. I hope you enjoy it.
Sincerely,
-Cyril
Sent September 28th, 1008
Dear Paige,
I know you probably haven’t gotten my last letter yet, but by my reckoning you should be graduating from training any day now. I know this will probably not arrive until afterwards, but on this day especially I still felt the need to write another letter.
Congratulations. Welcome to the service. We may be separated by national flag and, Boreas’ sake, branch of service. But the fact is, you’ve put your best foot forward and taken the step to being a soldier like me. You didn’t have to, and a lot of people tried to talk you out of it. You’re one of a kind amongst crowds, and given everything else you can do and what you’ve been through, it just makes you unique.
Paige, you’re amazing. The things you can do and what you’re capable of just by wishing it outstrips anything I’ve ever seen in anyone else. You’ve conquered the schoolroom, travelled the world, fought to correct what you saw was a critical wrong, and now stepped forward to go to war. You, Paige, are truly one of a kind.
Now go give ‘em hell.
Sincerely,
-Cyril
Sent October 13th, 1008
Dear Cyril,
I finally got your letters, and managed to get a reply of my own back. Thank you for the novel, the message of encouragement, the word from your uncle, everything. Gods, you’re incredible.
I did graduate from bomber training. You’re currently writing Aircrewmare Turner, Royal Air Force, 16th Bomber Squadron. They’ve stationed me up north, as part of a Halifax crew. A bit different from what they got me ready for. I’m stationed at an airbase that I can’t talk about, classified and all that. But you’re used to that too, aren’t you? Then again, they army boys can’t really understand much unless its in picture form.
I’m really no good at the whole interservice trash-talk thing, am I?
I haven’t flown any combat missions yet. They’re massing aircraft to get ready for the next offensive. Our troops are pressing the Crystal City, hard. But Sombra’s throwing up everything he can to keep us out. It’s getting ugly on the ground. We could be sent in anyday now to support.
Life in the service isn’t what I imagined. After I got off the plane, they shuffled us away into these dingy barracks that looked like they hadn’t been used in twenty years, and we’ve sort of just been sitting around ever since. I’ve met the rest of my aircrew, a bit of an odd bunch. We’ve been poking around the plane since we got here, doing maintenance and learning what we can. But this is a new crew, fresh out of training, on a new aircraft, literally just out of the factory. I’ve got a bad feeling about all of that.
There’s not much more I can talk about. I love the book so far, and I’m so delighted to hear you talk about trying to apply for school. You have a lot of potential, Cyril. You just need to figure out how to use it, and your experience on machinery would be invaluable in the industrial market. Things are changing, a lot. It's the right time to learn a new trade.
Speaking of learning, I got back the results of my finals at last. Mostly B’s and a C, but I’ve been so busy with training and distracted by the state of the world I honestly just forgot about it for a time. Well, more accurately, I kind of stopped caring. But now, we’re set to launch at any time. And now all the things I’ve done over my life have come back to me and made me question what I’ve done. I know we said we’d wait until things calmed down before we started talking about the nature of our possible relationship, but given the fact that either of us could die at any time lately, maybe we should at least start?
I’ve inserted my parents’ address on a separate slip. They’ve lived at that address the past twenty years, its not changing anytime soon. I’m already drafting a letter to your mother as we speak with the address of your home. It's a little more difficult than trying to talk to you, because I know you’re less likely to judge me so harshly. Don’t feel you’re under the same pressure when talking to my family, they’re not so traditional. I am having more trouble writing your sister. I’m not sure what to tell her and what to leave out. So I’m doing my best to talk to her like anypony else. No special treatment, no politics. I really want to make a good impression on them both.
Now that I’m here at a base, I understand what you meant about the boredom. We’re waiting for word to take off at any time now, but meanwhile we have nothing else to do but the routine, day after day. How have you survived years of this so far?
Eagerly waiting,
-Paige
Sent November 1st, 1008
Dear Paige,
First, congratulations for you. I always knew you’d make it, and I’m immensely proud of you. Don’t worry about the trash talk. It’ll come naturally as you come to hate/love the groundpounders.
Your father hasn’t sent a message, but your mother is pleasant enough. She was a little confused about the nature of our talks, so I told her we were penpals the last year or so. She’s worried about you, but I told her you’re alright and that we’d been in touch. If you’re writing my mother, do me a favor and don’t call -her- close minded or talk to her about thestral rights. She’s not going to be too loving of that. Don’t worry about Sophie. She’s a smart girl, she knows how the world works even if she doesn’t let on. I think it's better that she does that.
The boredom does get to you. We get by over here with cardgames, worship study (wouldn’t recommend it, you get the diehards in there yelling over everygriff else) and, when we’ve been way too long without something to do, practical jokes. Bluetalon filled my cap with whipped cream the other day right before formation, so I got him back by forging a letter saying he won a contest and got a thousand bits. Should have seen him, he was gushing about leaving us ‘suckers’ behind and moving on. So in the middle of writing a letter trying to resign, he gets a letter from his banker at home saying he had a grand total of thirty bits. Now he’s trying to figure out who got him so good. But I’ll never tell.
Paige, about that other topic. Are you sure you want to open that can of worms again? I know what you’re saying, but we’re treading into some dangerous territory there. Now we’re both in, the odds of us getting leave the exact same time are even slimmer. I like you, I do. I really like you. But I don’t want us laying out plans we’re never going to get to or, even worse, coming to hate each other over not being able to fulfill. I just want to make sure you know what we’re getting into.
Sincerely,
Cyril
Sent December 1st, 1008
Dear Cyril,
We went on our first bombing mission. They scrambled us and said it was time, we were hitting the Crystal City. I was bombardier. We got set up for a night raid, so to obscure ground batteries. The whole time we were getting ready I was shaking like a leaf in a storm. I thought ‘this is it. We’re going up.’ Once we got off the tarmac, it was cold. Like stupid cold. We went up higher than any other flight I’ve ever been on. Higher than I’ve ever flown with just my wings. We flew up so high, we needed oxygen masks. It was dark inside. Felt darker than even outside. I sat in the bombsight, so I could see the ground. Well, towards it. Because most of what I saw was darkness and snow.
There were forty of us, flying in one direction in formation with Blenheim escorts. You could look out the windows and see the lights one either side, stretched out. The only color in an otherwise pitch black sky.
We flew like this for a few hours. I lost track of time and I think I even fell asleep. Nopony talked much. We just huddled tight in our leather jackets and tried not to think about what waited for us. The next thing I know, there’s light everywhere. Flashes and bangs and stars exploding around us. I look through the bombsight and see lights all over the ground. We reached the front and I didn’t even realize it. As we fly through the flak, I remember my heart pounding out of my chest so hard, I felt like my ribs were going to crack. Everytime a shell burst nearby, I swore my teeth rattled.
I saw a plane die. She got hit by a shell in her number 2 engine, and when she slewed off with her wing on fire it broke off. She spun in below the clouds and that was it. Another one was struck by a spell I recognized even in blackness; a bolt of death. It blew out her cockpit. The crew never had a chance.
We were over the target when I was given the greenlight. That meant I had eight seconds to spot and aim at the target. I want to say I hit it, I do. But in the darkness, with flak and spells bursting all around, I think the best I can say is that I hit the city, at least. Thirteen thousand pounds of ordnance, and I have no idea where it went. But I dropped it. The bomber lifted up. And we started back.
That’s when the Gladiators attacked. Biplanes they might have been, but even biplanes are enough to catch up to heavy bombers. Whoever said the Crystal air corps was starved out was out of his gourd, because they smoked two of us before we even saw them. The Blenheims peeled off to deal with them, and I could hear the turret gunners hammering away. All I could do was sit there and hope we weren’t next.
When we set down, I went to my bunk and passed out on the way down. I was so exhausted just from the sheer terror I felt of going in. We were honestly only in the fight for about twenty minutes. The rest of it was just getting there. But when I saw what happened to our bomber, I felt sick all over again. There was a hole, not two hooves over from my bombsight, punched straight through. Turns out, we lost nine bombers last night. And I don’t even know if I did any good.
(There is a fold, a few scratched out words and a smudge of something.)
I’m okay now. We went out to the bar near base and got drunk. They’re telling us the raid was a success, but I can’t think how. We were supposed to be targeting factories, and those are pretty big. So if the army’s telling us we got it, I’ll take the satisfaction. But I don’t know that it was worth sixty-three ponies.
I got word back from your mother. She doesn’t like me, but she was polite about it. Thinks I’m this Riverlands hussy who’s trying to seduce her son into debauchery and perversion. Oh, she didn’t say it like that, but her words made it abundantly clear. Sophie’s a delight though. Very articulate for a chick. She has good penmanship.
My father will come around. He’s a little wary of this whole affair is all.
Yes. I really want to start talking about us again. Last night made me realize that in the end all we’ve got is what we do now. Your future and mine may be extremely short. We may not be face to face, but we’ll know we’ve got each other. So, how about it? Ready to leap into this whole long-distance romance thing with both eyes closed and no idea what underneath?
Yours,
-Paige
Sent December 20th, 1008
Dear Paige,
When I got your letter, I took the next night to go to the nearest tavern, ordered some schnapps and gave you and your comrades a toast. What you described sounds harrowing to the extreme, and I never imagined air combat to be so intense. I’m tracking (the Crystal War is scratched out by two solid lines) your war as best I can from over here. Nothing about your raid, but fighting has moved inside the Crystal City’s outskirts. The western front has Sombra’s reinforcements cut off by Loyalist forces. Commonwealth tanks were the first to breach the outer walls. We might just be seeing the beginning of the end here. Fingers crossed.
My mother is a bit abrasive at times. She’s a single mother living in a crime-infested, poverty stricken neighborhood while her son is off in the army all the time. She doesn’t warm up to things quickly at all. As for Sophie, I’m very proud of her. She’s going to go off and do great things when she grows up.
Okay. Then just so you know before we get into this thing, I’ve wanted to take you out for months. I know we talked about it a bit, but I mean I really wanted to. Not just as a ‘oh we’ll go have dinner’. You mean a lot to me, Paige. I’m just trying not to ruin that.
The winter over here feels a bit somber. Politics being what they are, the year being what its been and now I’m reading about you fighting a war half the world away. It’ll almost be two years since we saw each other, you know that? Come March. And I’m having trouble dealing with that. I wish I could see you again. Throw my arms around you. And I’d find a way to make sure you were never more than four hours away from me at all times. That may seem a bit possessive, but I figure ‘fuck it. We’ve spent enough time apart.’
In the envelope, you’ll find my Medal of Arcturius, from temple. You need it more than I do right now. Keep it close. And I’ll always be right beside you. In the meantime, I’ll keep thinking about that day we finally see each other again. I know ponies kiss, but it's a little different for griffons. No lips, you see. So instead, imagine me gently rubbing my face against yours, cheek to cheek. The winter might be cold, and you might feel alone up there in that bomber of yours, but so long as you keep me with you, I’ll always be there.
We don’t have a Hearth’s Warming Day like you do. But what we do have is Mondstille, where we gather friends and family and other loved ones close, spend time together, drink, make merry and sing songs together as we bring in the new year. Sometimes we’ll exchange gifts, but I think griffons are a mite too selfish and greedy to make that a tradition.
So this New Years’, look up in the sky and just imagine me looking at the same thing.
If I seem a little emotional and overly sappy, it could largely be that every time I’ve sat down to write, I’ve taken a few shots of liquid courage.
January 2nd, 1009 ALB The Imperial Palace Griffenheim, Herzland
One feature the city of Griffenheim had was that it had been designed for capacity. With the immense size of the Empire at its height, the capital of course had to be built to match it. The city was easily the largest on the continent, only rivaled by Romau itself, and the center of this was the truly enormous Imperial Palace at its heart. This had been shown during the sendoff the Empire held for the Changeling mission a few months ago, or the Imperial Banquet last year in which those traitors hadn’t attended. But she dropped such negative thoughts, pulling her fine cloak closer as she looked out over Griffenheim at night. The smokestacks of Industrie were visible in the far distance, and she could still see the Griffking River bisecting the city, dividing the upper district from the lower ones. Quite a glorious sight, and she felt her breast fill with a sense of pride knowing that it was her hard work that had wrangled the Regency into actually making the changes necessary to bringing the Empire back to glory.
Duchess Gabriela Eagleclaw heard a knocking at the heavy wooden door behind her, the one leading out onto the landing she currently occupied. Her bodyguard, not one of her knights from Readewetter but a pair of soldiers from the Imperial Guard (it was thought to show less favoritism to use Guardsgriffs instead of Strawberry's knights), glanced at each other before readying their MP14 ‘Specht’ submachine guns. One cracked the door open, speaking quietly to whoever had knocked before he looked over at the Duchess.
“Your Grace,” the soldier said, holding the door in a way that his body would have to be moved if he was to abruptly be shot, allowing her a second to respond. “The Grand Duke is here, ma’am.”
“Admit him,” the pink griffon replied, turning to look back out at the city. “I’ve been expecting him.”
The Guardsgriff stood aside, allowing Grand Duke Gerlach IV Weijermars to step through, his black and yellow enchanted plate glinting in the flickering light from the electric lantern on either side of the door. Behind him, his own bodyguards awaited, a pair of Ducal Guards in similar knight’s plating, swords at their sides and pistols on hips. The Grand Duke shivered lightly as he stepped out into the brisque winter night air, breath billowing in clouds from his beak.
“I swear, I only just arrived and I seem to have forgotten how cold it was out here,” he stated, tugging his own cloak closer. He glanced up at the lamps, an eyebrow raised. “Last time I was here, those were still oil lanterns. Somegriff sprung for an upgrade.”
“It was time,” Gabriela said from the rail, drawing Gerlach’s eye. She saw his grey feathers fluff slightly under his collar and around his plumage before he quickly managed to flatten them out, and smiled to herself while he couldn’t see. “There’s been a lot of change in the Empire as of late.”
“Yes. And not all of it good unfortunately,” Gerlach replied. Normally known as ‘the Silent’ for his calm demeanor, Gerlach also had a way of being blunt and polite at the same time that few monarchs or nobles could do or cared to do. He approached, halting just out of wings’ reach from her.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he commented idly, all trace of his tension gone as he smiled towards her once more. Schooling her features, she turned towards him, her cloak held closed tightly as she appeared to inspect him with cold indifference.
“Are you here to talk business, or simply to play the game of flattery? I assumed from your telegram it was the former.”
“Actually, its funny you mention those together,” Gerlach said, his smirk having yet to fade. “Since they are one and the same.”
Gabriela scrutinized the Grand Duke closely, noting that, while his demeanor appeared quite calm and collected, he twitched slightly under her gaze, his own eyes flickering over her shoulder occasionally. She nodded to her Guards.
“Leave us.”
The soldiers looked to each other uneasily, SMGs still held at the ready over their chests before they moved slowly to the door, glancing back at her. She understood, of course. The Imperial Guard’s duties were to defend Griffenheim and the Herzland, handpicked from the best the Landwehr and Reichsarmee had to offer. They were utterly devoted to her safety. Willingly stepping away was something that sat ill at ease with them.
The Ducal Guards looked to their sovereign, who nodded as well, grateful for the momentary distraction. The knights took their leave as well, their features more schooled but clearly just as awkward about leaving the Grand Duke here without protection, going to stand in the hallway to stare at the Guardsgriffs. The heavy wooden door scraped shut with a thud, dislodging a bit of snow from the stones over it.
As soon as they were alone, Gabriela relaxed slightly, letting out a breath she didn’t know she was holding before smiling over at the Grand Duke warmly.
“Gerlach,” she said, beckoning him over. “It’s been a while since we’ve been alone like this.”
“It has,” he replied, stepping to join her at the stone railing. “Gods know we can’t exactly rendezvous with the Council everywhere.”
They watched Griffenheim for some time, listening to the thrum of automobiles and late night industry. On the river, a barge blew its horn, and the clatter of late-night tavern goers echoed out of every district, almost discernible even here. The spirit of Mondstille was still strong in the air, and would carry on likely until the end of the month. It was difficult to not find excuses to get together, drink and make merry, and this was one of the few holidays where nobles and commoners shared an equal level of celebration. Upstate manors were just as festively lit and active as riverside tenements, uniting Imperial society on a level scarce enough in the Herzland.
“You’ve been busy,” Gerlach commented, glancing her way before he looked back at the skyline. In the distance, a cluster of griffons flew by, likely rebellious youths enjoying the winter air before the polizei chased them down. Flying over the imperial city at night was dangerous, and therefore illegal. The shadows flitted over modern electric streetlights, past cable cars and automobiles in the streets. Higher overhead, a handful of Imperial Guardairplanes soared by, fighters running patrol screens. Though a small patrol, that small handful represented a good portion of his own air force back in Feathisia, and he felt a small stab of jealousy.
“It was time to bring the Empire into the modern age,” she said. “My cousin was a compassionate griff...but he was no visionary.” Likely due to the fact that his illness occupied a large portion of his attention, but the obvious went unsaid.
“Oh, is that what you are?” Gerlach asked instead. “A visionary, come to save the Empire from itself?”
“I’ve done a damn good job so far,” Gabriela defended, only half serious in her offense. This was an old topic between them, though when it was out on the Council floor he often pointed to the seeming double standard of allowing merchant princes and clergy into the Council, but refusing to grant written rights to common griffons in the Empire. She had argued back that the balance of power needed to be maintained, and so on and so forth. But the heat and venom were saved for the chamber, in front of the rest of the Regency. Here, by themselves, such topics were often handled much more airily.
“Oh yes, damn good job losing half the Empire,” Gerlach teased, though he was cautious with his tone. The Holy League was the reason the Guard were flying night patrols over the city. The reason for the massive buildup in the Reichsarmee. Troops had been called down from Bronzkreuz, the fantical dog regiments helping to reinforce the Herzland. The Barkginian Guard were busy guarding their five year old charge as he slept, and Imperial generals had wanted more of the ecstatically loyal shock troops standing by for what they saw as the inevitable.
“Why are you here, Gerlach?” Gabriela asked, her tone still polite, but bearing the faint edge of ice in her voice. He realized he had indeed crossed a line, and quickly moved to secure her affection and attention once more.
“Can I not simply steal away to spend time with the love of my life?” he questioned, reaching up and taking her claw in his, squeezing lightly. She looked back at him, smiling briefly to show she wasn’t quite so irate with him before she looked back over the city once again.
“You could, though I am a fool for accepting. I have a train to catch tomorrow to Oldwingburg. The Statthalter wanted to speak with me about the Pythagorean Academy.”
“Which is why I wanted to ask you out here under the midnight sky, my love,” Gerlach stated, sweeping his other claw across the sky. Gabriela fixed him with an exasperated smile.
“It is two in the morning, Gerlach.”
“Bah, details!” the Grand Duke shot back, waving a claw in front of his beak dismissively. “My train was late. The point is, I am here because I heard a small rumor that you are planning to expand the Empire’s power.”
“The rumor should not have been passed, I said it in confidence to my nephew. Besides which, whether or not it is true, it is not an expansion if the Empire is merely taking back what already belongs to us.”
“So it is true, then? You seek to end the autonomy of the vassals?”
Gabriela fixed him with an actual glare of exasperation now, sighing and rubbing her beak tiredly. “The Heartlands need to be united, now more than ever. With this rebel alliance in the south and the revolutionaries building themselves up in Cloudbury, our enemies will not wait for us to recover naturally. How long until Aquileia tries their luck? Or Wingbardy?”
At the mention of the southern kingdom, both she and Gerlach grimaced. Prime Minister in name only, Giulio Beakolini was a loudbeaked braggart who made fiery speeches from the podium, having effectively sidelined his king and annihilated the communists in his nation. But nogriff could deny that in the short time since he’d seized parliament, he’d effectively reversed Wingbardy’s economic ruin, and was building the kingdom into an industrial giant off their newly found bounty of oil. It was only a matter of time until his armies matched his amibition.
But after that, Gerlach began nodding.
“I know. And on a level, I agree.”
She blinked in shock, studying her lover carefully. In the Council chamber, he had publicly accused her of using Imperial unity as an excuse to cushion her own power by stripping it from the vassals at gunpoint, citing the fact that Feathisia was a constitutional monarchy, and the Empire and absolute one. Fights had broken out, and political deadlock was looming. But now, it was more than mere suggestion. Now, it was starting to look like unity at the end of a bayonet was the only way. So to hear him suddenly agree with her, even in private, was a little startling to the Duchess Regent.
Gerlach continued.
“There are reforms you are making that are working. And there are reforms I am making that are equally working. But the truth is on the wall. Alone, we are but a pack of sheep ready for slaughter. There are far graver things in the world than loss of face.” He sighed, studying her closely. “I have heard from the north.”
“The Order?” Gabriela asked quietly, to which the Grand Duke nodded. “What news?”
“Headmaster Torygg’s death goes much further than we had expected,” he said. “At first we had suspected Greneclyfian interference. But William Steel Beak disagreed. Now he thinks the Dread League had something to do with it.”
“The dead?”
Another nod.
“So in the face of rebels, traitors, revolutionaries, breakaways and warlords, we have a looming apocalypse to contain. Wonderful.” she huffed, all her contentment and holiday spirit gone, replaced by a grim fatalism. There was no way the Empire was ready for the Dread League if they rose again.
“The Empire needs unity. We must put aside all of our previous conflicts and focus on what matters.” Here, Gerlach took the claw he clutched, raising it and her other claw up to grasp them both, much to her surprise. “Which is why I must ask, Gabriela Eagleclaw, love of my life and possibly the most amazing woman I have ever met,” to this, her feathers ruffled unintentionally, both embarrassed, flattered and now anticipating his next words.
Gerlach went onto one knee, holding her claws up in his own mailed gauntlets to her utter amazement.
“Marry me, Gabriela?” he asked, smiling as his own feathers ruffled, his apprehension written all over his beak and the rest of his body. “Be my wife and complete me. We unite the Empire together and save Griffonia.”
“Is that all?” she quipped off the cuff before she clamped her beak shut, feathers now practically sticking out from her skin. For a long moment, she didn’t say anything, and he watched her with hope in his eyes, claws still tightly clutching hers.
“What about the Regency?” she asked quietly. “The Council will never accept you over me. Not after everything we’ve been through to this point.”
“I looked it up in the Imperial archives,” he shot back confidently. “The Regent has the ability to name a co-Regent. Split authority down the middle. The two share power, and responsibility. I can stand across from you in the chamber as I always have and speak for the moderates, while you can remain as the traditionalist and speak for the nobles. By Tartarus, they may even come to see you as their defender against me.”
Gerlach chuckled at the thought.
“So all that talk about the Empire stampeding over your reforms? All your hard work?”
“There is no reason we cannot work it out together. I have every confidence that the reforms the Ducal Party have proposed can be integrated to what the Regency Council is planning. We can compare, and plan what is best for the Empire’s future.” He grinned up at her. “And you get a navy.”
“I get the Ducal Fleet?” she asked, a little more excited than she’d meant to be. When Skyfall had rebelled, they had taken most of the Kasierliche Marine with them. The ships remaining had formed under Feathisian command. Certainly no true match for the battleship armada Skyfall commanded, but something was better than nothing, and she’d dreamed of eventually taking over those ships and expanding them into a true navy again.
“Better,” he countered. “I have a new battleship under construction in Rottendedam. The most modern one in Griffonia. Cutting edge technology, the biggest guns in the fleet. She’ll be finished in July, I’ve been told, and named on her commission.”
“And what, pray tell, were you planning to name her?” she asked teasingly, not letting him win her over quite yet.
His smile, so wide before, tightened as he looked up at her, taking a breath before replying “I was hoping she might earn the name KMS Gabriela. Perhaps we could even have the wedding on her deck.”
They were both silent for a few moments, her gawking at him in awe and delight, and him clutching her claws even tighter, awaiting her answer with bated breath.
Finally, she gently pulled her claws back, taking his face and lifting him up, confused as he stood. She gently preened against him, her cheek against his, still smiling as she stood back to look up at him.
“Give me some time?” she asked quietly. His expression was visibly crestfallen. He looked almost crushed, to which she hurriedly put his fears to rest. “Just the night! I can give you an answer in the morn. I just need to consider...everything.”
“Ah,” Gerlach managed, frowning in concern. Not so much crushed now as much as very, very confused. “Then...before you leave?”
“Yes!” she replied hurriedly, then her eyes widened. “To answer! I mean,” she laughed nervously, clearing her throat as she smoothed her feathers down. He cleared his own throat as well, trying to straighten his features.
“Well, yes, of course.”
“Do you have guest chambers already?”
“No, I came straight here,” he replied, straightening his armor as he tried to look everywhere but at her.
“Take the ones you had last time. I’ll see to it that everything's arranged. And...and I’ll see you at breakfast.”
He looked up at her now, taking a deep breath as he tried to contain himself, nodding sharply in reply.
He bowed his head, moving towards the door before he paused, turning back to her again, all knightly demeanor and discipline.
“Apologies. May I be dismissed to my chambers?”
“Yes,” she replied quietly, pulling her cloak tighter, suddenly missing his claws in hers. He nodded back, taking the handle on the door and pulling it open. Just as he was about to step back into the warmth of the tower, she suddenly called out “Gerlach!”
He paused, the door wide open, his knights looking over to him as the Guardsgriffs did as well. Two servants were moving down the hallway, a pony and a dog attending to the tapestries and a flower vase, and despite knowing better they also looked over towards the noise.
She steeled herself, staring him dead in the eye as she declared “I love you.”
He was stunned. She knew exactly what saying those words in front of everygriff else meant. Slowly, a small smile stretched across his beak.
“Then you know what answer I want to hear,” he replied. Now, slower and without taking his eyes off of her on the snowy landing, he pulled the door shut.
In the morning, in that same hallway, she gave him exactly the answer he wanted.
They keep sending us out. Again and again and again. Sometimes a night raid, sometimes a day one. I almost prefer the daytime ones like what the Wellington squadrons do, because I can at least see my target. The Crystal City’s become overgrown with King Sombra’s corruptive dark magic, or at least that’s what they tell us it is. Just looks like a bunch of black, jagged mess from up there. Doesn’t matter what’s been pasting them, there’s always columns of troops filing through towards the front. But in the daytime, the flak can target better. And the fighters can see you coming.
Since we started these bombing campaigns a month and a half ago, 16th Bomber Squadron has lost 73 bombers and 23 escorts fighters. That’s absurd losses at 7 ponies a bomber. I haven’t been on a daytime raid in two weeks. We don’t lose as many at night. But the most embarrassing part is that about twenty of those losses are from crash landings on return. Our airfields get iced over, our pilots are too green. We’re almost killing ourselves as fast as the enemy is. I’m afraid to try and make friends here. Seems as soon as I get to know somepony, they get killed in another raid. Makes me wonder when I’m going to be part of that statistic.
I swear, if they ask me to climb in that bomber again, I will bash my face in on that instrument panel.
(The ink is slightly smeared above, but is nice and neat again underneath)
Thanks for the toast. I got your letter at a bad time, just after a raid. I’ve been told by my base captain to stop publishing losses so the enemy can’t figure out how effective they’ve been. Which doesn’t make sense to me since they’re not in a position to intercept my mail, but that’s the military for you.
I hope we’re in the end. Based on how things are going on the homefront in Equestria, the public isn’t taking this well. Apparently, there’s accusations of incompetence in the ranks, which is what other ponies are insisting is the reason for the heavy losses. I say, if terrible leadership is the reason my friends are dying like flies up here, maybe it's time for a change. Then again, I don’t really like the pacifists and defeatists either. These newspaper articles make it sound like the whole offensive’s on the verge of collapse, with mountains of pony corpses. They just piss me off.
I got your medal, and your drunk holiday cheer. I’ve been thinking of you a lot as the new year changed over. It helps pass the time. On New Year's, we had a party in one of the bomber hangars. Drinks, music, hazing. I opted out after a while, took a walk around the airfield. It's cold here. We’re based outside of Whinnyapolis, far from the fighting. Before, you could hear the artillery from the fighting, see the explosions on the horizon. Now it's far too quiet. But I like to think that, when I was looking up at the sky that night, you were too.
I wear your medal under my fatigues, next to my tags. It digs into my chest when we go on night raids. I don’t mind. The rest of me is numb from the cold up there. The sensation keeps me grounded so to speak.
Military culture is very different from back home. I’m sure you’re used to the way it works, but it's still a bit strange to me. They call me ‘Scholar’ out here. I get a little brainy when I'm drunk, and so far as I can tell I’ve got the best education of most ponies here, even the lieutenant who pilots my crate. I try not to talk about it if I can help it, it's a little embarrassing. Roughhousing is considered fine, suffering is the order of the day and we joke about each other getting knocked out of the air on a regular basis. Like accepting our inevitable death is the only way to push forward. I can’t imagine what goes on in infantry units.
I know the distance is...intense. It makes talking a little hard. But try to get back to me as soon as you can. Our mail’s not as badly snarled up as further up north, and I’m glad for that.
Yours,
-Paige
PS: I don’t care if you can’t kiss me. I can still kiss you.
Sent February 9th, 1009
Dear Paige,
A bit of a new development here. Might not mean much to you, but it’s big news out here. The Imperial Regent Duchess Eagleclaw and the Grand Duke Gerlach of Feathisia are engaged. I’m not usually invested in the personal affairs of nobles, but this is huge news. The whole Reichsarmee was told about it, it's in the papers, everything. It means Feathisia is willingly binding itself to the Empire, joining at the hip. It means after all the insanity that’s happened here, the Empire’s largest province is returning peacefully. What did we always say? Hold out and maybe things would get better. We were right, Paige.
Mother wrote me back. She says she’s not a fan of you, but she approves of how you want to apply yourself. Whatever you said, you made an impression on her. Don’t let her attitude get you too much, she’s like that with everygriff. Once you show her what you’re capable of, I’ve no doubt you’ll win her over.
Your mother wrote me again too. She asked if I told you to go and enlist, and I insisted I of course hadn’t. Good news is, she believed me. I’m not used to that, really. She told me a little about her work with clocks, and asked about my life in the Reichsarmee. I told her a little bit, but obviously not as much as you. I’m waiting on her response now, but I keep getting the sneaking suspicion she knows about us. My mother will insist, but that doesn’t mean she thinks she’s correct. Yours on the other claw seems to keep her suspicions to herself but drops hints.
That all sounds horrifying. I know that of the two of us, we expected I would be the one to face war first. But you were thrown into it with little in the way of preparation. Did you have any thoughts about the future? What will you do when your service is up? Go back to school? Enlist in the River Republic Air Force? Hopefully come out to Rottendedam? Let’s hope the -next- year gives plenty of chance to (there is a space, a few letters and something scratched out).
Nevermind. Everytime we make plans, they keep getting trashed. Let’s just focus on what we have to do now, and let it fall into place. But I do know you have something called Hearts and Hooves Day in Equestria. Again, not your own custom, but they’ll be celebrating regardless. So I sent a package of Strawberry chocolates. Hope you like them, this cost more than a few idols out of my check. On top of that I also sent a pack of my Bronzland cigarettes. I don’t know if you smoke, but even if you don’t, you can trade them.
Just filling time over here. Feels like we’re waiting for something. Not quite sure what, but given the choices, it can’t be good.
Also, I like the implications of that PS. I will store that information away for later.
Yours,
-Cyril
Sent March 1st, 1009
Dear Cyril,
Thank you for the chocolates. They came at just the right time, which was after everypony gouged everypony else for what they had. Your package arrived late enough I managed to avoid all that and eat in peace. I do smoke, now at least. Turns out I'm not so above it all. This will help me save a few bits. Cigarettes are so expensive in Equestria.
The last month wasn’t so bad. I think they finally knocked down enough of Sombra’s defenses, we had an easier time of it. We’re doing bombing missions around the clock again, though we lose the occasional bomber and crew so it's not all roses. It's easier now, to fly into the storm of flak and magic. Our target is still the Crystal City. Seems like everytime we bomb a factory or defensive emplacement to Tartarus, they figure out a way to get it built back up again. Those groundpounders need to find Sombra’s spellcasters and kill them already.
I’m having bad dreams. At least during “Blitz Season” as they called it, I was too damn tired to dream. Now, I’m having trouble sleeping at all. I can’t even remember what they’re about, for the most part. Just come in the night and gone, and I’m left a shivering wreck until dawn.
The base was attacked by umbrals again. At least our MPs were more prepared than the Guard troops back at the school. Gods, that seems like forever ago, doesn’t it? Shadow creatures are a bit difficult to defend against, but we’ve got a Unicorn detachment here. The airbases is protected by a barrier shield, so we’re the closest to safe we can get. Still don’t mind sentries with bigger guns than me.
I don’t know what I’ll do after the war. There’s some ponies who have been here since the start and they all seem like they have it figured out. I’ve only been in a few months and I keep telling myself I'll pick up where I left off, but I’m not sure. School is important, and I don’t want to give up a career in theoretical Arcana, but that seems an eternity away now. Everypony else can’t shut up about what they’ll do when they get home, but I don’t even want to think about it. Too stuck in the now, I suppose.
It's good to hear about the engagement. I understand the implications of a noble marriage like this. I also know you’re a fervent patriot, so this is good news for you. Good to finally see some stability in the Herzland after so much chaos. If nothing else, I’m happy your mother won’t have to risk you going to war. Or me having to worry either. I’m already stressed enough about you in peacetime.
Pulled out your first letter to me, for old times’ sake. I miss us being that enthusiastic. Do me a favor, go buy some beer and pretzels and just enjoy it for me? As a stand in for me actually being there.
Hopefully by the time your next response gets back, they’ll have grounded me for a while. Bombers have to break down eventually. Wouldn't mind a break.
Yours,
-Paige
Sent March 23rd, 1009
Dear Paige,
I am glad to hear you are in better spirits, though not completely out of danger. I can’t help but imagine you trapped in some freezing aluminum can, off to meet your death at a moment’s notice. I suppose that’s the same with me, but at least Zola’s made of steel.
Turns out it's not all good news over here. The council of Griefenmarsch made a public statement about the Regent’s engagement. Erebus Whiteplume called it ‘a plot to take over the Empire’. It's all over the newspaper. We’re facing -another- split. With what little is left of the Reichspakt, I wonder if the Empire’s just going to dissolve after all. They’re ringing the mobilization again, except now we’re getting sent west. If you don’t hear from me for a bit, its likely because I’m going to be switching bases and all that. We’re loading Zola up on a train while the rest of us get in the back of a truck. We’re leaving tomorrow.
I mentioned the umbrals to my Uncle. He seemed like he already knew about them. Mentioned how those are the result of ‘powerful dark magic’. Apparently they’re not just apparitions, or spirits, they’re actually summoned beings. Terrifying to think that there’s a creature out there that just exists like that. He was cryptic in his letter, but mentions something about ‘up north’. Not sure what he entirely means by that, but he said he couldn’t really be specific. You’ve got an emergency crew weapon, right? I’d recommend carrying it around if you can, especially if you’re at risk like this.
If your bad dreams are affecting you like this, don’t you have someone to talk to over there? A base doctor, a preacher (they’re good to talk to, even if you don’t believe), something? Can’t let your senses dull, that’s how soldiers get killed.
I pulled out your first letter too. Went and got that beer and pretzels. I honestly couldn’t finish them.
Take care of yourself, Paige. You sound like you’re in rough shape over there. Keep fighting, and let’s hope that little bit more you can do will end this fight that much faster.
Yours,
-Cyril
Sent April 19th, 1009
Starting to think I should have gone Royal Navy. At least then it would be warm, and out to sea where you’re protected by layers of armor plating. Travel the world, visit exotic ports. Like Zebrica. I’d have made a damn good carrier pilot.
The umbral attacks have stopped for the most part. News from the front says they’re appearing mostly in the Crystal City. Sombra must be desperate.
We’re grounded for now. Apparently the fighting is -inside- the factories now, and the Army captured the last enemy airfield. Nothing left for us to do but wait. I don’t mind. Rotating off active is a blessing. Weeks without a single flight mission. Just down to maintenance, exercises, lectures and free time.
I meant to tell you, I finished your book some time ago. The old one about the dragons. I liked it. It’s very simple and direct. You don’t need to worry about who the good guys and bad guys are, it's a bunch of knights fighting off a bunch of marauding dragons. Not too far outside of something that might happen today.
I dug out some of my old textbooks from my locker (yes, I brought them). Now I’ve had a break, I'm reminded of why I got into arcana in the first place. All the formulae, the experiments. I stayed up all night on accident reviewing my notes and making adjustments. It was wonderful. Like picking up an old hobby after not practising for so long with it. This is what I’m meant to do. I managed to get a few older published scientific journals through my base captain. When she asked what I wanted them for, I mentioned my previous schooling. She laughed and told me I’d made a huge mistake enlisting. But she got them for me.
The Equestrian military has a school for veterans bill. After the war’s over, and it's looking to finally be over soon, I’ll use that. Luna Nova’s reopening soon. My scholarship may be forfeit, but on the RAF’s bits, I can go without worrying about losing funding. After months of not knowing, I have a direction to go. I know where I’m going to end up.
Now it's looking like my crew won’t die as likely, I should tell you about them, like you did with your comrades. We’re a bit of a mixed bag, being that most of us enlisted after the war broke out. Our bomber is named “Northern Headache”. She’s got a picture of a bomb cracking the Crystal City wide open.
So, I told you I’m the bombardier, but I’m just one of seven on our Halifax. There’s Lieutenant Silver Rush, our pilot. He was formerly in the Wonderbolt reserves before the war broke out, but when they called for pilots, he requested a transfer over to Bomber Command. He’s pretty easy-going and laid-back, but incredibly calm under pressure.
Grease Goose is our co-pilot and flight engineer. She says she used to be an automobile mechanic in Baltimare before the war, and according to her she enlisted the second she heard King Sombra had returned. She always seems overworked, but then she always manages to keep the bomber going despite appearing to always have too much on her hooves. May be its her Unicorn magic.
Firefly is our navigator. He’s a bit of a nervous wreck. Apparently he was a teacher in Tall Tale, and enlisted due to somepony insulting his lack of backbone. He keeps talking about wanting to get out as soon as he can, and is the loudest complainer when things go wrong.
Sweet Static is our radiomare. Real chatty type, absorbs just about everything without even trying. I don’t know how she does it, but that pony is able to hear the most garbled message through the worst static you can imagine. She gets a bit of relief from her post with her own machine gun station, and she absolutely loves her job. She’s the one I hang out with back at base, and we go drinking together all the time.
Then there’s the meat heads, as we refer to them, but they man our guns and keep us safe, for the most part. Billy Bell, but we just call him ‘Dumb-Bell’. Really not so smart, and all he does is brag all the time. Apparently the RAF was the best thing for him, but I hear a rumor he flunked out of flight school.
Score came with Dumb-Bell. He doesn’t talk much, but those two pegasi are thick as thieves, always together in schemes and bars. I’m not sure he’s as dumb as we think, but then he’s friends with Dumb-Bell, so there’s that.
We’re a pretty mixed bag, like you’d expect. Pegasi, Unicorns and Earth Ponies from all over. But we’ve been flying together since the beginning. We drink together, bicker, play games during off-hours and make fun of the other air crews. We’ve been lucky that nopony on the Headache has been killed, because we know of other crews who’ve lost members to flak or bullets. I love these characters. Don’t know what I’d do without them.
I needed this break. To write you, to get my head straight. They’ll be sending us back in, and soon. But the past two weeks I’ve been given are a blessing. I miss you all over again, now I’ve had the opportunity to dump all my other tension and worry. I’ve told Static about you, and ‘somehow’ it leaked to the rest of the crew, so they make fun of me when I go off alone for a while to write you. They say crude things like I’m writing you some filthy clop. Dirty stuff like that.
I’m sorry to hear about the tensions back home. It seems the Empire really can’t catch a break. But the newspapers are doing the same thing as usual. What little they say about it is so heavily opinionated I’m not sure what the facts are anymore. That’s why I rely on you so much, cause I know you’re not BSing me, and I hate muddled facts.
I want to say things will go back to normal after all this. But we both know they won’t. We’re both different people in the time we started writing. The world’s been hard on us. But I’m starting to feel more like I was before I enlisted. And that gives me hope for tomorrow. Especially when it comes to you and me.
Missing you greatly,
-Paige
Sent May 11, 1009
Dear Paige,
I’m glad to hear you got a break. We all need one, and I was getting worried with how your letters started to sound. I’m all for you going back to school. You have marvelous potential, and not using it would be a massive waste. Now you’ll have a term of service under your belt as well, as it were. Out here, that would get you into any school a commoner could apply to, without a doubt.
Some news about your home, by the way. Apparently, there’s been a bit of a shakeup. Some sort of dispute over railroads in Deponya led to Lake City marching troops in and more or less occupying the territory. The River Republic is furious, and they dispatched troops to the border but Diamond Mountain backed up Lake City with Ironpaw battalions. For now, it looks like both sides are standing down, but lines are being drawn. The east isn’t looking much calmer than the west right now.
Less politics. It’s good to hear about your crew. From what it sounds like, after all you’ve been through, you all must be really close. I look at my own crew sort of the same. We haven’t been through the gauntlet yet like you have, but we’ve been working and training together for years now. We’re essentially a disfunctional family. Hellseig is the overworked father, Bluetalon the quirky and outgoing kid, Grimquill the bitchy and troublesome kid, and I'm the calm, unremarkable middle child. We do everything together too.
We finished the move west. We’re posted near the Marsch’s border. I look south and I can see the peasant troops down there, digging trenchlines and setting up fortifications. Erebus hasn’t declared his secession, and the Empire hasn’t labeled him a traitor, so I don’t know what we’re all doing here. The 41st got paired up with a division from Bronzehill, the 19th Sturmdivisone. These dogs make our clerics and preachers look like pretenders. Every morning its worship to the gods, thanks given to the Emperor Grover VI and Emperors past. They have their own vanguard units that wear these gasmasks and heavy armor. I’m told they expect sixty percent casualties from these forward elements. Fantical madness. I’d always heard Imperial Diamond Dogs were loyal to a fault, but these hounds are practically frothing at the mouth for a fight. Compared to them our panzergrenadiers look like stoic professionals, and those griffs would cause a riot for kicks.
The Feathisians are glad to see us, though. We rolled into the town of (the name is clipped out by a censor), and they even rolled the ducal flag down to hang the Imperial flag above it for us. Drinks, food and other stuff have come our way. I think these griffons are hoping for unification same as we are. We went out drinking with the rest of the kompanie last night, and they were practically shoving beer, hamburgers and sausages at us, sandwiches and chocolates. Plenty of soldiers went home with a girl on each claw, and I think I even saw Grimquill strolling off with a companion, though she denies it today through her hangover. I must tell you, I got an offer but I of course turned the woman down. I believe I’m already spoken for.
Your war is almost over. And that’s great. But at least yours is uncomplicated. You’re literally fighting a dark sorcerer who enslaved his people. Nothing to question about that. But I’m being asked to fight griffins who, up until recently, had been Imperials themselves. I don’t know how I feel about that, but I look back to Griffenheim. If they were considered the outlier, and the rest of the territories were coming to ‘bring her back’ to the fold, would I fight for the Imperial City? I think yes, and I think I understand these traitors a little more. But they -are- still traitors, loyalty to home notwithstanding.
I can’t wait for things to go back to normal. When the Empire is whole again, you’re back in school and I’m bored as Tartarus, sitting around doing maintenance and gunnery exercises. I don’t know when that might be, but it’ll be a damn sight better than what’s going on right now with the insanity in the world.
One last thing; they say the Ducal Fleet is preparing to resurrect the Kaiserliche Marine. There’s been rumors of new shipyards coming online in Rottendedam. A couple of Imperial soldiers have been joking about taking back Nova Griffonia or even looking into colonies in Zebrica. Remember you asked about exotic postings? The way things have been going, maybe we’ll look into getting some overseas territories in the next few years. Get to travelling after all.
Missing you too,
-Cyril
Sent May 28, 1009
It’s over.
They announced yesterday that the Crystal City was finally taken. Princess Cadence’s flag is flying again. Nopony knows where King Sombra’s gone, but his mind control’s broken. Most of the Crystal Legionnaires have surrendered, gladly. There’s only his loyalists left, and there’s not nearly enough of them left to keep up the fight. The army’s flushing them out of the Heights to the northeast.
We’ve been stood down. With the Crystal City retaken, there’s no more structures to bomb, and you can’t use Halifaxes on troop formations. The Wellingtons are flying hunter-killer missions now to snuff out the last of Sombra’s supporters, but we’ve been given weekend leave by the base commander. And it feels so good to go further than Whinnyapolis.
I’m going to Manehattan again for the weekend. It’s where I first came to this country, and the closest link I can get to you. Equestria fought long and hard for this, and I’m going to take advantage of however long they give me. If that means all I can do is stand on the pier all night and think about you, I’ll take it. I’ll wait to write you again until after I come back, which shouldn’t be too long. That way I at least know I got my letter out to you first. I’m also planning to stop by bookstores, see what I can get that we’d both like reading as well as what educational materials they’ve got. If I’m going back to school, I have to get ready. I think I’ll get some novels from Dr. Hoofing. His statements on theoretical magic origins are inspiring. Shame about his disability.
Static’s giving me grief over my softness, but I can tell its not serious. She’s got a coltfriend and family in Vanhoover she’s going to go visit. But she knows I’m all alone out here. She offered to come east with me, but I told her no. This is the first long-range leave we’ve been given since we rotated into combat. I’m not robbing her family of that for my own sense of loneliness.
So, just how much female attention do you have to fight off, then?
Don’t take that line seriously, I’m teasing. I’m glad you told me. Means I have to worry less.
Letters from my parents finally got through. My mother likes you, a lot. Thinks you’re “responsible and loyal”. I’m not sure whether to laugh at that or correct her. My father blames you for me enlisting, so that may be why he’s not writing you back. My brother wants to meet you, strangest of all. Given his line of work, he may be able to see you sooner than I can. That just makes me a bit sad.
Luna Nova’s not taking any applications yet, I learned. So I sent a letter of inquiry to Hoofington U. I was fairly impressed with their campus when I was there. Hopefully they’ll take me once I get out.
I’m not a fan of imperialism of any sort. Nova Griffonia is one thing. But I’m not sure I like your support of just ‘taking’ overseas territories. Those are living, breathing creatures too. You’ll literally just be kicking in the door to take what you want. You’re on the edge of going to war, too. How can you be okay with that, Cyril? You’re worrying me a little.
Worrying you? I’m not sure what you’re getting at. Most of the major powers have some overseas territories. Equestria still has New Mareland, need I remind you. They had to take that from the local griffons the same that Feathisia took the South Zebrides from the locals. Wingbardy’s got territory in Abyssinia, and everyone knows the River Coalition’s been eyeing up the lands in the southeast. I’m not in a position to say what’s wrong or right, Paige. But if the Emperor or the Regency determines the flag be raised over some miserable desert in Zebrica, I’ll roll off the transport screaming ‘Fur das Kaiserreich’.
Look.
(Several words are scratched out.)
I’m happy your War is over. Sombra sounds like a threat to all of Equus, not just Equestria. I hope someone took care of him, for good. I hope your leave helps clear your head. You need it. You mentioned Manehattan before, but I’ve only ever seen it in newspapers or from a postcard. It sounds like an amazing place. I’d love to go there some day.
Did you ever get a response from Hoofington U? I’m fairly sure you’ll get in, especially with how many must have left to enlist in one branch or another. If you’ve got that veterans’ education bill, I’d think that would fast track you up. It definitely would here.
Your father thinks I made you enlist? You did tell him I tried to talk you out of it, right?
Anyway.
We’re sitting here with baited breath. Across the river, Marsch troops dig in. They’ve dug miles of trenches already, sandbags and log bunkers, machine guns and mortars waiting. This is madness. From the intel briefings, we outnumber the peasant troops just on this front three to one, with panzers, howitzers and airplanes. I see the lights of Oldwingburg on the horizon, well within striking range. For the life of me, I can’t fathom what the Peasant Council’s thinking is. They’re outnumbered, outgunned and not even in a good fortified position to cover themselves. Statthalter Erebus and his Council have gone insane. But we just sit, and we wait.
Even the trips to town have become lifeless. The village we visited before was taken over as a korps kommand. No more beer and schnitzel our way. Just a regiment of volunteers from Rimau and dogs setting up howitzers in trenches. Guess they’re not so happy to see us.
They’re telling us the Ducal Wedding is going to be July 7th. We’re on standby. The Council’s likely to declare secession around that time, we’re told. Everyday, I climb into Zola and stare down my gunsights, watching a bunch of militia watching me. We’re all just sitting here, waiting for the word to start shooting each other. And no matter how the odds look stacked in our favor, I know it’s not going to be easy. It’s going to get ugly here.
If the fight breaks out before I hear back from you, I want to send you one last message. I know you don’t need my medal of Arcturius anymore. Keep it. From me.
Just in case.
Yours,
-Cyril
P.S: Female attention: more than I’d like, less than you think. It was a bit thrilling at first, but now it’s just awkward.
(Inside the envelope is a small, square photo of Cyril smiling in his Reichsarmee uniform, sitting on a tank in an unknown location, wings slightly flared. Flipping it over on the back is handwritten “To Paige, For when the years grind on, and the winters grow bitter and cold. -Cyril”
Sent June 31st, 1009
Dear Cyril,
I’ll drop the colony issue, for now. But don’t think this is over. I’m not letting it go.
We’re posted on occupation in the Crystal Empire. I’ve been moved north to the City’s airfield. If Whinnyapolis was cold, it’s frigid up here, even in the summer. Forests stretch all around, and even now there’s still ice and snow to be found in caves and areas that remain cool. Good thing my leave came in before too long.
I flew over Manehattan as soon as I arrived. There’s so much I missed here when I arrived all that time ago. The metropolis stretches as far as the eye can see up and down the coastline, with the tallest modern towers I’ve ever seen. Not Rijekograd, not Griffenheim, not even the Crystal City or Canterlot has skyscrapers like these. They’re marvels of engineering, and more are under construction, the workers tending to it around the clock with rivets and hammers and magic. The harbor is more full with nautical traffic than even Rottendedam ever was. The Celestial Fleet was in, and I spotted an aircraft carrier with half a dozen destroyers at the naval yard.
The attitude here is different than Whinnyapolis or the Crystal City. Up north, I get welcomes and thank yous and congratulations, all for winning the Crystal War. But here, I get just as many dirty looks for my uniform. There’s protestors in front of city buildings calling for a vote to dethrone the Princesses and decide their own fate, and they all glared at me.
I stopped in at a bar to grab a few drinks, and lucky me I picked a military bar. All my beers were paid for by other ponies, and I even earned a pat on the back from a few Nova Griffonian mercenaries. Apparently they were on a protection detail for a cargo shipment, not that I asked. But I did get a look at their gear when they left. To my chagrin, they were better equipped than the Equestrian army ponies I saw in the Crystal City. Isn’t that humbling?
I went to the harbor like I said I would. Looked east across the Celestial Sea. For a brief moment, I imagined I could see Rottendedam, where we first met. I could almost hear your voice again. And now, thanks to the photo you sent, I can remember how you look without missing a detail. You look very handsome in your uniform, by the way.
There was apparently a contingent from Hippogriffia in the city while I was there. The airway was cleared for them to fly through the skyline, all gleaming jewelry and bright colors. First time I’ve ever seen a hippogryph up close. It’s such a strange feeling, seeing a creature that is two halves of two different, familiar creatures. They were so...large. Larger than the biggest pony I’ve ever seen. Larger than griffons.
Everywhere I look, I see more reminders of you. Hippogryphs that look like you, crows with your feather color, snacks at the seaside. With no war to distract me, I feel further from you than ever.
Hoofington U replied to my letter. Apparently, somepony already sent my transcripts and information from Luna Nova (no idea who, and I wasn’t going to start asking). I start in the Fall, on a mail-in course. I’m going back into arcana!
Wishing you were here,
Yours,
-Paige
(Enclosed in the envelope is a photograph of Paige, apparently at some sort of photo shop, seated in a wicker chair. She wears the uniform of the RAF, and her wool-lined bomber jacket is hung over the back. She smiles, but looks tired, forlorn and distant. The reverse says “To Cyril, the missing piece of my life I never knew I needed, gone for too long. Use this to chase off that awkward attention you get. -Paige)
Sent July 8th
Paige,
The word came down. The Ducal Wedding went ahead in Rottendedam. The Regency demanded Griefenmarsch stand down and prepare for Imperial reintegration. The Council declared themselves independent from ‘the tyrant Duchess Regent’. All in one day.
We’re being ordered to battlestations. I can hear the guns already. Artillery thundering in the distance. It is thrilling and terrifying.
I will be running to the line as soon as I finish this. Please, keep my medal and photo somewhere safe. Should the worst happen, do not forget me.
You are the best thing to have happened in my short life.
Pray for me.
Dearly Yours,
Cyril
Sent July 29th, 1009
7/22/09
Dear Paige,
I’m alive. That’s unfortunately the extent of the good news.
Breaching the lines was more difficult than we thought. The peasants fought hard, but without anything heavier than artillery, they couldn’t stop us. Our guns shelled those bunkers for what seemed like forever, and all we could do was wait for the signal over the radio. Once the guns stopped, the real battle began. We advanced, covering the dogs as they stormed the trenches. It was bloody work. I fired the cannon again and again and again. Sprayed the ground with the MG. And when Hellseig finally told me to stop firing, all we had in front of us was mud, splintered wood and torn flesh. The dogs went in with flamethrowers and shotguns to flush out the rest of the defenders.
Then we moved on Oldwingburg.
Fighting in a city is a completely different affair than in the open field or up in the air. I’ve never felt so helpless inside a panzer. It wasn’t just their regulars we fought. Militia griffs took up arms. Males. Females. Teenagers. The defense was scrambled, disorganized. But fire came from everywhere, a gun in every window. The panzergrenadiers dismounted their trucks to clear the houses. We were literally driving these griffons from their homes. But, strangest of all? No civilians. No old grandmas or schoolchildren running in fear from the houses. Oldwingburg was emptied out. In the middle of the fighting, it was chilling to realize that. But it also made the job easier.
The ones without rifles flew in from above and cooked our panzers with firebombs. Panzergrenadiers and crew gunners cut them down with close-range fire. Artillery landed on the city blocks, dog sturmtruppen, Knights from the Order of the Carmine Shield and our support schutzentruppe blasted into city squares and markets. Bombers pasted the quarters of the city held by the enemy.
I don’t know how many we lost. We struggled through Oldwingburg for four days. They had to literally drop us supplies from cargo planes into the city. Booby traps in every house, streets rigged with landmines. It was insane. I dismounted at one point to look at a squad of partisans the panzergrenadiers took prisoner. They looked like the most miserable griffs. Out of five of them, one looked like a soldier. The rest looked like farmers. And their guns? Hinterladerbusche. C-78 pistols. Firebombs made from beer bottles and kerosene. These griffs have no planes, no AT guns, no modern rifles.
I’m certain I’ve oversimplified what happened. Understand, I was in the gunner’s seat, watching all this down a gunsight. What I’m telling you is only a fraction of what happened.
We won, in the end. After four days, we took Oldwingburg.
We’ve been advancing swiftly through Griefenmarsch. The slower elements attached to our korps have moved west, to Nortfome. We’re moving at top speed through Thurwingen. They’re calling it ‘the Blitz’. No defensive line can stand before us. Anything we meet, we blow past. Anything we leave behind, the panzergrenadiers engage and mop up. We’re making at least twenty miles a day, though I’m not entirely sure. But at this rate, we’ll make Asselt in the next week.
We’re holed up on a farm right now, doing some maintenance on Zola. The mood is quiet, to say the least. Nogriff really talked much after Oldwingburg. The excitement is gone.
All I can say is, this isn’t war. This is slaughter, and its monumentally one-sided.
7/27/09
We’ve taken Asselt. We all expected another fight like Oldwingburg, so we called the bombers in before us. Asselt lasted maybe an hour after that. We caught the militia mustering. Not much more resistance once your griffs are meaty chunks in the town square. From here, we’re supposed to refuel, resupply and head west to assist the other push, the part of the army using ‘traditional Imperial strategy’. Tradition. None of this was like the old stories.
7/28/09
(The words below are slightly smudged, and there appears to be some water damage to the paper)
It's done. We moved west yesterday to push into the enemy flank. They folded under the pressure of fast-moving panzers. Apparently they’d already smashed themselves to pieces assaulting our divisions in the north.
Most of the Marsch Regulars have given up. The militia stopped fighting before that. The Regency is calling this a ‘total victory’ on the radio. We’re to remain here and reassert Imperial domain, quell unrest and wait for the Landwehr to set up a garrison in Nortfome and Oldwingburg.
It won’t stop raining. Once it started it just didn't let up. Driving panzers through muddy roads isn’t the same as across paved ones. Zola keeps sinking in, and we have to dig her out. They tell us we’re supposed to patrol the countryside suppressing partisans. Fat chance. The panzergrenadier trucks sink same as our tracks. The rains stopped all air cover. At this point, only the Bronzehill troops are willing to keep going, so they’re sniffing out (heh) the last of peasant resistance.
So much for glory. They’re calling it ‘the Month Long War’. I’m just glad its over.
I’m sorry it took so long to get this letter to you. We keep changing locations. I’m stationed at Nortfome now, so I can use the postal system again. I taped your photo over my gunsight, so it's right at eye level for me whenever I want, and I can grab it if I ever need to bail out. Nothing else in that panzer matters to me as much as that.
7/29/09
Zola busted a drive out in the mud. We had to wait for another panzer to come and haul her out. Now we’re cleaning her and fixing her up as best we can. Good thing we don’t need her for any fighting right now.
I’ve decided to prep this letter today. It's been a while since you last heard from me. I haven’t heard from you either. Hope that’s a good thing, or at least not something bad. It’s all wet, cold and miserable over here. The people of the Marsch don’t care for us, not like the Feathisians up north did. Everywhere I go, I see hostile faces on griffs who blame us for crushing their freedom and democracy. Honestly, the way I see it, we wouldn’t be here if they hadn’t decided to spit on the Regent’s beak. Who declares war on somegriff else’s wedding day? Seriously?
Just wanted to wrap this whole thing up with saying that I’m fine. This war was done and over with before anygriff knew what in Tartarus was happening. We just have to live with the aftermath now. The Empire fixes up Greifenmarsch, puts a new governor in place and we all go home. I hope. But given what’s happening in the south with the Holy League, we might have just witnessed a hint of the future.
Mother’s thankful I’m still alive. Says she prays for me every night since the shooting started. I left out the worst of what I saw. Griffons burning alive inside panzers, limbs and wings blasted off, corpses laying in the street, MPs lining up militia against a wall, city blocks on fire. You’ve seen it. Or things like it.
I’m just waiting now. In the sopping rain, in a town that I conquered. Tell me about something normal. Tell me about weekend pass in Whinnyapolis. Tell me about theoretical arcana, about thestral rights, about school. Because in the next month, I’m going to need something to convince me I’m not going insane out here.
Moving our again. Send to the military address on the slip of paper in the envelope. Distribution will find me.
Yours,
-Cyril
Sent August 14th, 1009
Dear Cyril,
Never worry me like that again! I’ve been watching and waiting for word on what’s happening back east. The newspapers are calling it a ‘crackdown’. More harmonists howling at the ‘dismantling of democracy’. Without realizing it was the democrats who started this fight. Myself, I was more concerned about you. I’m so happy you’re alright.
That battle you described, all the trekking across Greifenmarsch, it all sounds so different to what I went through. I was helpless, sure, but the only death I saw was my comrades. I never even saw what my bombs did to the ground. That all sounds like a nightmare. I’m glad you only had to go through it for a short time. I don’t know if I could at all. The press is going nuts over it back here. With the Crystal War over, ponies are chattering about it. But not us. Military’s keeping quiet on the subject. We know better than those sycophants and gossip-mongers in Canterlot acting like they’re so much better. But you ask an armypony what he thinks, and he’ll just stare back at you.
They transferred me back south. Apparently the work of making sure the populace is compliant falls back to the army. The Royal Guard’s moving the royal family back in any day now. They don’t need bomber pilots up north anymore. Headache’s going into storage for refit, while we get some well-deserved leave. We got two weeks, and then it's down to Dodge City for retraining over the desert. I’m touring Hoofington for the next few days, visiting the university and looking over the town. It’s hot, that’s all I can say. After months of freezing my flank off in snow and high-altitude aircraft, this place is way too much for me. I prefer staying indoors, if I can help it. There’s a lot of buffalo around lately since the tribes joined Equestria. Some sort of protectorate deal from what I understand. Stubborn to a fault. But good-natured.
Had to wade through a whole mountain of paperwork. Just because my transcripts are in doesn’t mean my application’s 100% complete, I found out. They accepted me to the course, but I still have about a thousand more things to fill out. So that’s about half of my leave, and of course I have to get this done ASAP. They’re talking about releasing me at the 1 year mark for wartime service, which means I have a few months left to get everything in order before I join the Air Reserves. This was always the plan, and at least this worked out. I didn’t get to finish at Luna Nova, but that’s okay. My hope is they’ll open back up again before long.
Your mother has toned down. I think, with the war on your side and everything, she’s more worried about you than she is focused on abusing me. She asked me if I had wanted to be a unicorn when I was growing up, given my fascination with magic. I told her ‘I always dreamed big. So I wanted to be an alicorn.’ She got a kick out of that. And it -is- possible for unicorns to evolve into alicorns, but sadly not for pegasi. Once I learned that, the dream kind of died. Sophie likes writing me too. Apparently she used my letters to her for a class assignment about writing a soldier. She got the most attention for it, and a good grade. I apparently have a fascinating life. Who knew?
Pushing this letter out fast so you get it quick. Write more. Otherwise I’ll think you’re dead. And if you die over there, I’ll come and revive you long enough to kill you myself.
Miss you.
Yours,
-Paige.
Sent September 8th, 1009
Dear Paige,
You never mentioned Hoofington itself last time you were there. Then again, I feel like you had other things on your mind while you were there. Good of you to tell me about it while you were there, I love hearing about other places in the world. You’re so lucky you get to travel.
Things are quieting down here. Well, quieting down in that the shooting’s mostly stopped. The Marchers have grudgingly come to accept we’re not leaving. Fortunately, they also realize we’re not here to loot, pillage, plunder and salt the earth. The MPs catch somegriff being stupid every now and then, but the executions stopped weeks ago. Now it's only for those who kill or continue to try and resist.
Service was a bit awkward this week. When the 41st’s preacher called us to bow for prayer, we actually had a few civvies join us. Apparently, some shells hit Asselt’s temple during the battle, and it's now collapsed and is unsafe. Nogriff knew until now. Engineers are on it, but the preacher is holding mass for every townie that wants to attend. It was one of those olive branch moments. Not as many incidents in town ever since. Lucky me, I think we’re getting through to them.
The Burger says Equestria’s having an election crisis. This surprised me quite a lot. I thought faith in the princesses was without doubt? Wouldn’t it only get stronger now you’ve won against King Sombra? I remember you saying something about protestors and defeatists in one of your earlier letters. All I can say is, keep out of politics if you can help it. Riots, mudslinging, ruined careers and civil wars come from bad politics. Just look at what happened to the Empire if you need an example. Given how much trouble the Crystal War gave you, the Burger is also stating Equestria’s not only unprepared, but unwilling to fight its battles. Crock of shit, but you know how the papers spin things.
Mother and Sophie like you. Keep asking when they’ll get to meet you. I told them even -I- haven’t seen you since that day in Rottendedam. Mother is concerned, but impressed we’ve managed to keep talking this long over such distance. Of course, she said something about how we can hope to keep a relationship going like this, but (a few words are scratched out) that’s not important.
I’m not sure when I’m going home. It’s so close by, but no one’s been rotated out for leave yet. Except the officers, of course. The colonel in charge of the occupation leaves every few days and comes back looking sloshed. Pretty sure he goes for drinks and girls in Oldwingburg. The aristocracy at work. Uncle August sent me a letter saying he expects we might be in for more within months. I hope not. I’d rather get a chance to live without all this mud.
My nightmares are few, surprisingly. Not so much about the militia griffs I gunned down in the open street or blew apart. My nightmares are about fire. About kerosene poured on panzers and then set alight for the entire thing to burn. About the griffs stuck inside, cooking alive. The Month Long War is over. But I’m not looking forward to what a war against a far more prepared opponent would be like.
I wish you were here. Even for a moment.
Yours,
-Cyril
Sent September 30th, 1009
Dear Cyril,
I still miss you too. I’m sorry about the nightmares. I can’t promise they’ll go away. What you went through was much more intense. I still wake up from bad dreams about engines on fire, death spells and shadow monsters. I’ve been told it could take years for them to fade, if they do at all.
Yes, the election issue has been ongoing for months now. Princess Celestia has gone before the press, stating she’s conferring with her sister about holding the referendum, and the reformists are stating that just proves their point. But you know me. I’m not a fan of democracy by force. I’m not going anywhere near that, but you might be pleased to know (or not, considering your attitude on thestrals) that Pricess Luna’s reforms have finally taken hold. I’m seeing thestrals all over the place, mostly at night. They man bars, work factories, typist desks, fly through the sky. I’m happy to see that, for once, the underdog won.
They finalized me. I’m officially in the RAF Reserves. I said my goodbyes to my crew, and the Headache. Half of them are going home like me. We’ve all gotten so close in such a short time. Static, at least, promised to write me. I’m actually okay with this. I can use my veterans’ bill to pay my way through school in Hoofington itself, no need for long distance stuff.
Hoofington U is like I remember it. Built of bricks and tradition. The facilities aren’t as good as Luna Nova, and I’m fairly certain I’m the smartest in my advanced theoretical arcana class, which of course is still leagues behind the more advanced one. But that is at least one issue off my list. I can worry less about passing and take some time for myself. I’ve been doing some experiments in my off-time with a unicorn named Solid Stripe. He’s trying to get into the AP class, but he’s not sure he can pass the entrance exam without help. So, with him providing the magic for my crystal experiments, I tutor him in exchange. So far, it's been a great agreement. He’s really coming around, and he’s at least pleasant to be around. I’m making huge strides in my research, I could even turn this into my thesis eventually. I think I’m on the verge of making a huge discovery in terms of crystal matrices and magical containment, but I’m hitting a wall. Very frustrating.
Hoofington is a southern city, through and through. Other ponies gawk at my accent without a shred of awareness of how theirs is seen across the rest of Equestria. They’re very enclosed, these ponies. Friendly, of course. But blunt. They’ll take good care of you for very little, but won’t hesitate to comment on how everything that comes from another land is strange in their eyes. The local bookstore has nothing but books in Equestrian common, though I haven’t looked in the smaller neighborhoods. It's still hot in September, which drives me nuts. Apparently it doesn’t cool off until mid-October out here. Now I really miss home.
Princess Twilight is expected to come to Hoofington U sometime next week to give a lecture on the connection between the ‘energy of friendship’ and arcane amplification, and while I am excited to hear from an alicorn on magic, I’m not so on about her theories regarding friendship. True, it's a proven phenomenon, but as the recent Crystal War and the wars overseas prove, it's clearly not an almighty unstoppable force. And it's a little difficult to test in an academic way. Magic has only just merged with the scientific sphere in the past century.
Sorry, I realize I may be talking over your head.
Our lives may keep up separate, but I keep your photo around at all times. And so long as we can keep talking in our letters like this, we can keep this relationship alive. I’ve been asked if I have a coltfriend by a few other students, and so far I just tell them yes. It’s a bit too odd a situation to keep chattering off in casual conversation. That’s okay, right?
Your marefriend (?)
-Paige
Sent October 17th, 1009
Dear Paige,
Glad to hear you’re back at it in school. Of the two of us, you’re going to go places. Don’t waste it. I’m also glad you’ve got someone to talk big-brain to. I know it was a little restraining to simplify your words to me in your letters. Hoofington sounds like another good place to visit, though if its really as hot as you say, I’m not sure I’d like it. Then again, I want to visit Zebrica, so maybe it would be a good warmup (ha).
I like that you moved to the reserves. So many would just go home and leave the service behind. You’re part of that other breed, the kind who sticks with it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you liked being Air Force. But then I know how much you hate being helpless at high altitude.
About the whole marefriend/coltfriend thing, I guess it's okay to refer to us like that. I just sort of simplify it myself the same way over here. I get the feeling you’ll get less guff about having a griffon boyfriend. There’s plenty of griffs here who wouldn’t get it, both on a racial level and a national level. Tensions are high with the Coalition right now.
I don’t know if it's in the news over there, but the County of Cyanolisia was invaded a few days ago. The Burger is calling it an unwarranted act of aggression. Y’know, after touting the Month Long War as a righteous battle against traitors. Cyanolisia is the last province loyal to the Empire outside the Heartlands aside from the South Zebrides (and maybe Nova Griffonia, but that one’s up in the air). Its makes anything tricky. There’s word among the officers about intervention, but the Kaiserliche Marine has maybe five capital ships at present. What in Tartarus are we supposed to do? Sail an army around Aquileia and Wingbardy? I’m sure they’d love to just let us through their waters and fuel up in their ports. So it just seems to be talk.
I also heard about the coup in Nova Griffonia. Nogriff wants to talk about it, but every trooper in the Reichsarmee with world awareness knows what’s happening. They’re saying now’s the right time to land and kick Hemphill off his high castle, finally bring the colony back under control. Which is nuts. We’ve got half the Empire still in rebellion against us and they want to talk about landing an amphibious force across the sea? I’m all for the Empire regaining its strength. But this just shows you how most of these soldiers are so poorly educated they can’t see past their own beaks. Or snouts. Or muzzles. Bigger picture here, guys. You taught me that, Paige.
Thank you for your words on the dreams. It’s getting a little easier now. The weather is getting better, the mud is freezing. It’s easier to drive around without throwing a track or breaking an axle. These Changeling designs are supposed to be good against cold weather, so we’ll see what happens when frost in a hostile environment sets in. Anyway, it sounds like all we can both do is keep weathering the storm as it were. I’ll keep writing as long as I can, so long as you do as well.
Mother’s been talking better about you. I think you single-clawedly managed to change her mind about pegasi, though she still regrets you being from the Riverlands. That one’s probably never going away, though. And Sophie can’t help but idolize you even more. If we’re not careful, she’ll try to follow in your hoofsteps. Then that’s two females in my life vastly smarter than I am.
I’ve gotten friends in the area as well. The 41st’s preacher Andrea Bronzeclaw has talked faith with me several times. I’ve been counting on him to get me through the worst of these times, and he’s set up a talk group with some of the townies to mend gaps. The engineers are almost done repairing the temple, and we’ve been invited to use it for the unit after they’re done. Word from Uncle August is that he’s even got a statue to Arcturius on the way. Hearts and minds. The banner of the Empire is flown freely over the city square without a fear in Griffonia of it being vandalized. Tell that to your papers. Maybe they’ll see we’re not all the jackboot thugs they think we are.
I’m thinking, as well as going to engineering school eventually, I’m going to try and take down some notes, get into writing and maybe write about these crazy times in a few years. I can’t say it’ll be any good, or anygriff will want to read it. But there are groundshaking things happening right now. Somegriff needs to record it while it's happening. I can send you drafts one day, but not for some time, once I’ve got the words noted.
It’s the quiet time, now. Let’s hope it stays that way. Though, judging by the world, it won't last for long.
Your boyfriend/coltfriend (?)
-Cyril
Sent November 11th, 1009
Dear Cyril,
If you feel awkward about the whole marefriend/coltfriend thing, we don’t have to do it. I can tell you’re a bit off about the whole thing.
I heard about Cyanolisia. Quite unfortunate what’s happening down there. The minotaurs are supposed to be mad with rage. And Hemphill’s coup in Nova Griffonia is just adding fuel to the fire here on Equus. I hope you don’t get sent there either, not with everything going on back in the Herzlands. I’d much rather you stay right there, so I don’t have to worry about your transport getting torpedoed and I can just listen to you bitch about the cold and mud and tell me about your religion and your unit and your tank. Going all the way across the world to fight is...kind of madness.
Tests come and go, exams and midterms. But I’m not worried about any of that anymore. I don’t stress as hard as I used to, not like before. It's a bit surreal. I wonder if its because the courses aren’t as challenging or if I’ve become too confident. That last one worries me a little, I could seriously sabotage myself. I’ve actually gone back to study a bit more as a result, just to make sure the facts are as I remember them. Luckily, my tutoring Solid is helping. I help him to learn things, he helps me remember the basics. Good for us both. We go out for hayburgers and fries every Friday to relax and talk shop for a bit, as it were. He’s actually been a good lab assistant on my own personal project, now he’s getting the hang of it. He makes small corrections on my calculations that I miss when I’m going over grandscope things, and honestly if he didn’t I’d be going back over my matrices for hours. But thanks to him, I’ve got a new prototype mana crystal I’ve formulated. My only regret is that I’m not a unicorn myself. Always such a disappointment to be able to design these things, but never actually make them myself.
I think keeping track of your memoirs is a great idea. You’re on the ground, living what’s sure to be history. Keep track of it, and I’ll help you sort your notes out. We can fit it into either a nonfiction book, or an autobiography if you’re feeling brave enough in a few years.
It’s good to hear things are settling in Greifenmarsch. I don’t like wars of conquest, but I tell myself the Empire owned that area before. And, at least, you’re being good to it. With the ease of which the locals are taking you in, it sounds like they at least wanted to rejoin the Empire on some level. Perhaps the Peasant’s Council was the catalyst in their bad decision (though certainly not their first one. I had to write an in-depth essay on how their system was both the most democratic in the world, and also the weakest government. Elections on everything every three months. Wow).
Being in the RAF Reserve isn’t bad. It's boring, but I don’t get shot at anymore. I’m not in an aircraft right now. I’m mostly relegated to airfield operations, in the arsenal. Not strictly my job, but I did learn about every piece of ordnance I dropped, so I’m in a bomb storage facility. Two days a month, just got in, check a list, sit in on some briefings. Nothing fancy. Good way to ride out the next three years.
Your mother’s letters have mellowed out. She talks about the future, how its always so uncertain in the Empire. She says it’s been like that since she was a chick. Then the riots took your father. Now she’s afraid she’s going to lose you too. I’m aware this is all stuff she’s already told you. Just...be patient with her, okay? She’s going through a rough time, a lot’s changing around her and she doesn’t know what else to expect from the future. You being a tanker doesn’t help that at all.
I gotta go. Solid and I have a project we need to work on, and I wanted to get researching. Write me when you can. I’m just happy we’re back to a peacetime schedule again.
Yours,
-Paige
Sent November 28th, 1009
Dear Paige,
A blizzard blew in a few days back. Covered the whole city in snow. We had to use the panzers just to cut through, let the infantry and rescue crews through. They’re saying this is the coldest Griffonian winter on record in history, and it's not even December yet. We’ve been busy with entrenching tools and flamethrowers, digging homes out of the frost. The dogs are taking to it just fine with their damn trench coats. I’m stuck with my field jacket and panzer gloves. But the townsfolk are grateful. We’re had to set up the local train yard as an aide station, since the city hospital had a whole floor’s windows get blasted in. Now the ground level is packed with snow and ice. Preacher Bronzeclaw is holding a soup kitchen in the temple, cooking up what he can and delivering it to families without. I’d help him if I could, but my place is carving through snowdrifts it seems.
So, I’m writing you this from the side of a fire in an empty old fuel barrel, sitting in a train roundhouse next to Zola, tucked into my jacket and trying not to freeze my feathers off. It’s hard to write, but lucky me, my claws are just as numb as the rest of me. The trains aren’t moving, but just like the panzers and the trucks, they keep the engine running hot to keep it from freezing over. I swear, we’ll more of our fuel just sitting around than we do actually out on patrol. Sergeant Hellseig promises that when blizzards start coming this early, it's got a mild winter right behind it. I hope to Boreas he’s right. Our company kommandant Kaptein Briarbeak promises that better winter supplies and rations are inbound. I want to believe her, but I’ve seen what the military’s like in peacetime. They just outright seem to forget about garrison troops. Uncle August says it won’t be long. They’ll have the Landwehr brigades down here to continue the occupation by next year. Then we can finally go home.
Apparently the Grand Duke himself came to Oldwingburg to deliver a speech to the troops. And he brought the Emperor. I am sorry I missed that, for sure. Asselt’s not nearly as big or important, so I know why we got looked over. But to look up my grubby beak at my future Emperor in person would have been a story to tell for the ages. He’s six now, so I’ll see him take the throne and rule in my lifetime. Maybe even our (a word is vigorously scratched out).
Any chance the censor could cut that one for me?
Thanks for agreeing to help with my notes. I sent the first batch since the invasion. Most of its just scribbles, but if you see something worth writing down, let me know, okay?
Mail’s still coming and going on time. Small wonders, eh?
So, this Solid Stripe guy. You spend a lot of time with him?
Yours,
-Cyril
Sent December 19th, 1009
Dear Cyril,
Another year closed up. Hopefully this will reach you either at the end of the month, or the beginning of 1010. A new decade. We’ve seen a lot happen, haven’t we? Been through wars, crisis, hardships. And yet, here we are.
Good to hear you’re making use of yourself. I know surviving a blizzard can’t be easy, but I also know you love staying busy. This is as good a cause as any, so I can see plenty of upside there. Keep those griffs out of danger, Cyril. You’re fighting the good fight.
Look, about Solid Stripe. I think I need to be upfront. I’ve been putting off saying anything. I know we’ve said we’re in a relationship, and there’s no doubt I feel something for you. But the work between me and Solid, it got...it changed. At first he was the stallion I’d taken on to tutor, and then he became a study buddy and lab assistant. Next thing I know, we’re going out for dinner every Friday and hanging out in our free time. We clicked, sort of like what happened with you and me. But he was right there.
I’m having a hard time writing this. Solid’s been flirting with me and showering me with praise and attention and even a few gifts for weeks now. I held him off at first, talking about you. But the more I kept trying to resist, the more he kept trying. The more he kept trying, the more he made sense in his reasoning of why I should be with him instead. He was there, and we worked together a lot. And you weren’t there. Hadn’t been for years. You and I haven’t physically seen each other since Rottendedam, Cyril. That’s two and a half years. I was lonely. And Solid was persistent. Extremely persistent.
But that’s over now. He started getting weird the morning after. I sat him down to talk about what happened, and he left. I haven’t seen him since, but I know I’m not going to talk to him again.
I am so sorry. I don’t know what else to say. Most of my holiday cheer’s kinda been sapped by this. I’ve been agonizing about how to tell you about it. I got your letter and I couldn’t even read it for a week. I (the word ‘was’ is firmly scratched out) am so ashamed. I got drunk and I gave in to a weakness. I miss you, I really do. And I care about you. But it's been so long. And after everything else, it was nice not to feel alone and thousands of miles from everything and everypony I cared about.
“Operator, TR&T telephone services. I have a long distance call incoming from Hoofington. Would you like to accept and agree to the fees associated with this call?”
“It’s one in the morning, lady. Who in Tartarus is calling from Hoofington at one AM?”
“I believe the name of the caller is one Paige Turner, from Hoofington University.”
“...yeah, go ahead.”
“One moment please…”
“Uh huh…”
……
“*click* Static?”
“Turner, sweetie, as much as I love hearing from you, don’t you think you’re pushing it? I seriously came in from a pretty big bender at the Vet’s Hall over here. It’s gotta be about the same time for...are you crying?”
“*snff* Static...I bucked up.”
“...okay. Like in a money sort of way, or a-”
“I don’t even know what the hay happened! Okay, so I went out for dinner with Solid a few weeks back because we’d been working hard on my project and Winter Break was coming up, so we decided to celebrate because we didn’t know when we’d get another chance! Well, I don’t know how, but we went from the diner to a bar and we started knocking back cider and beer, and he starts coming on to me and I don’t know what the bloody buck is happening but the longer it goes, the more he starts to make sense-”
“Turner.”
“And he says how I haven’t seen Cyril in -years- and why should it be wrong that I try to find some comfort close to home, and it's not even like he’s -really- my coltfriend because we don’t know when we’re going to see each other again! And I know I shouldn’t have done it but I just kept drinking and drinking and Solid starts making all kinds of sense and I got angry and hurt and more alone than ever-”
“Turner!”
“And then Solid recommends we go back to the dorms and he can help me not feel alone anymore and-”
“PAIGE!”
“...yes?”
“Okay, one. Slow down. I’m still a bit drunk and you literally woke me up. Two, I got most of what you’re saying, so don’t repeat it. Did you sleep with him?”
“...Cyril or Solid?”
“What? Why would I-”
“I don’t know, I’m freaking out over here!”
“Okay, uh...either one?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“I mean yes.”
“I’m gonna fly down there and strangle you with the phone cable if you don’t start making sense, Paige.”
“Sorry Static...no to Cyril. Yes to Solid.”
“Okay, Paige. Yeah, you bucked up.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you calling me at 1 am on New Years’ long distance?”
“Well, after I send Solid away, I felt so guilty...I stewed in it a few days, tried to reason it all out, get back to my studies. But I couldn’t focus, I couldn’t think. Then Cyril’s latest letter came in and I couldn’t even open it for a while. But then I did, and he was telling me about this blizzard that blew in where he’s stationed, and how he was part of this rescue effort. You know...just being Him. He-”
“Yeah, I get it. You’ve already told me, he’s an amazing griff. Trust me, you’ve been over how wonderful he is. Go on.”
“Oh, right. Well. Anyway. I thought about leaving it be and just acting like nothing happened. Playing it off. Handling it.”
“Okay, yeah. You could. Probably wouldn’t ever...wait, thought? You tell him already?”
“I sent a reply…”
“Okay. And what did you tell him?”
“Everything.”
“...when did you send the letter?”
“Two weeks ago...I thought about just telling him everything was fine. But Static...he almost mentioned kids.”
“...wow. Wait, how do you -almost- mention kids in letter form?”
“He scratched it out and tried to act like he never said anything, but it doesn’t take an idiot to see where he was going. He can’t just rewrite a whole letter over there, no time or money. You know how it was.”
“If it was anything like what we went through, he would have had nothing -but- time.”
“Well he’s a tanker, it's different. Anyway...I started thinking, and getting emotional and feeling like I betrayed him...so I wrote him back. And I told the truth.”
“Okay. When did you do this, again?”
“About two weeks ago, I said.”
“Then why the buck are you calling me at 1 am on New Years’! I remind you, you -still- haven’t answered that!”
“...”
“Paige? Shit, look hon. I never...I didn’t meant to snap.”
“...I’m just...so lonely. He’s not here. And I’m all by myself here.”
“Paige...look, you want the truth?”
“...yeah?”
“Until something changes, you’re gonna -be- alone here. You two went in separate directions, and circumstances drove you apart. So there’s a choice you gotta make here; either you hold out, accept you won’t see him until this whole war and chaos thing on Griffonia blows over and take the consequences. Or, give up and move on to closer opportunities.”
“That’s a really shitty choice.”
“Yeah, well unless you wanna apply to Griffenheim’s education system where they can’t teach you jack about magic, that’s what you got. You either sleep in the bed you made, or you go get a new one.”
“...gods, you’re awful at peptalks.”
“Might be why my show doesn’t get many listeners.”
“...should I call back later?”
“Yes. Please. Do that. And next time, -you’re- picking up the bill, sweetie.”
I don’t know why I’m writing this. I haven’t got a letter from you yet, which means one of two things. Either A) your reply hasn’t reached me yet. Or B) you’re just that pissed at me. If it’s either case, I’m sorry for bothering you.
I know we didn’t talk for Mondstille Day, Hearth’s Warming Eve or New Year’s. Kinda wish we at least had a phone line we could share. Might solve a lot of things.
Look, I’m at risk of just rambling awkwardly. And I know that’s not what you want right now. I just wanted to tell you I still care for you, very deeply. I’m sorry I screwed up. I called up Static and she gave me the worst lecture I’ve ever heard. I went and got drunk again after all this, just to sleep.
I just want to hear from you again.
Still Yours,
-Paige
Sent January 15th, 1010
Paige,
I have thought long and hard about what to say here.
I realize we’ve got a strange relationship going on. We live so far from each other, it takes a month before we hear a response either way. We haven’t seen each other in years. So I get being lonely. That doesn’t make this okay. Still.
You didn’t have to tell me. You could’ve gotten away with it without consequence and I’d have never known. That does tell me you’ve got good intents. But it seems like it’s your judgement that’s poor.
I need a bit of time. We’ve both got a lot going on. Just give me a while to reply. Otherwise, I don’t know what else to say.
My mother doesn’t know. And she’s not going to know.
I forgive you. One time.
-Cyril
Sent February 12th, 1010
Paige,
Okay. I think I’m ready to talk again. Thanks for the breathing room.
Given everything that’s happened, we may need to back off a little with the relationship talk. I’m not saying that I want to end whatever we’ve got, but let’s face it. We’ll always be missing each other. And until we meet again, it’s going to be awkward. So easing up may be a good idea?
I’m home again. Griffenheim hasn’t changed all that much since I went west. Industrie has, though. The whole district’s up and moving. The factories are in full swing, construction and expansion are ongoing. New roads everywhere across the district, paved roads for the big hauler trucks everywhere now. New faces too, ponies and dogs and griffons moving in from the countryside and off the frontiers to come to the Imperial City. I swear to Boreas I even saw a few zebras. There’s some new boats in the Griffking, rumor is they’re using unicorns and enchanted filters to tackle the pollution. I’ll believe the Griffking clear when I spot seaponies in it though.
I got to my neighborhood, and all our neighbors came bustling out to welcome back the ‘war hero’. That was just a bit awkward. I had to return home in my Reichsarmee uniform, regulations and all, so I couldn’t just avoid them. They asked me a bunch of questions, like how many griffs I’d killed, what kind of guns I got to shoot and what medals I’d won. Everygriff offered me a beer. Took me an hour to get home from the station, that’s usually a ten minute walk. I’m reminded of how you were ‘welcomed’ by the Equestrians when you went back into the cities. Different experiences here, for sure.
Mother’s just glad I’m alive. I’ll be staying with her a few weeks, so I’m letting her fuss over me and baby me. Sophie peppered me with questions about the war at first, but now she’s stopped since I keep refusing to go into detail with her. I think she understands. It’s nice, feeling cared for again after all that time freezing in Greifenmarsch. It’s still snowing here, of course, but Industrie tends to warm you up. Traffic and factory fumes do that. But at least I’m not huddled behind the tank trying to warm up in the exhaust.
I went to a new cinema in Industrie with Sophie. We saw a new film just recently released within the last few months. Apparently, somegriff came up with the idea of a film detective named Rikard Talony, a hard-boiled detective in Rottendedam who fights the Cosa Nostra and other criminal elements while being harassed by the corrupt police department. It was good fun, Sophie loved it. Over the top, and I swear Rikard never did anything more than sneer and growl over his Specht gun while blasting down mobsters left and right. You should watch it, if they’re showing it there.
Uncle August wanted to speak with me. I can’t go into detail about it, but he mentioned something about the Holy League. I think this year might be it. When we finally take action. You and me, we’re both aware of what happens in that case. I knew the Month Long War wouldn’t be it, but so soon after...I guess I just assumed I’d have more time until my next fight. But it's kinda just my speculation. A bad feeling in the gut. You know the kind.
I’ll go see him on my last day of leave. When it's all back to business. I just want to enjoy a few more quiet days. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Come to think of it, I don’t know where I’m going either. Send your next letter to my home, Mother will make sure it gets to me after that.
Let’s see where the future goes.
-Cyril
February 28, 1010
Oh my goodness thank thank thank you! I am so sorry and I swear on every god in every pantheon I will not put you through something like this again!
I decided to take the time I wasn’t getting letters from you to re-evaluate my life. Solid’s not in it anymore, thank Celestia. I see him in class, but we’re no longer working together. He lost his tutor, but I lost my lab tech, so looks like my thesis will have to wait.
I did try and contact my old friends from Luna Nova. Most of them I never knew their addresses to. Gloaming gave me hers way back, but according to her parents, she went north with the Army last year and never came back. The military just sent back the Royal Alicorn Cross. Apparently there wasn’t much left to recover.
As I lacked anypony else to talk to, I called up Static again. She’s working as a radiomare in Vanhoover, so she’s a bit set up. Turns out her coltfriend cheated on her while she was gone, so we’re two independant mares against the world. I’m going to fly up to her over the weekend, take some time to figure out what a normal life is again.
My parents are glad I’m back in school. My father was never happy about me enlisting, much less about me being in the Equestrian forces. He doesn’t like western ponies much. Thinks they’re too idealistic and stuck in their own fantasy land. He may have a point. Mother asks about you. A lot. And far too many awkward questions, especially with...what happened. I didn’t have the heart to tell her about it. So far as she knows, you and I are taking a break.
The vote issue presses on. Apparently there’s an election arranged for later on this year. I got a letter in my mailbox about it. I’m a citizen now, who knew? Apparently both the republicans and the monarchists are looking to snap up veteran votes as quick as they can. I stopped by a Vet Hall in Hoofington. It’s turned into a political craphouse there, with republicans even going so far as to talk succession under the Coltumbia Party. Then there’s the monarchist vets looking to defend the Princesses. And then there’s the moderate crowd, trying to find some sort of compromise. It's a mess.
I don’t think I’m going to go back to a Vet Hall for a while. Maybe things are less politically charged in Vanhoover.
I picked up a nightjob as a clerk. It’s not much, but working a typewriter all night pays the bills that the Vets Bill won’t. I work with a few thestrals here, and they all look at me like I’m the odd one out which is ironic in a way. Its strange, I wasn’t in the service very long but -this- feels like the charade, like I’m just going through the motions. I’m hoping it goes away. I don’t like this unnatural feeling. This sensation that its all an act that I’m playing out. That being back to a normal life is just me waiting for the next big thing as I bounce from place to place. I don’t know anymore.
I’d heard about Rikard Talony. I’m afraid that out here, there’s too much Daring Do loyalty to accept another action hero in ponies’ hearts. Besides, Hoofington doesn’t much like outsiders, so unless they do an Equestrian version, I don’t think they’ll be showing a Herzlander film. I’m interested, though. I have to come back to the continent one day, so maybe it’ll be in time to see any sequels that have come out, and there will be some. The papers are already saying Rikard Talony’s becoming popular enough on the screen that even nobles are asking for film viewings. Trust me, it’ll be big.
Your mother wrote me again. Apparently, she’s noticed a change in you. She’s worried. I didn’t tell her what happened. Just talked about what you told me of Greifenmarsch. I don’t think she’ll be entirely convinced.
Listen, I know you wanted to take it slow and not really look over where ‘we’ are, but I don’t know if we quite have the luxury of that. It’s been a few months by the time you get this letter. We don’t get face to face conversations to ask questions or talk things out. I’m not asking you to take me back, mind, body and soul after what I did. But I do miss telling you how much I wish you were here. I miss planning our dinner in Rottendedam. I miss thinking about where we’d go in the future. I miss you, Cyril. Even what we had, limited by letters, is so terribly important to me that without it I’ve been sad and lonely. I bucked up. I know that. But I want to make it up to you.
Still Yours,
-Paige
(Inside the package with the letter is a pack of chocolates with a note reading “Happy Hearts and Hooves Day. You sent one last year, I felt it only right to get you one this year. ~Paige”)
Sent March 17, 1010
Paige,
They sent me back a few weeks ago. Our new posting is at a site known as Castle Krallestein, out here in Osnabeak. It’s an old castle whose family has died out, so the Empire is taking the estate and turning it into a military operations center. The 41st is part of the new military response force stationed here for the time being. The Empire’s looking to turn it into the most fortified site on Griffonia outside of the Imperial Palace. They’re talking about putting some top-secret work in here, so I can’t describe it much more than that, though something tells me I might not want to know. What I can say is that this garrison is enormous. The castle has its own dedicated security force, and on top of that there’s a Landwehr detachment manning the defense guns, the AA and emplaced artillery. Couple that with the panzers we’ve got, and it's looking like they’re shaping this place into a major hardpoint. But it's Osnabeak. That’s what confuses me. We’re right smack dab in the middle of friendly territory, days away from any hostile border. They’re talking about military and scientific minds coming together here. You mentioned somegriff named Daklaw I think. Is he an important scientist? Because I heard his name while we were setting up here. He’s apparently running the whole place now. Well, him and a bunch of military bigwigs like General Dawnclaw, General Silverplume and General Grimclaw, those sorts. They’re legends of the old guard here.
Oh, I got promoted. Yeah. Me. Imagine that. Apparently for my work in Greifenmarsch I’ve been given the rank of Vise-Korporal and the Imperial Service Bar. It’s not much, just a junior rank up, a pay raise and a small decoration. But it means a lot to me. I’m here because of my father. It's good to see that I’m finally making him proud in the afterlife. Everygriff congratulated me. Sergeant Hellseig says I deserve it. Bluetalon broke out some of his contraband hooch for a toast. Even Grimquill was tolerable for a while. My kompanie decided to hold a small party. All a bit much for a Vise-Korporal promotion, but I suppose we need as much cheer as we can get.
So, surprise of all surprises, we got a detachment of Knights in black armour from the east. And before you ask, not Longsword. These ‘Black Knights’ (suppose that explains the armor) wore the badge of Hellquill and some odd looking griffon head symbol with crosses on its sides. It seems Longsword and Hellquill put aside their differences and formed a union on the frontier. But it gets worse. They declared themselves to be part of something called the Integralists. They were formerly an order under the command of the Reformisten. Apparently, these jackasses took on the mantle of Blackloaks after they purged the ‘hardliners’ from their ranks. Now they’re all about spreading griffon culture to all races under the Empire. And here’s the kicker; they swear by ‘the Black King Wingfried.’ I don’t know what to think. I thought these murderers were gone, now I see what’s basically their next generation walking around Krallestein like they never abandoned the Empire. Nogriff’s happy to see them. Not us Panzerkorps or the grenadiers, not the security troopers, not Landwehr, not the other knights. It’s just a whole heap of bad news.
Don’t worry about mother. We talked about this, remember? She’s not going to know about what happened. That’s best for everyone, trust me. As for you and me, well. I gave you a second chance, Paige. I’m not entirely comfortable talking about us as a couple again, not yet. I can’t stop you from wanting to discuss it. I want us to be together, I do. I miss talking to you about us too. You are one of my only real emotional outlets here. And I need that. I’m just not sure I can do it yet. I’m sorry.
Sincerely,
-Cyril
P.S.: thanks for the chocolates.
(A package attached to the envelope opens to reveal a small tin full of cookies. Inside is another note: “Pfeffernuesse from Sophie. She baked them while I was there. Mother insisted I send them along. I didn’t object too hard. -Cyril”)
Sent April 1st, 1010
Dear Cyril,
I sent a letter thanking your sister for the cookies. They were delicious. I looked up the recipe for pfefferneusse, and I’m impressed. She’s got a gift, for sure.
The news about these Knights from a unified Hellquill really bothers me. You told me the Reformisten was purged. So why is Wingfried still alive?
I know you’re not able to answer. But at least I can take heart that they’re still hated over there. Maybe it won’t be long before your Regency orders Hellquill be reclaimed. I’m sure you can understand why every Riverpony would want that. Just stay on your guard. If they learn you’ve been (several words are scratched out here) talking with a Riverpony, you might be in trouble. I don’t think the MfÖS would sell you out if they hadn’t by now. Having an uncle as a general has its perks, I guess.
Do you mean Conrad Dawkclaw? He’s one of the greatest scientific minds in Griffonia! Do you mean to tell me he’s at the site you’re stationed? I know you can’t actually speak to him for me, but if you could at least tell if he’s on the verge of some breakthrough, and maybe I can eventually get an autograph?
Congratulations on your promotion! First step is always the hardest. I told you that you had potential, and I’m glad to see somegriff else sees it too. You’re too hard on yourself Cyril. Remember, you wanted to go to school too? What kind of program for vets does Griffeinheim have?
Speaking of school, finals are coming up again. I have now reached a happy medium. I feel appropriately confident and appropriately anxious at the same time. I joined a study group for advanced arcana, but I’m afraid I’m still struggling in advanced trigonometry. With everything that’s happened, I want to try to keep at least a B average (it's been a rough semester after all) but my trig score might drag me down. And I need trigonometry for my crystal work. Let’s see...okay, so you know I’ve been able to form energy crystals on my own with unicorn magic assisting me? Well, trigonometry is the math of measuring triangles, and essential to calculating striations and patterns in a crystal matrix. So I -need- this class to pass the higher levels of advanced theoretical arcana. Otherwise it's just going to be me suffering, and I’m already at a disadvantage. Everypony else in the class is a unicorn, so I’m kind of going in with half a deck here. So...wish me luck.
Solid came back. Says he’s not doing well now and needs my help to pass exams. I sent that loser packing. Literally. I took everything he left in my lab and dumped it right on his desk. I don’t need a manipulator like that around who takes advantage of drunk mares. Small bit of revenge on my part. Maybe a bit on yours too. I told him to look up Griffonian honor. Went right over his head that ‘Griffonian honor’ means you get the right to shoot him on the spot for his attempt on...well, your woman. Anyway, I had a private laugh at that.
It's fine if you don’t want to talk about us. I understand how awkward I’ve made things. Just know that, if and when you are, I’ll be here.
Yours,
-Paige
Sent April 23rd, 1010
Dear Paige,
Something is wrong. I can feel it.
They issued new weapons today. An entire convoy brought dozens of crates down last night. Now the panzergrenadiers have been issued new rifles, (in technical terms, the Selbstlader M-09 “Gerund” battle rifle according to the labels and the officers) and new Krahe maschinenpistole. We were given the Krahe too, for all of us to have as crew weapons. Bluetalon stuck with his shotgun, but the rest of us now have new arms to take care of. So now I have a rapid fire assault weapon loaded into a rack next to my station and a pistol on my hip. Suppose those panzers we lost in Oldwingburg spooked High Kommand enough to try and change things. Good. At least good griffs died for something. Still, I don’t like it. New gear always means kommand is getting ready for something big. At least I get to go hit the range. That’s always fun.
We’re also being brought up to full combat load. Maintenance is being prioritized, and the magazines opened to let us load live fire shells. I’ve seen the Knights and the Sturmtruppen carrying some kind of new rifle as well. Something that glows. But nogriff is allowed to talk about them, and I’m not allowed to get close.
They’ve brought in some kind of new panzer as well. Not many. We’re told these are brand new, so they’re ‘support panzers’. The Arcturien Mkpfw I, designated the ‘Stahlschild.’ According to the briefs, it's supposed to be cheap and fast enough to keep up with us, but heavy enough to support the grenadiers in urban combat. The 41st has got maybe (the word here is clipped out) of them. All I can say is that I’m glad I’m not going to be fighting in towns if I can help it. Leave that to the Beaks and these new panzers.
Don’t bring that unicorn up again, please. I’d rather just forget he exists. Unless you kicked the crap out of him, I don’t want to hear it. And I wouldn’t shoot him. Well (the next few words are scratched out). Maybe in the leg.
You’ll get those exams. And the (several words are scratched out) trig stuff. I have (the word ‘faith’ is gently scratched out) confidence. You’re the smartest person I know, Paige. Pony or griffon. You’ve got this.
Went on leave to Rottendedam this weekend. Out of all the cities in the Empire I’ve seen, Rottendedam has grown the most aside from Griffenheim. Streetcars, telephone cables, new housing at the harbor for all these creatures immigrating on the ‘Opendeurbelid Act’ (I picked up some Feathisian from a griff in the regiment. I’ve been practicing). And, wouldn’t you know it. Touring the city, I came right back to the harbor. And, I couldn’t help but go back. I know I said I wanted to leave aside all the talk about us, but I wanted to mention that I did go back. I found our table, overlooking the bay. There was a battleship there instead of a cruiser this time. I think it was the KMS Gabriela, but I’m not sure. I ordered beer and pretzels. Then I just watched the water the rest of the night, drinking and snacking. I’m glad the other griffs in the platoon went elsewhere. I don’t think I would have been the most polite of company.
Just give me time.
Sincerely,
-Cyril
Sent May 20th, 1010
Dear Cyril,
I promise you won’t hear about Solid ever again. He’s gone, and after this semester even I won’t have to deal with him. Leg shots are perfectly fine. Encouraged, even.
Thank you for you words. I always count yours as the most important for motivation. My father just goes on about me being gone and asking when I’m going to come back, and I feel like most of my subjects are a little too abstract for my mother. My brother is apparently in a Bakaran prison right now. I suppose that was inevitable. But their letters take even longer than yours. And you get what I’m talking about, at least in the general sense. I always keep your encouragement in mind when I’m studying. I like putting your medal where I can see it. Reminds me that what I’m doing is important. So many students here lack focus. But if I want to work in arcana, I need to learn more than anypony else, even unicorns.
If the Empire is anything like Equestria, the new gear rolls out when action does. Sad fact of life. I’m just hoping you won’t need it. But given what’s happened in the past and where you are, I think we’re both kidding ourselves. You’re a good soldier, Cyril. I know you and your crew can get the job done. And, more importantly, come back alive.
The election crisis goes on, if you must know. A crowd gathered in front of Hoofington City Hall, protesting against the princesses. Then a bunch of monarchists got into it with them. Then the police. Even the university can’t escape it, bunch of students yelling about topics like “freedom of vote”, “citizens’ rights” and “liberty”, acting like they’re so highly educated. We’ve even got communist supporters here on campus.
I’m taking more and more of my weekends up north with Static. Sometimes, she comes to visit me. It’s helping out a lot to be with somepony that understands what we went through together. Says she sometimes misses the war, if you can believe it. Funny, some nights so do I. But she’s a welcome help. I never mentioned, but as a unicorn she can help me with my project again. Having to wait to only do it every weekend or so is grating, but I think it’s helped me focus. Helps keep me from getting distracted from work, studying.
Static’s fun. I know I said we were good friends before, but now with us doing more together outside the Air Force, she’s lots of fun. Her radio show is called ‘No HS’, and it's a radio talk piece. She had to start doing ads in order to pay for the studio, but it lets her say her piece. Veteran radio is very much underrepresented, and she gets letters from all across Equestria to answer. If you can believe it, Vanhoover’s even more charged than Hooftington. Up north, it’s pretty heavily seated in the republican camp, even the socialist one. Static hates it, keeps talking about moving out. We’re thinking about getting a place together in Hoofington. Works out for both of us.
About the Rottendedam thing, its okay if you went back. I wish I could go back to Manehattan, but that’s not possible over a weekend. I hope you saved some of those pretzels for me. There’s a naval base nearby called Fort Mourn. I visited there one time, watched the subhunters out on maneuvers. It wasn’t the same, but the salt air reminded me of Rottendedam. And you. Take whatever time you need. Given how long its been and how long we’ve got, best we have our heads straight as we can before we meet again.
Stay Safe. Promise me.
-Paige.
Sent May 26th, 1010
Paige,
It’s happened again.
Word just came down. They’re sending us to the panzers. Negotiations broke down between the League and the Empire. There’s going to be no reintegration. It’s war. I’m already seeing the bombers flying south, poor bastards. We’re being mobilized, as well as the rest of the force stationed here in Krallestein. Word is that Uncle August has been given operational command again. We’re to head southeast starting tomorrow. The castle train depot can’t handle this many armored vehicles. We’ve orders to make for Reinsfeld in the morning, the closest city with a railhead that can accomodate us. Within a week we’re supposed to be at the front. We’ll be right into the fight.
We’re ready. Or, that’s what we keep telling ourselves. This fight has been a long time coming. Hellseig’s not taking any chances. He’s got Bluetalon scrounging for whatever he can find to increase our odds. Zola’s got some new armor plating bolted on. Non-regulation of course, but if it keeps us alive, I’m not complaining. We moved everything we own into her. Your picture is back over my gunsight. The books you sent me are under my gunner’s seat. Your letters I keep in a satchel.
It’s been six months. Time I set the record straight. We’re going to war. That changes things. I’m never going to forget what happened, Paige. But I think I’m ready to move on, and right now I don’t want any kind of bad air to remain between us.
Keep in contact with mother and Sophie. You know how the mail gets. All kinds of snarled up in the rear lines. So I’m dropping this letter in the Castle mailbox now, before we go into the chaos. You likely won’t hear from me for some time. Keep up your studies. Good luck on your finals. Static is a good influence on you, let her help. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.
Yours (again),
-Cyril
(The following is an attachment, a secondary letter folded up into the envelope. The penmanship is neat, and the stationary reads as from the 8th Heer, Reichsarmee)
To Miss Paige Turner,
While we have never met or corresponded, I have kept a close watch on your words to my nephew, as part of the favor to my sister. I failed Cyril’s father, and the least I can do is make sure he stays as safe as he can. Know this; I have been monitoring your correspondence closely. I know what happened, and I have remained silent about it. But now Cyril goes to war, I feel the time is no better to send you a notice. If you betray him again before he dies, I will personally find you and make sure you atone for what you have done. I will bring you back to Griffenheim myself, and you can explain to his mother, face to beak.
I will be watching. The censors will intervene again if I order it. Do not respond to this message. Say nothing to Cyril.
-August Duskwing
Sent June 12th, 1010
Dear Cyril,
We always knew this could happen. I suppose I was getting hopeful it might not. Peaceful reintegration would mean I got to see you sooner, or at least increase my chances.
I wish you the best as you go to war. Keep your head down, and return to us all safe.
If we’re going to do this long distance relationship again, I feel we’re missing out on some things we’ve never discussed. Face to face couples have the chance to talk things out like we can’t, and we’ve been talking for years. Static recommended I try to start things back at the beginning (she says I have a habit of over complicating things) and honestly, I think something simple to focus on will help you, too.
So, I ask you three questions about yourself, and then you ask me. Simple, right?
Favorite color? Mine is purple. It’s an elegant color, really. I can’t get over it.
Favorite music? While I will always love the string quartets back home in Rijekograd, I have grown attached to something out here called electronica. Simply put, it’s a type of synthetic music using various sounds effects. I like to listen to it while I work on my crystal with Static.
Place you want to visit? Now I’m actually in Equestria, and given everything with us, I’m a bit drawn between Rottendedam and actually getting to that date we keep planning, and Griffenheim. You always talk so highly of it, and I didn’t see much when I took the train from the east.
Everything’s normal out here again. Boring, really. Static came south to visit and we started looking into properties for rent. She’s looking to restart her radio station in Hoofington, thinks she’ll get better reception that way. I personally agree, though she might get fired up over the Coltumbia party here. Apparently, the oil magnate Rockefeller has been funding the republican party, and I don’t like how political she gets over this stuff. At least she’ll be well received in the Vet Halls.
Finals week will be done and over with by the time you get this letter, and then that’s two years done for me. I’m hoping to get a bachelor’s soon, and then I can apply for a position at an arcane lab. That would be amazing to work in magic development while finishing up school. I want to aim for my doctorate, but that’s so far down the road.
I decided to answer your sister with my own baking. It’s been years since I tried it, but I made some decent medenjaci for her. Static liked them so much, I had to make a whole new batch! Maybe I’ll get back into baking to pass the time between semesters when I’m not busy with work. I hope Sophie and Margot like them too.
I’ve got your picture in a frame on my nightstand. I know if I leave it in my saddlebag, I’ll lose the stupid thing. I wouldn’t mind another when you can get the opportunity.
I’ll try to be your source of normal while you go to the front. With everything that can happen out there, I know you need it.
Come back to me, okay? One day.
Yours (gladly),
-Paige
PS: you have a good family. They watch out for you.
Sent June 29th, 1010
6/9/10
Dear Paige,
Back to war as expected. It’s a lot like Greifenmarsch. The Holy League don’t have a lot of panzers, but they’re making up for it a lot better than the Peasants ever did. More professional troops, panzer-zerstörer guns and even the Knights of Arcturius. The 41st hasn’t gotten stuck in yet, but we’re following the advance towards Yale. I don’t feel bad about that part, because the Sturmtruppen assaulting Romau have got a rough one ahead of them. I’d rather head for Greenback personally, rather than take on the Archon’s own in another city fight.
6/14/10
Paige,
The summer rains are on again. Trucks and tanks sometimes get bogged in the mud, but it’s not as bad as I expected. Better roads here, better fields. Yale’s rich, so they know how to handle infrastructure.
We had a small scrap with some infantry. The Yale truppen scattered once the panzers took to the field, but a company from Angriever stood their ground, died to the last griff. Those griffons concern me. They’re supposed to be some of the Archon’s most loyal soldiers. How do you get fanatics to surrender when they consider you a heretic?
Pushing southeast. The main fight’s still ahead of us. I’m okay with taking our time getting there.
6/21/10
Dear Paige,
We keep pushing, and the League keeps pulling back. But not without cost. It’s a fighting withdrawal, we think. They can’t hold against us, so they fight long enough to stop us and then pull back. Lines of wounded Imperials heading back to the field hospitals. We passed by a kompanie from the 6th Panzer. They were pretty beaten up. Apparently they rolled right into an ambush with PzWs and landmines. Once they stopped to fight the infantry and clear the mines, the enemy pulled back and arty hammered them.
We’re taking the 6th’s place for now. We’re not as armor heavy, no Beak’s and only a few Stahlschilds. Most of our force is Calicos like Zola, with some knights from the Order of the Carmine Shield. But if we keep the panzergrenadiers safe, they’ll handle the fights ahead of us.
I keep thinking back to what you said about going to school. I know I told you that I would if time permits, but so far it’s been nothing but training, preparation to fight, and now actual war. My fear is that, if I do come back alive from this, it’ll be so late in my life when I’m able to go to school, won’t be a point.
6/24/10
Paige,
We got into a scrap with the Yale troops we’re chasing. Turns out, they’ve got panzers after all.
We engaged outside the town of Mortome. Yale troops barricaded the place with traitor Knights backing them up. The panzergrenadiers and Knights dismounted, and we moved to flush out the enemy when we start taking fire from the woods. Turns out, the local Yale forces dug them in, with logs to act like trenches. We lost three before we took out the enemy. Four Yale panzers, old Airbender models. But damn did they do damage. I got one. Felt good. Marked it on the turret. First panzer kill of my career.
6/28/10
Got your letter. Dunno when I’ll get another chance for a photo. I’d give my right arm for ‘boring’ though. It’s gotta be better than this crap. Whatever your finals, I know you did great. No other possibilities with you. Keep on pushing towards that degree. I know you’ll get there some day.
I wouldn’t mind some baking. Sophie will love it. What is medenjaci, anyway?
I’ve got the chance to answer your questions. Okay, favorite color: green. But dark green, like pine needles. Music: jazz, both high energy and blues. We’ve got new numbers on Reichsheer Radio every day, straight out of Griffenheim. It really took off a few years back, and I love it. Place to visit: Rottendedam for me too. Wouldn’t mind some more time at home with mother and Sophie. Hoofington would be worth it to see you there. Always wanted to visit Zebrica, explore the ‘mysterious dark south’. Maybe the Boer colonies, or the Zebrides.
Okay, for you: favorite book? Gotta be ‘Daring Do and the Lost Valley’. Honestly, I’m all up for a good monster-killing story, so the one sells it for me with all the thunder lizards she runs into. Favorite food? I know ponies are a little limited. But I’m always a fan of a good schnitzel. And finally favorite flower? This one might surprise you, but I decided to think outside the box a little. I like Feathisian tulips. Ever since I visited Rottendedam and saw those gardens they have, it just got me. The petals, the smell. I wouldn’t mind a garden of my own wherever I settle down.
We met the enemy again today, in full battle. A Feathisian regiment tried to dislodge them and wound up getting a bit fucked up, so we were sent to save them. The League griffs were dug into a series of trenches, with guns and knights defending them. I don’t know how long we slogged through that field, but I can see why we’re slowed so much. They used the same flying infantry firebomb tactic that the Peasants did. I was hoping that wouldn’t catch on, but now we’re calling them ‘Angriever cocktails’, so I suppose they’re becoming more known. From what I can tell by the uniforms, it was more Yale troopers backed by Angriever soldiers. I saw another uniform I didn’t recognize. It definitely wasn’t Imperial, but it had the pins stripped. These griffons didn’t want to be recognized. I don’t like that.
6th Panzer is moving up again. We’re following behind. Here’s hoping we just clean up whatever they leave for us. General Dawnfeather’s Sturmtruppen broke through the defensive ring, and are advancing towards Romau. We’ll likely have the city under siege soon. But 8th Army is continuing southwards, towards Greenback, and then Angriever. That’s the plan the officers keep spouting, at least.
More news of the Black Knights. Apparently, King Wingfried is going to be decorated. Katerin troops tried pushing east into Longsword for a flank, and Hellquillian troops destroyed them, stopped cold. So word is he’s coming to Griffenheim. The whole thing flares my wings, it really does. Nogriff in the Reichsarmee trusts them. For good gods-damned reason.
We’re winning, I think. The advance isn’t as fast as back in Greifenmarsch, but we -are- moving forward. Here’s hoping it doesn’t keep costing as much as it is for just scraps of land, though.
Word back from mother. She’s concerned, of course. Not just for me. Apparently, the Katerin front has stalled out. She says a lot of griffons are talking about evacuating Griffenheim just in case, but the Regency keeps issuing statements that the Imperial Guard will never let the traitors have the city. Still. Griffenheim has been bombed a few times. I almost want mother and Sophie to get out. I’ve seen what happens when a city is bombed. But I don’t want to worry them anymore than they already are. There’s panic in the Imperial City. Militias are forming too. Word is, General Dawnclaw is on his way back with some of his Sturmtruppen. No chance any land force can take Griffenheim. But I don’t want to see what happens if they try. Uncle August will watch out for them. He’ll know better than I would if they need to go.
Keep up your boring life. I need it right now to stay sane.
Yours,
-Cyril
Sent July 22nd, 1010
Dear Cyril,
Finals came and went. I think my head was somewhere else. It wasn’t hard, I just had trouble focusing. Summer vacation right now, and I don’t have much outside of work and my crystal project. All my friends from school are either at home or out on vacation. I’m starting to feel like I might be slightly boring.
The newspapers are finally reporting on the war out there. They’re calling it the ‘Herzland War’. Plenty of journalists declaring it to be the ‘final gasps of a dying empire about to demolish itself.’ I hate the media out here. I told Static about what you said on the front, about the truth out there, and she said it over her radio show. She started getting hatemail for talking positively about the Empire. She can’t wait to move out of that place.
I can’t believe they’re decorating that monster. I know I’ve been a bit quiet on your leadership, but this is seriously the most bucked up thing. He and his followers are responsible for a massive amount of pony suffering, but just because he comes back to the Empire declaring himself a changed griff, it's all supposed to be okay? I’m not okay with this, and I’m glad to hear the Imperial military isn’t either. (several words are furiously scratched out)
I am glad to hear you and your crew are alright. Your experience in this war is so different compared to what I went through. The constant grind forward, stuck in the mud and struggling for every inch. Thank ‘Zola’ for keeping you alive. I wouldn’t ever consider myself aggressive under most means, but given the fact you’re stuck in against these guys, all I can say is keep knocking them down and keep your head in the panzer.
I looked in an atlas at the Empire. You’re right, Katerin is rather close to Griffenheim. If the Princess’ forces were able to bomb it already, your mother might be right to try and get out. Though you’re right, your uncle would certainly keep her safe. I haven’t heard back from her or Sophie. I’m worried too, trust me.
Medenjaci is a kind of honey spice cookie, or cake. Depends on what you use for the base and how large you make them. I like making cookies, though. Then you can scoop them up for a snack later.
Static found a place, a nice cheap apartment near the campus. I know I get free university housing, but she can’t move out here without help, and I make enough bits to contribute. Plus, I can always apply for housing aid for educational purposes. We’re supposed to go through a series of meetings with officeponies to discuss rent, appeal for housing and other things tomorrow. Hooves crossed, right?
Favorite book. You always have to pull a hard one, don’t you? Okay, I have to say my favorite book would have to be the ‘Senke nad Rijekom’ series (‘Shadows Over Rijekograd,’ but don’t let the name fool you). It’s a political thriller series about the tumultuous nature of Riverlands politics. It covers the formation of the River Coalition and the early years. There was a lot of backstabbing and border tensions in those days. We were so busy fighting each other, we almost fell apart again. It doesn’t paint a flattering picture of the Griffonian Empire either, which I kind of had to unlearn as I grew up. To us, the Empire is still the big scary boogeypony, even after it fell apart. But for the most part, the series is a good historical narrative. And, unfortunately, it also shows how our politics today became so messed up. Socialists, republicans, monarchists, all at each others’ throats. A pity we never learned from those days.
Favorite food is definitely truffels over creamy pasta. It’s simply to die for, and I can never get enough. It’s expensive though, so I don’t get it very often. If you can order it sometime, do so. It speaks for itself.
Favorite flower? You are weird, you know that? I’ve never thought about it.
Purple anenome. My mother has a garden in the yard, and her favorite part of it is the Riverlands Purple Anenome in the center. They’re beautiful flowers. When I was a filly, I used to hide under the flowers in the garden, and I remember the Anenome smelled so nice. Maybe that’s why purple’s my favorite color?
Suddenly, it's getting tough to come up with more questions. I suppose it's different through letters. Oh, here’s one; hobbies. You can’t be a soldier all day, right? What do you do when you’re not at “work” in your panzer? You know about me, with my novels. But I also used to do crafts. When I was a filly in school, I made little statues out of popsicle sticks and glitter. I used to do a bit of scrapbooking too. Then school kind of took over my life and I dropped it for a bit. Maybe I’ll pick it back up.
Childhood. We haven’t mentioned much about when we were younger. I know you told me a little bit about growing up in Industrie, but do you have anything more than that? I was always the smart foal in school, like advanced smart, so I wound up moved forward two whole grades. Got a little awkward during physical education when I was flying with teenagers and I could barely flap my wings. My parents had to take that over for a while, so guess how many times I wound up throwing myself off the slide, the window, whatever high point I could find? I lost my baby teeth early, for certain.
This one is Static’s suggestion. It’s going to be a bit hard for us both. What is your biggest fear?
That one’s tough for me. Before the Crystal War, I used to be afraid of never being able to fly again. I love flying so much, I can’t ever imagine not being able to use my wings again and just stuck on the ground. But nowadays, I’m kind of perpetually afraid of losing you all over on Griffonia and I wouldn’t even know it until a month later. My parents, you, your mother, Sophie. Imagine if you thought everything was going fine until just one day a letter shows up and tells you they’ve all been gone and you never even would have known otherwise.
Okay, that’s a grim way to end this. But Static says we need to get the tough ones out of the way first. So I’ll keep it in there.
I’m watching the news as best I can. I know it's mostly shit, but I like to think it helps me keep track of you in between. There’s word of ‘scuffles’ in the Herzlands, but aside from them saying there’s action in Yale and Katerin, it's a bit vague. They mention the Battle of Ruhr River and the Katerin Siege like everypony’s supposed to know where that is. So keep writing me, Cyril. Because if you tell me what you’re doing, I can watch you. I’ve got Mortome pinned on my map. I know you left it behind already, but I just point an arrow at Greenback and hope.
And maybe pray a little.
Tell no one.
I’ve got your notes, by the way. If you’re going to turn this into a workable log, they need to be preserved properly. So I’ll add your letters to them. We’ll have your autobiography a best seller in no time. A good, nice, long one.
Now I think I’m looking for excuses not to end this letter.
Let’s keep hoping this is it. That after this, the quiet we’re looking for lets us see each other. I know we’ve said that before. We need to keep saying it. Can’t lose hope.
July 1st, 1010 Rimau-Griffenheim Rail Line Leutnant-General Ferdinand Dawnclaw sat in one of the many seats of his personal train car, watching the countryside he knew so well roll by. From the windows of the train, he could see several of the small villages and hamlets that surrounded Griffenheim, the capital of the Griffonian Empire. And the seat of the Regency council.
Dawnclaw frowned, and put his right talon on his forehead in a thinking pose. The Regency Council. He snorted. The damn nobles couldn’t keep the Empire together the first time, and what did that cause, in 978? Now everygriff was wondering what had gone wrong when the war with Greifenmarschen and now with the Holy League happened.
He knew what had happened both times, of course. The Revolution. He was still a teenage griffon back then, a sick albino trying to figure out his place in the world. Waiting to be ordained as a priest for the Church of Arcturius – it was position he would have gone into if wasn’t for what…happened. He respected Archon Proteus, and he still did, even with the war against the Holy League. Kemerskai, that damned traitor (along with the Nobles and the other Archons) was probably one of the biggest causes of all the poverty, conflict and misery Griffonia suffered today.
Perhaps it was a calling, he thought. That all the death, destruction and battles of the Revolution was the motivation that made him leave his Arcturian priesthood training and instead join the Reichsarmee.
On the other claw, the consequences of the war against the Holy League he could hear right now, see right now. The sounds of the train masked them somewhat, but it was hard to ignore the fighter planes in the sky, patrolling for any Holy League aircraft. There were also several small craters near the railway line, and he could even see a destroyed house. To the south, he knew lines of wounded griffons were being rushed to field hospitals, wings broken, bleeding out. Many would not last the night.
Dawnclaw once again snorted. Griffons were dying, on the field and in the cities, because the Nobles and the Archons couldn’t keep the Empire together, instead engaging in petty fighting for what remained of it.
Then, he made his decision.
No more.
If it was necessary for a third party to step in with force to save the Empire, he was determined to do it. Ferdinand stood up from his seat, and opened the door that led to the rest of the train, to the car that held most of his most loyal guards and officers.
July 13th, 1010 Griffenheim, the Imperial Palace
“Where is Grover?”
Gabriela’s face screwed up, clearing her throat as she and her husband descended the stairs. The air in the palace could not be any different to that fateful night he proposed. The plush carpeting under their talons and paws muffled their steps, and the stone walls were alight with electric lamps displaying the ancient tapestries, paintings and portraits of kaisers, nobles, archons and various scenes of glory and wondrous landscapes. The palace was looking much better under her care (their care, she reminded herself for the hundredth time) and she noticed both its defenders and its staff moved with more defined purpose these days, motivated by the Empire’s resurgence.
Well, more motivated than some.
“He didn’t feel like coming out. This time, I let him stay,” she replied, turning down the hall that would lead them to the Council Chamber, four Knights from the Ducal Guard falling in on all corners for their protection. Before she could proceed, a claw gently took her shoulder, pulling her to a halt. She knew what she would find behind her, and was not surprised to see Gerlach watching her carefully, an eyebrow raised. She huffed in irritation.
“Do you find something interesting, Husband?”
“Only that you would allow our young charge to duck out on this. You normally ignore his reluctance and seat him on the throne for all occasions. What was it you said…’getting him used to unpleasant tasks?’”
“Don’t try me, Gerlach. I’m not in the mood.”
He blinked in surprise. “You’re really bothered about this.”
“You’re not?” she asked, eyebrows raised. “I thought one as bound to the laws of chivalry as you would be -deeply- disturbed by what the Reformisten has done.”
“I never said I wasn’t,” he countered, glancing over one armored shoulder at a group of ministers passing on the level below, chatting quietly having not noticed the Regents above them. His wings flared slightly, and she realized his anxiety existed, but was buried deep. That armor, she’d learned, wasn’t just physical. Once the ministers were gone, he took a deep breath, his wings settling against his back once more. “But whatever the reasoning, Conrad Silvertalon mended ranks with them willingly. And we know how hard he and the soldiers of Longsword fought to bring down Pallas.”
Count Pallas Dusktalon had ruled the Longsword territories for some time, and had taken the worst aspects of the Reformisten ideology to heart, committing crimes not even Hellquill would resort to, sanctioning actual genocide in their attempts to stamp out the ponies of the Griffking Basin area. When he had ordered one too many purges, both the regular army and a socialist uprising took him down, and the civil war had not been pretty by all accounts. The Count’s fate had been to rot in the custody of his own army before they escorted him north to face the same knightley Grandmaster he had claimed to serve, only to be sentenced with a summary rifle volley.
“That doesn’t mean anything. Wingfried could have forced him with military intimidation.”
“Did you ever -meet- Silvertalon? The griff could take a bullet and not blink. Besides, he -handed- Pallas back to Wingfried, and they shot him. There’s something else going on here, Gabriela. Why else would Grandmaster Cyrod step back?”
Urlach ap Cyrod, an infamous traditionalist and Empire supporter, had taken over when Siegfried Trappenfeld had retired from the position of Grandmaster, ruling over the knights of the northeast frontier. It had been his decision to start hunting down the Blackcloaks of the Reformisten, though it appears that Wingfried had convinced the Grandmaster to integrate the moderates, and to also make the unified territory formally known as ‘Hellsword’ out of the frontier on the Riverlands border.
Gabriela scoffed.
“Just because Silvertalon and Cyrod follow him doesn’t mean he’s suddenly a saint,” she hissed. “You honestly expect me to believe he had no idea his griffs were murdering thousands in the foothills? Ponies or griffons, makes no difference in the end. Butchers are butchers. Even if he never ordered the purges, he had to know it was happening. And I will -not- expose Grover to such a griffon who stands by and lets his soldiers commit such atrocities.”
“Speaking of committing atrocities,” said a nearby voice, much deeper than Gerlach’s. The two turned to see Captain Benito standing there patiently, his white armored helm held calmly under one arm. Descended from Bronze dogs who had settled up north, Benito was the commander of the Barkginian Guard, the Kaiser’s personal bodyguards. Considered the best soldiers in the Empire, they had guarded Grover V with their lives, averting several assassination attempts and Republican agents. In the end, the one enemy they could not fight had taken the Kaiser, a black day for the Guard.
Benito shifted, his armor clattering quietly. The Captain of the Guard was accustomed to their outbursts, but today of all days, he was visibly uneasy.
“Your Graces, if you continue to argue out here on the steps, I may need to set up a perimeter, lest our guests think a brawl has broken out.”
Then again, Captain Benito certainly had no reservations speaking his mind. Loyal as he was, he considered it his duty to make sure his charges didn’t embarrass themselves. For this reason only, he had made his opinion known to every noble around Kaiser Grover V, including some high ranking generals. He glanced between the two of them, his annoyance and disappointment written across his muzzle.
“Watch yourself, Captain. You still speak to your Regents,” Gabriela said curtly, but they all knew it was with little heat. Out here in the open, if she was seen openly taking criticism from a mere Captain, even the Kaiser’s bodyguard, it would do poorly for her image. So regardless of Benito’s job, she had to audibly rebuke him.
Benito rolled his eyes but simply came to attention, nodding crisply.
“Yes, milady. I merely came to inform you, Your Graces, that your guests are arriving, as has the Regency Council. They are awaiting you in the Chamber.”
“Our thanks, Captain,” Gerlach replied smoothly, gently taking his wife by the shoulder. “I assume you are taking up your post?”
“My place is with the Kaiser as always, Your Grand Grace,” Benito replied matter of factly, as if there could be no other truth. “But I must warn you...General Dawnclaw has also arrived. He’s already gotten into an argument with General Speer.”
Gabriela grimaced anew.
“What does he want? Bad enough he’s got his gas mask goons stamping around, now he has to pick fights?”
“He insists on being in the Chamber, for security. He feels we need to keep a close eye on Wingfried.”
“He’s not the only one,” she muttered, and they both caught on to her double meaning.
As if summoned by the conversation, a pair of Stormtroopers from Dawnclaw’s detachment strolled down the hall below them silently. They were dressed as other Sturmdivisione soldiers were, clad in dark blue trench coats, black helms and gas masks, but those who had come with Dawnclaw felt less like Imperial soldiers, and more like the General’s own. They were spread around the palace, and at first the Nobles had been glad for the extra protection after the scare of the Katerin bombers. Gabriela hadn’t been worried herself, but the rest of the Council had panicked, and insisted Dawnclaw stay with his griffs, despite the need for troops on the League Front to the south. That had been days ago, and every time the Regents saw these soldiers or the General, they regretted it more and more. The two Stormtroopers strolled (almost stalked really) by, never deviating or looking around, though with those masks you never knew. As soon as they were out of sight, Benito sighed, shaking his head.
“Personally, I say let him go back with his truppen. Let them keep fighting for Romau, do something useful.”
“Hang on now,” Gerlach intervened. “What, are we going to start keeping generals out of the Chamber now? The Kaiser’s already absent, we can’t just tell military commanders to leave because they’re unpleasant.”
“No, we’re going to keep Dawnclaw out because he’s a tax-evader, a political meddler, definitely an Archon supporter, -and- a generally very unpleasant griff.”
Leutnant-General Dawnclaw represented a lot of things wrong with the Imperial General Staff. As well as being corrupt, tied to politics and blatantly disrespectful of the Council, he had arisen to Oberst-Leutnant via suspicious circumstances in 1004, when he had been ‘battlefield promoted’ during a skirmish with Republican troops. Seeing as how the commander who had awarded him said promotion had turned up dead in the snow before anygriff could confirm, many remained suspicious of the true circumstances of that day. As such, his subsequent climb up the ladder to general the past six years had been watched with suspicion, and had not turned up good news.
Not to mention, the griff was an albino, and always seemed to wear a smirk that caused discomfort to many around him. Many of the rumors surrounding him may have only been that, rumors, but his blatant gathering of toadie officers, personal wealth, and loyal soldiers were certainly enough for MfÖS to label him a significant risk.
Gerlach sighed, relenting to the point. Nogriff liked Dawnclaw, to an even greater degree than Wingfried, who at least had a cause other than personal power.
“Fine. We’ll dismiss Dawnclaw. He goes back to the front today. I don’t think even Katerin is crazy enough to sacrifice more troops for Griffenheim anyways.”
The Council Chamber was circular in construction, with benches reaching high into the far corners, wrapping around in two half-moons to ring around the podiums in the center, where the speakers would debate or present topics of national interest. Three thrones were set at the head of the Chamber, one taller than the other two, which were moderate and humble and had been moved forward to a lower step than the Kaiser’s seat. The room was massive, partially to allow anxious griffs to take flight when agitated but also to accommodate the titanic size of the Regency Council, which in its day had sized almost a thousand nobles, ministers and clergygriffs. While today that number only reached six-hundred, it had been padded by the agreement to let influential commoners into the Regency as well. Wealthy business leaders, political advocates and those members of certain government offices who, despite their work, were denied from the vote for their common blood. These were the best in their fields of politics and economics, and while many of them were from well-off families, the fact that they had not been part of the Old Guard as it were had meant they were long closed off despite their wealth and influence. No longer. Griffons, dogs, ponies, who would they let in next was the question whispered behind corners. Commoners now. Military next? Minotaurs? Zebras? The chatter went on and on.
As the two Regents entered the chamber, buzzing and full of the low energy of hundreds of creatures conversing, they were met by two griffons quietly discussing something near the entrance. Both looked up immediately as the Regents and their guards entered, glancing to each other once they saw who had come in. They were familiar to the Grand Duke and Duchess of course. Major-General Cornello Galluzzo was commander of the Imperial Spezial Kommando Korps, and was in charge of developing a symmetric and atypical warfare with the Reich Militärakadamie in Vinnin and the Reichsarmee training grounds in Crona. While others on the general staff had scoffed had his theories and methods, Galluzzo’s work reforming the Gebirgsjager was legendary, and had gained him the support of influential commanders such as General Silverplume. With the backing he’d received, he was now pioneering tactics in amphibious warfare and what he called “aerial insertion” tactics. Hard, stoic and not given to kowtowing to anyone, Galluzzo had the attitude of a grizzled outdoorsgriff more than a hard-willed Kommando officer.
His companion was Ela Grimwing. Unlike Galluzzo, with his cap and pins and clearly military demeanor, she had no sign of her true station. She wore a simple suit, dark brown with a red shirt, a pair of goggles strapped to her forehead as if she’d forgotten they were there. When she spoke, it was often at high speed and energy, with smiles and laughter sprinkled in. But her appearance was a deception. This was the head of the Ministrierium für Öffentliche Sicherheit, the Empire’s espionage center and secret police established by the Regency to keep order across the Empire. Everygriff knew who they were, and feared their agents. They censored letters, gathered intelligence on enemy activity and (most terrifyingly of all) kept tabs on ‘citizens of interest’. Both Gabriela and Gerlach had learned that meant a wide array of details, and methods to control those griffons under observation. For example, General Anicetus Mudbeak, the commander of the Imperial Guard, was a good, loyal soldier. But the unfortunate combination of a disappointing career and an opium addiction picked up after sustaining injuries during the Revolution in 978 had turned him into a nervous, depressed wreck. While his military skills were still intact, he avoided other griffons like the plague, and it was obvious he was waiting to retire so he could disappear from society. Grimwing’s solution to securing his loyalty? Quietly slip him packets of opium to keep his addiction under control, thus ensuring nogriff could persuade him away with drugs.
Galluzzo glanced back to Grimwing before bowing to the Regents.
“Your Graces,” he said stiffly before he rose, adjusting the beret he wore. Knowing he was a griff of few words, and clearly seeing he was trying to leave respectfully, Gerlach nodded in reply, allowing the general his leave. They'd find out just what the disagreement was about later.
Grimwing, meanwhile, simply beamed at Gabriela, executing a short and rather sloppy bow before she excitedly launched into her statement.
“My Lady, you’re going to love what I’ve been digging up!”
Given that Gabriela Eagleclaw and Ela Grimwing were thick as thieves, it was little surprise that the Duchess grinned back, setting a claw on Grimwing’s shoulder to calm the secret agency chief.
“Is it urgent, or can it wait until after the ceremony?”
Grimwing’s faced screwed up in thought for a moment before she simply shrugged.
“Well, I’ve been doing digging mostly on Wingfried and his officers. So its relevant. But I also have stuff on Dawnclaw, Dusktalon and a few tips from out of the Riverlands.”
This perked up both Gabriela and Gerlach. Not one given to intimidation and force, Gerlach relied on a quiet network of merchants, traders, ship captains and travellers to get his information from abroad, so whatever Gabriela’s methods turned up were always laid over the data he’d acquired, however distasteful he found the methods used.
Gerlach nodded. “I think we have time for the first one. Seeing how we’ll be giving him a medal and all.” Gabriela shot him a venomous glare, and he shrugged. She had to get over this, honestly.
Grimwing didn’t notice, or pretended not to notice. “Okay, so Archon Hephaestus mentioned to me that Wingfried and the Reformisten had a shady past not too long ago during one of our talks.” That, of course, was code for her grilling the poor griff to get incriminating information out of him. Puppet or no, the Archon of Eyr they had elevated had still enjoyed a good relationship with the other Archons and the rest of they clergy before half of them had turned traitor and gone south with the Holy League. This meant Hephaestus I, Archon of Eyr, had been forced to work twice as hard to ensure his innocence was believed. “So I started looking into what Wingfrid was doing -after- he took power. Everygriff focuses on what he was doing before. And you know what? Turns out -he- was the one who convinced Silvertalon and Cyrod to purge the Blackcloaks.”
“So the leader of the Reformisten decided it was time to smash the bad eggs,” Gerlach noted quietly, eyes on the crowd as they continued filtering in and filling the stands. Not long now. They had to speed this up. He made a claw gesture, and fortunately Grimwing caught on.
“So, ever since then Hellquill was focused on building the Frontier to both resist eastern attack and set up for settlers to move into towns. Apparently, Wingfried starts arguing with Grandmaster Cyrod about pony rights and this new “Integralist” idea. Thing is, anygriff in his ranks disagrees, they wind up having a small ‘accident’ or disappearing. So something changed his mentality compared to what we’ve seen the past few years. A lot of griffs think Hellquill is bound for civil war too. Then, Silvertalon hands Palles over to them. After its all said and done, they welcome the general in as a war hero. Talks move to integration. Thing is, none of them can agree on what to do, they’re all so different in the mentality. But eventually, Silvertalon and Wingfried convince Cyrod that protecting Griffonian culture is the most important thing at all cost. Apparently, they found a few ponies that assimilated so well, you wouldn’t even know they weren’t griffons.”
“To the point, Grimwing,” Gabriela stated, realizing the time limitation as well. They both looked to where the stands were now beginning to fill with ministers and representatives. At this point, they were beginning to draw eyes.
“Right, the point,” Grimwing concluded, claws raised. “From what my agents tell me, and believe me they worked HARD to get this. You can’t bribe those Hellquill guys for some reason...anyway, -something- happened to change Wingfried’s whole mentality. How else do you go from the second-string leader of an extremist movement to suddenly purging your organization -of those- extremists and becoming king of the east?”
“That’s all you’ve got? That -something- has changed?” Gabriela gawked, not quite understanding how her chief of intelligence had led them down this path just to end in such an anti-climax. Grimwing pondered, then shrugged, looking unsure. Gerlach sighed, taking Gabriela’s shoulder and tugging her forward so the speaker of the Council could announce their entrance.
“We might be missing something in the context of the rest of your information. We’ll listen to the rest of it after this, alright?”
“But what about Dawnclaw?” Grimwing asked, looking a bit concerned as her Regents moved towards their seats.
“Please, knowing him he’s probably sulking on his train all the way back to Rimau by now. Dawnclaw’s the army’s problem now.”
The Imperial Guardsgriff unfortunate enough to be posted defending the palace armory lay to the side, his throat sliced with such precision and savage strength that he was nearly decapitated. His partner lay further down the hall, her neck snapped and twisted. Capable and loyal they may have been, they were no comparison to battle-hardened veterans. There should have been double the number of guards here, but the other two had been pulled to keep watch on the Council Chamber and the treacherous Reformisten within. A mistake they’d surely pay for.
The armory door lay open, and inside came the sounds of cabinets and crates being wrenched open, ammunition spilling out and metal sliding smoothly on metal. They weren’t taking any chances. Machine guns, shotguns and SMGs were quickly being handed out, loaded swiftly and then passed back down the line, stick grenades taken up and tucked into satchels, pistols in holsters, battle rifles loaded and tipped with bayonets. When they had first arrived, they’d been forced to give up their heavier armaments in the interest of ‘security’. But now, they’d get this one single chance to strike, and they were seizing it with both claws.
“Sir,” says one to him quietly. “We just got word. The Kaiser’s not in the Council Chamber.”
“Dammit,” the leader grunts, glancing around. “Dammit! Gods-dammit! We need to do this -now-.”
“Sir, strike teams are moving into position. Should I recall-”
“Absolutely not. Split off killteams. We’ll search every inch of this palace if we have to, but we need to act fast. Clear the halls. Once the first shots are fired, they’ll seal him up in the most fortified bunker they’ve got and wait us out after.”
“But sir, to search the whole palace we’ll need to split the strike force almost in half.”
“Please, Major. I think we’re more than ready to deal with a few Guardsgriffs.”
The leader hefted another piece from the weapon rack. It was large, inelegant and heavy. It wasn’t ideal, but he’d have armored soldiers to deal with. He grabbed a belt of rounds, feeding them into the machine gun.
“Give me two. I’ll take the Kaiser’s room.”
“Aye, sir.”
Gerlach and Gabriela seated themselves in their Regency thrones. In normal times, after Grover took the throne, these would be removed and they would take their seats in the Council as the rulers of Feathisia and Strawberry respectively. But now, they were above the Regency, at the head of the room. For the next decade, that is. Many Regents had attempted to hold onto their power once their Emperor came of age, some more successful than others. The fact that the Grover line remained unbroken spoke of how those attempts had fared.
Gerlach glanced to Gabriela, who smiled back before the two faced forward, faces set and ready. All eyes in the Chamber were focused on them, but Gerlach took note of his surroundings. The light filtering in through the stained glass window behind him, the empty podiums, the sea of faces before him, the Knights of the Order of the White Lion standing sentry at all entrances, their faces obscured by their leonine helms. They’d been here dozens of times, and yet being sat in front of all these griffs intimidated him far more than consulting his own Parliament in Feathisia ever had. Gabriela was more comfortable in these circumstances, she’d practically grown up in the palace with Grover V. Fortunately, his reputation for silent fairness came in handy here, and he largely let her handle the talking most days.
To prove his silent point, Gabriela straightened up. The small gesture may not have meant much, but any buzz in the crowd that remained died as she gathered herself to speak. She did indeed have quite a presence in a room.
“Send them in,” she called out simply.
A moment later, and the doors at the end of the chamber opened, admitting a squad of Imperial Guardsgriffs, their spiked black pickelhaube shining in the chamber’s light, their Specht guns held at the ready as they cleared the room for a moment, parting to allow their charges in. Behind them came a smaller party than Gerlach was expecting, only three individuals surrounded by four personnel in black uniforms. The armed guards and guests had been stripped of everything save their pistols, and all they had left afterwards was their black uniforms. Of true interest, especially to Gerlach, was that two of these soldiers were of all things unicorn ponies, one a mare, her coat a mint green and an Imperial C78 holstered at her belt and the other a stallion with a coat black as his uniform.
Wingfried held the center of course, the Black King of the East as they were calling him. His face was stoic, hardly a feather out of place as he approached, eyes locked dead on the Duke and Duchess ahead as he stepped around the podium towards the chairs that had been left for him. Beside him was Conrad Silvertalon, the Hero of Longsword. His scarred visage suggested a long life of war and strife. Though expressionless, Silvertalon proved not quite as unflappable, eyes moving and head tilting slightly to take in the grandeur of the chamber. His cap still bore the rose of the Longswordian Army, though his grey uniform had been handed in for a black one with appropriate pins and insignias. On Wingfried’s other side was a white griffon that Gerlach didn’t quite recognize, with purple plumage, and red eyes that hinted at some far deeper purpose than suggested. Most disconcerting of all, upon closer inspection Gerlach realized that the white griffon had something even more disturbing. He lacked any wings! He looked to Gabriela, who seemed nonplussed by the deformity. Perhaps Gerlach was getting too ahead of himself. Rumors of those unfortunate to be born as demigryphs persisted, but it was fairly uncommon, almost to the point of it being an old wives’ tale. Still, perhaps this griff only suffered an unfortunate accident, was all.
The trio moved to the chairs set out for them before the Duke and Duchess as their guards took up position behind them, all looking to the two Regents. Gerlach, upon realizing his wife was content to leave their guests standing, gestured with a claw for them to sit. The three Reformisten officials did so without preamble, watching the thrones quietly. The chamber was now silent as a tomb, as everygriff, pony and dog watched carefully, those in the front leaning as far as they could forward and those in back standing to get the best angle, a few anxious wings flaring but not daring to take off.
“King Wingfried von Katerinburg,” Gabriela started, folding her claws before her. “You have been asked to this Council to be congratulated for the valor you and your soldiers have shown in meeting the Holy League on the field of battle. For your stalwart efforts, we thank you.”
Wingfried nodded, his head descending to his chest before returning.
“I am honored. Thank -you-, Your Grace,” he replied, his voice low and smooth, not what was expected of a frontier dictator.
“In particular, you yourself were personally mentioned many times participating in the field of battle. I believe there was one about using a satchel charge on a Katerin panzer?”
“We were hard pressed, Your Grace. As you know, the Reformisten does not possess our own panzerkorps. My knights were forced to give ground under assault. I was simply doing what had to be done. Lacking Imperial resources, we had to rely on our skill at arms instead.”
Gabriela twitched, her talons tightening. Gerlach recognized the slight as well as she had. A subtle point to the Black King.
“Well,” the Duchess continued, her voice only just strained a hair above normal. “A true testament to your fighting prowess then. And we are here to show our appreciation.”
“Is that so, Your Grace?” Wingfried asked, an eyebrow moving a centimeter up. “Then why does this feel more like a trial than an award ceremony?”
Straight to the point, Gerlach mused. Wingfried didn’t have the markings of a true political animal anyway, and bandying around was likely not his way. He decided to take a risk and defuse this potential situation before it got out of claw. Immediately, all the Reformisten officers turned to look at him, and he once more found himself looking into the demigryph’s unnatural red eyes. Lucky him, he’d prepared for that, and his experience in politics came back to him once more.
“We’re trying to get a better measure of you, Lord Wingfried. You do carry a reputation, after all.”
“King. Wingfried,” the demigryph corrected coolly. “He -was- coronated as one, after all.”
Gerlach raised an eyebrow, considering the white-feathered griff carefully, inspecting as best he could. He’d always considered himself a good judge of character, able to spot telling characteristics from a single glance. It had helped him in being a Regent, since he had to be the more approachable half of the two where Gabriela was firm and uncompromising. This white griffon gave him the same chills that General Dawnclaw did, while those eyes told of the same hidden intelligence as Grimwing. But the unnatural air didn’t stop there. He swore he could almost taste arcane power in the air, something he’d picked up from meeting unicorns from the west.
“And you are?” Gabriela asked, her voice curt and her body tense, one claw on her armrest, talons dug into the wood with her firm grip. Her smile was all superficial, and she stared at the demigryph with the air of one sizing up a target for a strike.
“Grand Inquisitor Erlinger,” Wingfried stated. “My trusted head of internal security. Without him, we would not have been nearly so successful hunting down our Blackcloak problem.”
“Well,” Gerlach cut in smoothly. “Herr Inquisitor. We are of course glad to have an Imperial territory such as Hellsword return to us. The loss of the frontier was a tragic one.”
“And should never have occurred,” Erlinger agreed, nodding. “It was a short-sighted error in judgement that we have come to atone for.”
“And we appreciate such loyalty,” Gerlach responded. Gabriela herself nodded, her intense expression still etched across her face as she continued glancing between the three. On that, Gerlach and Gabriela could both agree on. With so many provinces rebelling and split away, those that willingly returned were rare and certainly could not be turned away, making this current situation even more complicated. “We are merely making sure that what we get is the genuine article. With all the news from the east, you cannot blame our caution.”
“If you mistrust our loyalty, need I only state that we came to you, Your Grace,” Wingfried stated. “If you mistrust our motivations, I only need to indicate our thorough purges and how we dealt with the Count. He and several officers in Longsword took our dedication to protecting griffon culture too far. Fortunately, they are now dead, as they deserve.”
“So that’s your reasoning?” Gabriela scoffed, looking thoroughly unconvinced. “Your followers and confederates took it too far? Not you?”
“Well Your Grace...aside from a Count having far more political sway than a knight, there’s a bit more to it than just a change of heart,” Wingfried replied. Gerlach could have sworn he saw the smallest of smiles on his beak.
Before Wingfried could go into the details of his miraculous transformation, the double doors leading into the chamber flew open, drawing dozens of eyes at the sound, including Gerlach and Gabriela’s. The Regency was in session, only the most critical of news was supposed to allow interruption. But the Imperial Guardsgriffs outside the doors were supposed to halt any intrusions. None of these were happening. Instead, griffons in blue trenchcoats and gasmasks, wielding battle rifles, SMGs and machine guns charged in. Over their heads, Gerlach could not see any Guards attempting to stop them.
Something was wrong.
“Get down!” he ordered, throwing himself over at Gabriela.
As he did this, the side entrances flew open as well, and as the Knights posted there moved to intercept whoever had rudely entered, gunshots rang out. Knights and Guardsgriffs died where they stood, only a few able to retaliate in surprise. The entire exchange only lasted a split second. One Stormtrooper officer blew a Guardsgriff’s head off with his pistol before pointing towards the thrones.
“There! Kill them!”
Pandemonium broke out in the Council Chamber. Griffons either fled from the armed troopers or tried to force their way past to the doors. Those unfortunate enough to get in the way of a Stormtrooper were swiftly cut down by barking rifles and the rat-tat-tat of automatic weapons. The Guards and Knights remaining finally responded, attempting to fire back but blocked several times by the fleeing crowd.
A bullet rang off Gerlach’s plate, and he knew that if he had not thrown himself in front of his wife, the round would have ended her life. He shielded her as best he could, looking down at her face in concern. Like always, she was immediately over her fear and shock, instead trying to peer past his arm to gauge the situation.
“Are you alright?” he asked, half-yelling over the chaos of screaming and gunfire behind him. She nodded, frowning as she heard more bullets ricocheting off the Grand Duke’s plate armor.
“Get us to cover, you oaf!” she snapped. “You’re not invincible!”
He pulled her over behind the throne as more pullets chased after them. The Council Chamber had turned into a battlefield, the bodies of dead Councilors, Guards, Knights and Stormtroopers littering the floor, splinters and chunks of wood everywhere in splashed puddles of blood on both hardwood floor and elegant rug.
“It must be Wingfried!” she hollered. “That treacherous snake!”
“While he’s in the line of fire? I don’t think so!” Gerlach yelled back. “Those are Dawnclaw’s griffs!”
“Isn’t he supposed to be gone?”
“I suppose he decided to stick around!” the Grand Duke snarked back. He reached under Gabriela’s throne, tearing up the secret compartment she had installed and pulling out the twin P01 pistols, checking both chambers to ensure they were loaded before handing her one and peeking out with the other. Before he could act, a Dawnclaw Stormtrooper, this one an officer by his peaked cap and major’s pins, looked over in his direction and spotted him, calling for his soldiers as he raised his Gerund rifle. Gerlach ducked only just in time, hearing the first shot blast through the wood of the seat before the second buzzed by.
PING!
The Gerund rifle had a unique en-bloc clip system, where when the last shot in the ten round capacity was fired, it ejected the clip up into the air. This sound was infamously tied to the rifle, and Gerlach’s ears perked up immediately upon realizing the Stormtrooper officer had just fired his last shot.
Gerlach was up on his feet immediately, leveling his pistol to bring the cursing major in his sights when the griff’s head suddenly exploded in a spray of blood and brain matter, falling to the floor. Gerlach blinked, unsure of what had just happened before Wingfried stepped into his view, brandishing an older C78 pistol, the infamous broomhandle weapon. The would-be assassin dealt with, the Black King approached the huddling Regents, gesturing a few Imperial Guardsgriffs over.
“Your Grace! You are unharmed?”
“For now!” Gerlach replied. Now able to get a free shot, Gabriela rose up next to him, squeezing off careful pairs as if she were back on the range. She’d always put in more pistol time than he had, and right now the Grand Duke was pleased for it.
“Where is Kaiser Grover?” Wingfried demanded over the noise. Gabriela visibly flinched.
“His room!”
Gerlach shook a claw to reassure her, firing a round into the scuffle, more to do something than because he thought he could hit something.
“Benito would never let anything happen to him! We have time!”
A grenade detonated nearby, sending several Guardsgriffs and a Knight flying.
“Less every second!” Wingfried called back. “Come! We must find him!”
If the Council Chamber had turned into a battlefield, the halls had become a close quarters nightmare. Spread out as they’d been, the skirmishes that broke out between the Loyalist forces and Dawnclaw’s troops were in isolated pockets, individual struggles to take and hold a part of the palace. A shootout would be won, only for the victors to be gunned down by another group from their own battle. Order had broken down. But it wasn't a complete disaster for the Loyalists. They had secured both the entrance hall and Grand ballroom as well as another palace arsenal, handing out their own heavy weapons. Now it was a matter of maneuver and attrition, Knights swamping through storms of fire to close with entrenched Stormtroopers, Imperial Guardsgriffs clustering around choke points to hold safe passages for evac and Dawnclaw’s griffs resorting to using explosives to close off hallways as they tried to form a working perimeter.
Having emerged from the corpse-strewn Council Chamber, Gerlach and Gabriela, now joined by their bodyguards, moved into the hallway towards the Grand staircase, only to run into a barricade made from tipped over furniture, Guardsgriffs firing up at the next landing. With them was General Anicetus Mudbeak, normally a wreck of a griff, firing his weapon blindly while howling out orders. Beside him were General Silvertalon, snapping off precision shots with a Gerund battle rifle, Ela Grimwing with a Krahe SMG and Grand Inquisitor Erlinger, who held a C78 but appeared to not be using it. Instead, as the Regents approached, his red eyes glowed crimson, and two Stormtroopers on the landing above were surrounded by a similarly colored aura. Their rifles snapped up and they lurched towards each other, firing at the same time and blowing each other away.
“What are you, a mage?” Gerlach yelled over the storm, his face in awe. Griffon magic was long proven impossible, a part of nature inaccessible to the race as a whole aside from the enchanters who used captured magic energy to work their craft.
But Erlinger merely laughed, the glow gone from his eyes. “Ask the Barrodians, Your Grace! Even I am unsure what I am.”
“I’m good at asking questions!” Grimwing piped up, the machine pistol rattling in her claw as she sprayed the landing above. “Could I interest you in a ‘talk’ when this is over?”
Erlinger laughed again. “My dear, many have tried. Most do not remain intact.”
“Oh I LIKE you!” the secret police chief replied, grinning.
“FOCUS!” barked the Duchess, having traded her pistol for a fallen Barkginian Guard’s shotgun, racking the pump and blowing a Stormtrooper’s masked head off. “We need to reach Grover! At all cost!”
An MMG began stuttering above them, carving out wood, feathers and flesh on the Loyalists below.
“The enemy holds this staircase and many others, Your Grace!” Mudbeak hollered, fumbling his next reload. “I’ve sent griffs to fly up the outside and breach from above!”
“Where’s the army?!” Gabriela howled, thumbing shells into her weapon as she shook off one of her Ducal Guards trying to pull her out of the line of fire.
“Word from the city! Galluzzo’s sending a battalion of Fallschirmjager from the 82nd! We’re expecting them in forty minutes!”
“Forty minutes?!” she snapped, picking up a fallen clawful of brass casings and chucking them at the general, who clumsily tried to block the rain of metal. “Forty minutes?! All it takes to kill a child is a second, Mudbeak!” She whipped around to Gerlach, who was carefully reloading his pistol again. He saw the fire in her eyes and knew, for a fact, there’d be no stopping her. He nodded back, then turned, pointing to the Ducal Guards and several other Loyalists nearby.
“Alright! You, you, you and you! We’re assaulting this staircase! You’re coming with us! Erlinger, cause as much disruption in their line as you can! Grimwing!”
“Smoke out!” she cried, lobbying the mentioned explosive as far as she could. White clouds immediately began billowing out from the canister, and Gerlach nodded before wheeling back to face their soldiers, all of whom were checking their magazines and bracing for the suicidal charge.
“Follow us, Loyal Griffs of the Empire! For the Regent! For the Empire! FÜR DEN KAISER!”
“FÜR DEN KAISER!” came the return, and the motley force attacked as one, charging up the stairs or taking flight, soaring over the balcony. Duchess Gabriela led these, her shotgun booming.
Below, Erlinger glanced around, a frown on his face as he realized something.
“King Wingfried?”
Then, after a moment, the Inquisitor smiled in realization.
General Ferdinand Dawnclaw stood before the entrance of the Child-Kaiser’s room, the bullet-ridden corpses of the fanatically loyal Barkginian Guards lay where they’d fallen, the machine gun he’d hosed the hallway down with smoking and empty on the floor. He knew what he had to do, the terrible act that he would commit to secure his power. The Kaiser had no real authority, he was merely a figurehead, a pawn to be used by the various political factions that infested the rotting corpse of the Once-Great Empire. The Generals, the Nobles, the Archons and more. All of them whispering in the boy’s ear, guiding him this way and that, gaining his puppeted voice to give themselves legitimacy. The child had to be removed if the Empire was to survive. And yet, he found himself unable to open the door, something deep in the back of his mind preventing him from doing so. Would this unforgivable act really be worth it?
Absently, he could still hear the shots ring out, his stormtroopers pounding down the halls bolting doors and sealing entrances to hold off the Imperial Guard, the Barkginian Guard, the Knights of both the White Lions and the Black Knights, the nobles’ own various bodyguards, by Arcturius it felt like the whole Empire was coming down on them. They were badly outnumbered here, and while he had control of this section of the palace for now, it would not last forever.
Committing such an act would surely anger the entire Empire. Even the gods themselves would despise him for his actions. Was taking…-saving- the Empire truly worth it? Would it be worth the weight of such an evil act? He struggled with himself for a minute, and every second that passed by, he felt as if a noose was tightening around his neck. Finally, after what felt like hours to the self-proclaimed “Lord Protector” of the Empire, he made up his mind. As he reached for the door, a small part of him prayed for forgiveness. A larger part salivated at the thought of the power he would soon possess.
He paused, his claw about to grasp the ornate knob. Dawnclaw’s ear twitched, and he slowly turned back. Had he missed one of Benito’s dogs? No, the Kaiser’s chambers had been protected by a half-dozen Barkginian Guards, and his soldiers had cut this area off from reinforcements. He took a half-step away from the door, leveling his revolver and slowly thumbing back the hammer, eyes narrowed.
For a moment, all he could hear was the background gunfire of the struggle in progress, the yells of wounded griffons and howl of dogs as fighting raged through the halls of the palace. His Sturmtruppen would prevail, he knew. But something else had him on edge. He could have sworn he’d heard…
Wingfried swung out from behind the statue when Dawnclaw scanned the opposite direction. For a split second, the two were staring each other down a thirty foot hallway, pistols up and ready, moving in to the kill. Dawnclaw fired first, his bullet soaring past Wingfried’s head and impacting in the stone wall behind the king. Wingfried fired next, but his first shot was also a miss, blowing the head off another statue nearby in a shower of stone and dust. Dawnclaw fired again, this round coming close and taking a piece of Wingfried’s coat with it.
Wingfried’s next bullet, the last in his current magazine, finally landed in the rogue general’s chest.
Dawnclaw coughed, hacking up a globule of blood as he looked down, his shaking claw moving from where he’d automatically clapped it to. His talons were crimson and sticky and wet, and his vest was already soaking through.
“No…” the general whimpered, grunting as he refused to accept the reality in front of him, struggling for the door to the Kaiser’s room in one final, last ditch effort to accomplish his task.
“No! Not like this! I was chosen by the Gods!” his talon scrabbles on the doorknob, trying to find purchase and maybe, just maybe save himself. He heard boots behind him on the carpeted floor as Wingfried slowly advanced, stepping over the bodies of the dog Guards in his way.
Dawnclaw tried one more time, lunging for the knob before flopping to the floor in a bloody, undignified heap, loose feathers flying. He toes over and tried to raise his revolver, only to find his arm too weak. Instead, the claw holding the weapon fell aside, slippery talons unable to grip it.
“Dammit, it’s my destiny!” he howled, still unwilling to accept his fate.
After reaching the spot where the treasonous general lay drowning in his own blood the Black King reloaded his weapon and leveled it to Ferdinand's head before saying, “Your destiny did not account for me,” as he unceremoniously pulled the trigger.
He wasn’t prepared for the silence that followed.
Having fought his way through the battle below, his ears still rang. The final shot after all the bellowing, shooting and blood rushing through his skull still seemed to hold in the air. Among all the corpses, loyal and traitor, Wingfried stood alone, staring down his gunsight at Dawnclaw’s ruined head, the blood splattered over the Kaiser’s bedroom door. He paused a moment, taking in the scene before he slowly turned the pistol over, inspecting it before his eyes flitted up to the door itself. Dawnclaw had not yet entered. There was still a chance, though, that a stray round had pierced the wood. Slowly, he moved for the door.
Given he was still underage, the young Kaiser still slept in his childhood room. The old Kaiser’s grander quarters sat empty, unused. They would do so until Grover VI was older, and things normalized. The door swung open to reveal a child’s room, one of an heir apparent of course but still a child. A box full of toys sat off to one side, a low table with chairs in the middle with a play tea set. A low bookshelf with children's books and a few for older ones, as Grover VI had shown potential in scholarly pursuits. A four-poster bed graced the center, where the finest sheets were laid out and made by the servants. But the room was dark. No Child-Kaiser inside. He was surprised. Maybe Grover was hiding under the bed, or in the closet.
He paused, listening closely. No sound. Wait. That wasn’t true. He turned, stepping back into the hallway. There, again. A sniffle. Muffled, but present. He moved down the hall, ears perked, pistol up in case any of Dawnclaw’s other traitors came rushing in. He paused, listening closer. One of the servants, maybe? They must have fled to escape the carnage. But he reached the end of the hallway, peering around the corner. Nothing. He should be right on top of the noise, but he couldn’t see anygriff, and there were no doors nearby for a creature to be hiding.
Then he looked down. He stood over the body of a Barkginian Guard, white armor and sturdy helmet prominent in the dark hallway. A puddle of blood leaked into the carpet. The Guard had been shot in the back. But this dog had been at the end of the hallway. He would have been the furthest from Dawnclaw when the General and his goons had opened fire. Why had he not turned to return fire?
And then he saw a small ripple in the blood, just up under the muzzle. And heard the whimper again. Immediately, he holstered the pistol, claws grabbing at the dog’s armor. He was a big one alright, but Wingfried was strong from years as a Knight of Hellquill. He hefted, and as the helmet came away, the body of Captain Benito finally rolled over.
Underneath, feathers and clothes all askew, covered in the blood of the dog who had saved his life, was Kaiser Grover VI. A sniffling wreck, clearly having been sobbing under his protector while trying to remain silent lest Dawnclaw find him and kill him. The boy stared up at Wingfried, eyes wide and claws clasped over his beak as he frantically tried to inch away. At a different time, Wingfried might have found himself ridiculing the child for crying and showing such weakness from one of such high station. Another time, he may have just left the boy to his tears.
Time had changed Wingfried, changed Hellquill too.
Lowering himself down to comfort the young Kaiser he spoke softly to him. "You are safe now, Your Excellency. Its okay. Everything will be okay now."
Grover still shook, glancing from Wingfried to Dawnclaw’s corpse and back again, blinking as if trying to clear his eyes. Wingfried took the chance, gently grasping the Kaiser’s shoulder. For a moment, the boy calmed, his shaking pausing.
A clatter rang out behind them, startling the boy as the king looked back. An entire entourage poured out of the stairwell, into the hallway. Barkginian Guards, Imperial Guardsgriffs, Ducal Guards and Knights of the White Lion, surging up like a battered, bleeding tide. At the head was Conrad Silvertalon, his cap missing and his face smeared in blood as he lowered his rifle, confused at the scene before him.
“Your Highness?” he asked, more to work it out in his head than to ask a question. Behind him, several of the Black Knights accompanying him moved to secure the hallway, pausing at the carnage of the scene.
Wingfried pointed to Benito. “I believe the Captain yet lives. He put himself between the Kaiser and Dawnclaw’s bullets.”
“I need a medic up here!” Silvertalon, ever the soldier, hollered back down the hall, finally able to react. Several Barkginian Guards immediately moved, dragging their captain up and hauling him away for treatment. The dog soldiers paused, looking cautiously on as Wingfried comforted the child, unsure if they should intervene or not.
“Is it over?” Grover asked quietly, head turning away from all his loyal soldiers around him back to Wingfried. The Black King looked to Silvertalon, who shrugged but nodded. More or less done, then. The coup had failed. He turned back to the Child-Kaiser.
“Yes. There will be some left to flush out, but they must know by now their leader is dead.”
“Sir,” Conrad warned quietly. “The Regents are coming. They know we have him.”
Wingfried nodded, standing and holstering his pistol, offering a claw to Grover. The boy appeared to be recovering himself, as he only needed a second to take the offer, pulling up as his wings fluttered, stretching out after being pinned under Benito’s bulk.
“Why?” Grover asked quietly, his gaze turning back to Dawnclaw. “Why did he do all this? I did nothing wrong.”
“Because you represent strength. A strength he never possessed, but craved terribly,” Wingfried explained. “You are the Kaiser, Your Excellency. One day, you will lead griffonkind to our future.”
“Am -I- strong?” Grover asked quietly, looking up to Wingfried. Judging by the noise from the stairs, he would only have a few more moments to speak with the Kaiser, before he was whisked away to safety. He considered his words carefully before squeezing Grover’s shoulder.
“No,” he answered honestly. “You are still a child. A boy, unfamiliar with the world. But…” He knelt down, looking the Kaiser in his watery eyes as Wingfried removed his cap. “You have the potential to become the most powerful griff on the continent. Perhaps even the world. You will command great armies, millions of creatures’ souls and the destiny of the world. On that day, you will be strong. But for now, you must survive.”
With that, the dam of tears young Grover had been holding back finally burst, and he threw his arms around his savior, burying his face in Wingfried’s feathers and sobbing. Though a little caught off guard, the Black King cleared his throat, recovered and reached up, gently patting Grover on the back, letting the Kaiser vent his emotions.
Finally, fighting through the parting crowd, Gabriela and Gerlach broke through from the staircase, wings flared wide in agitation. Upon seeing Grover safe and sound, Gabriela's fury evaporated, and she dropped her gun as with one powerful stroke of her wings she cleared the king hallway and landed next to the two of them.
“Grover!” she cried, arms outstretched. Relaxing his grip, the Black King released the Kaiser, taking a half step back, his wings fluttering in apprehension. Still overcome, Grover immediately latched onto his aunt and cried into her neck as she cradled him like he was her own child. She looked up at Wingfried, her expression unreadable as she comforted her nephew. Then, after a moment, she appeared to make a decision, and nodded silently before she returned to shushing Grover gently, stroking his fuzzy plumage gently.
A claw fell on Wingfried's shoulder as Grand Duke Gerlach stepped up next to him.
“In the nick of time. Thank you, Wingfried. We cannot thank you enough.”
“I did what I had to,” the blue griffon replied, his face impassive. “For the Empire.”
“Yes, indeed…” Gerlach appeared lost in thought for a moment, watching his wife and young Kaiser with intensity before glancing around at the hallway, packed with soldiers and Imperial officers, watching the event carefully, many of them looking awkward in the bloody hall, watching several powerful figures in such an emotional state. Then, as if inspired, the Grand Duke turned back.
“King Wingfried von Katerinburg, of the Hellsword Territories. We brought you here to both decorate you and judge your intentions. Though this incident was unfortunate, it allowed you an opportunity to prove your mettle, and your loyalty. I am ashamed to say a mere medal is not enough to reflect our appreciation for the tremendous act of rescuing not only the Kaiser, but the Captain of the Barkginian Guard, and perhaps the Empire itself. Here and now before these witnesses, as a reward for your actions abroad and at home, I name you Lord Protector of the Kaiserreich.”
The entire hallway was stunned. Duchess Gabriela stared up at her husband, flabbergasted, while Grover (who had recovered) sniffled and watched on, eyes flitting back and forth between the adults, all of them trying to understand what was happening.
Fortunately, Wingfried seemed the first to comprehend, and he bowed his head.
“Thank you, Your Grace. This is a great honor.”
“Don’t be too pleased yet,” Gerlach quipped, smirking a bit. “This is a great responsibility. I’m putting under your charge the former Imperial territories to the east and south. This war against the League will end, and soon. And when it does, our eyes will turn west. Must turn west. Our enemies will come for us. Soon. But I need eyes on the east. Cyanolisia has already fallen. Prywhen is in the communists’ claws. Blackrock is...well, you know. But we can still save all of these.” He raised an eyebrow. “You understand what I’m charging you with.”
Wingfried nodded without hesitation, the cap back on his blue plumage. “Yes, Your Grand Grace.”
“Then go. Gather your griffs. I’ll contact you with the plans. In the meantime, we need to fix...well, this.” He gestured to the ruination they were standing in, wincing as his eyes set on Dawnclaw again. “It’s just more proof we need to clear our own ranks first. Then the League.” He looked to Gabriela, who looked displeased, but still had said nothing, eyes flitting from Gerlach to Wingfried to Silvertalon. In her arms, Grover watched Wingfried carefully, his blue eyes wide and fixated. Suddenly a little uneasy, Wingfried bowed once more.
“Your Excellency.” He began to turn away, pausing to look back at Grover one last time. “Remember...survive. There will be many more trials ahead.”
And with that, the Black King, now Lord Protector of the Griffonian Empire, gathered his Black Knights and set out. There was no time to waste, after all.
Operation Tartarus was about to begin.
The Celestial Sea
Mayday, mayday. This is SS Sunny Hauler. We’re drastically off-course, our navigation equipment is malfunctioning and the fog is preventing us from seeing the stars. According to our charts, we should be in the middle of the ocean, but we’re seeing reefs and rocks coming out of the water. Last known coordinates were two-five degrees north, negative seven-one degrees east. We’ve seen shapes moving in the water, suspect sea serpents in the area. Any station receiving, please respond. I say again, we are-
Wait...is that...singing? What is…
(The voice gets quieter, as if the sender has moved away from the radio but forgotten he’s set something on the ‘Talk’ button)
Thorn, what in Celestia’s tits is that?...That noise?...The singing?
Island? What island? We’re in the middle of the ocean you bucking idiot. Wha-...wait, I think I see it...
Tirek’s balls...shit, get us away from there! Hard to starboard, hard to-
They finally called a halt order. We’ve basically been running the panzers out of the trucks. Good to have a few days to get shit done instead of trying to fix an engine -on- fire -under- fire. Yale is mostly forests, hills and towns. We’re having a hard time really getting the same speed as in Greifenmarschen, but luckily resistance has been light. These Yale boys have no real fight in them. They either fallback, surrender or waste their lives trying to hold us off. It's the professional mercenaries and Angriver soldiers that are holding us off. I know Landschnekt when I see them, but I’m guessing these green uniformed griffs are mercs too. They don’t speak Herzlandisch, and we keep running into them supporting Yale positions. Good fighters. If we’ve taken any prisoner I haven’t seen it.
We’re on the road to Middenheim. I say road, but honestly we’re kind of just carving a route wherever our pathfinders can spot okay terrain. The trees aren’t so thick we can’t maneuver through, but it’s still slow going. From what I hear, they’re saving the actual roads for the heavy panzers, so our Knight contingent can get through. I don’t even know what order they are, if they’re White Lions, Carmine Shield, Tower and Sword. By the time this gets sent, whatever importance that had will be long gone.
We’ve circled the panzers in a clearing. Our kompanie’s taken a beating, but with a few days to rest and repair, we’re hoping to get our remaining panzers fixed up and going. Losses are light but constant. Every step we take its another rifle behind another tree or in another window, a landmine beneath treads, wing-clipper nets in the trees for our scouts. The panzergrenadiers are getting frazzled from having to stop and clear another hardpoint over and over again. Suddenly I miss Greifenmarsch even more. I know I keep going on about it.
I have another panzer kill on the turret. More Angriver troops tried to draw us into an ambush. Knights of Arcturius fell on the trucks with the grenadiers while the panzer-zerstorer cannons engaged us with their Airbenders. We came out of it okay, but more of those small, constant losses. I only saw the one panzer I shot myself. Once I got him and started scanning for more targets, it was all over. But I got him, for sure.
I’m writing you this next to a fire, under the trees and the stars. As I look up, I can see the sky above. I haven’t heard from mother or Sophie yet. I’m worried. I haven’t heard from Uncle August. Less worried. I haven’t heard from you. But I’m not worried.
It occurs to me I never told you about my grandparents. My father’s family is mostly passed on. My grandfather on his side is living off his retirement from service in Strawberry. He sends word every now and then from his vineyard. Apparently, they can grow fruit even in the winter up there. Not bad for an old trench-hopper. He tries to send idols to help out. Mother keeps refusing.
My mother’s and Uncle August’s parents live in Griffenheim as well. They’re a bit like us, same sort of circumstances. My mother’s father is a factory foreman, clawed his way up from being a line worker. He swears he’ll do it until the day he dies. My grandmother visits a lot. She’s the one who got Sophie interested in books and aiming for higher learning. She used to be a music teacher. Adele Duskwing, the Industrie piano tutor. She was good, in her day. Not Octavia Melody good, but local performance hall good. She tried to teach me, too. No luck, I had absolutely no coordination in the talons. Should’ve been a sign, I guess. Wound up unsuited for anything but army life. Anyway, we see them every once in a while. Haven’t for a few years myself. I should go visit.
7/4/10
Dear Paige,
We got the order to advance again. The rain doesn’t want to let up. Its set us back in our work and trying to deploy. But we’re going once more. It takes time for a whole division to get going, though. And ours is all panzers and trucks and artillery. You can imagine how long it takes just to get the supplies packed up again.
We’re rolling southeast again. The 6th Panzer is ahead, so the worst of the pathfinding is already done for us. I hear scattered gunfire in the distance, so our panzergrenadiers are finding targets to shoot at. We’ve got a clawful riding on our hull, to simplify things in the rain and the mud. It really makes it feel like we’re in one of those epic war stories. I may know a bit better about the fighting itself, but I can at least feel like we’re on an adventure in between. I don’t really read those stories much anymore.
I’m perfectly fine with this cleanup nonsense. The newbies complain about glory and rushing ahead into the fight, but there’s nothing glorious about washing these griffs out under cannon fire. Sure, they’ve got panzers, but they’re so out of date its not a fight anymore. Just struggling and grinding through meat.
We stopped for camp again tonight. The fight’s going on through. Artillery lighting up Middenheim, getting it ready for the 6th. Shells in the dark, bombers in the daytime. Is there going to be anything left of the city by the time we get there? The crew and the unit are in high spirits. Bluetalon gets drunk every night, but somehow it doesn’t screw with his driving. Grimquill’s got somegriff she writes every night as well, doesn’t let me know. Oddly, Sergeant Hellseig has been talking with me more. Showed me a picture of his family. He’s got a wife and three children waiting at home, in Vinnin. I asked him why he keeps coming back. Ten years in, he’s got to have some say in when he stops. But he just shrugs at me and says something I swear I’ll never forget.
“I have been called. And so, I answer. Besides, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I get out.”
I’m starting to wonder more and more about what I’ll do when I get out. Four years in uniform. So much has changed. The Empire needs me more than ever, especially the panzerkorps. But it seems like we’re never going to be done putting down traitors and breakaways. I have two years left on my term. Then I have to decide if I’m checking that second box for another term or going home. If I know what I’ll do at home.
I honestly can’t decide.
7/9/10
Dear Paige,
The (this word has been clipped out by a censor) is gone.
We keep finding stragglers and survivors, but for all intents and purposes, from what we’re seeing the (clipped out) is annihilated. We rode up into Middenheim three days ago, looking to take the place. The (clipped out) was sweeping ahead like usual, and the 41st was holding back until we received the go ahead to clean up behind them. I hate city fights, I really do. It doesn’t matter that this one was a small city. They all have the same problems.
Over the radio, we start hearing things. Reports of contact with enemy troops. The (clipped out) pushing in. Then, next you know, contact with enemy panzers. Reports of losses. A lot of them. Then the channel goes dead. Division kommand likely realized it was a bad idea to broadcast that sort of news in the open.
Then, we get sent in to assist. We couldn’t have been more than a day behind them, and yet by the time we got there, Middenheim’s streets are loaded with destroyed panzers, wrecked trucks and dead griffs. The further we went, the more ruin we saw. Landmines detonated under tracks, panzer-zerstorers blasted out of ambush points, enemy griffs cut down around our burned out panzers. Yale may not have been fighting very hard for this place, but somegriff was. I got a look at one of the enemy panzers up close, and I finally found out who they were; (clipped out). Most of the other wrecks and uniforms have had their logos stripped, but not this panzer. Purple flag of a diving raptor, clear on its plate. Sergeant Hellseig told us somegriff else would handle it. We moved on.
The city itself isn’t big. Not like Griffenheim or Vinnin or Rottendedam. Still somegriff fighting for it. I don’t really care who anymore. I’m more motivated than ever to get stuck in.
Like I said, it’s been a few days. But from what we can tell, the (clipped out) is functionally destroyed. At least fifty percent casualties, which means they’re useless for the front. They’ll need to withdraw for replacements. Which means their job is now our job.
Time for a little old-fashioned revenge.
7/15/10
Paige,
Word came in from the capital. There was an attempted coup by an officer called General Dawnclaw. Kommand is playing it down, but there’s rumors that the Emperor was in danger, and the Regency Council was slaughtered. They say Dawnclaw’s units have been halted from advancing on Romau. Apparently they think those divisions will turn on the Empire. Given what they say happened, can’t blame the generals for once. There’s whispers of what’ll happen when the MfÖS gets around to our unit. They’re calling it the Small Cleansing. But there’s nothing small about this. It’s a purge, plain and simple.
Word on the radio today. They confirmed the coup happened, and that the Emperor and his Regents are safe. Thank Eyr. Last thing we need is -another- succession crisis. And I don’t know what the Empire would do if the line of Grover was broken.
It’s gotten worse since we took the front. Now we’re the spearhead. Ambushes, artillery barrages, panzer strikes. And (clipped out) is definitely here. I don’t know how they got troops and panzers in country, but they’re here. Yale’s about given up holding against us. Its Angriver and (clipped out) throwing everything they have against our advance. I’m up to seventeen panzer kills. We’ve lost dozens of panzers. I honestly can’t tell if we’re winning anymore. We punch through a defensive line, and there’s another one a few miles away from it. Crazy bastards with Angriver cocktails come down from the trees. They’re even strafing us with biplanes. I don’t know if the League is desperate or if they hate us this much. They certainly took the deal from Wingbardy, maybe both.
It's getting harder and harder to write. We don’t even leave the panzers to make camp these days. Just circle up and wait while they bring up the fuel, ammo and parts. We sleep on the move. Rotate stations. They say we’re on the road to Greenback and making good progress. I’ll take Sergeant Hellseig’s word for it.
We’re all at each other’s throats. I swear, if we’re not shooting the enemy, we’ll be liable to shoot each other. Grimquill and I got into it yesterday over how fast she gets my reloads. I almost strangled her before Hellseig punched me out. An hour later, we’re fighting Angriver troops over a river crossing and it's like our argument never happened. It’s insane what’s happening here. I can’t sleep. I can barely eat. Every few hours we’re fighting again.
This isn’t Tartarus, not like what happens in the cities or when we cross the fields of corpses mowed down by machine guns or artillery. But this is a torture all in itself.
7/21/10
They called a halt order. Apparently, we’re only a few days from the Green River crossing. Makes sense. We’re running into Yale troops again. Now they really are desperate. We’ve had to pull back from the assault several times so far, when we’re getting hit hard. But every time we get bogged down, the Reichsarmee calls up another battalion from the rear, more artillery, more air support. Then we go again a day later.
But now the 41st is stopping to get ready for the final assault. We cross the river here, it’s not more than a week before Greenback. We’re supposed to rest up and supply for the push. Everygriff is on edge. We’re being covered by a Strawberry regiment that’s dug in a mile ahead while we get stocked up at this depot. The shot locker is full, the petrol tank is full. So now we’re just waiting. The mud is persistent, there’s a no fly order in place and every night we get drunk to shake off the impending dread we all feel.
There’s new officers walking around. They wear enchanted vests, peaked caps with eye badges, black coats. They’re not commanders. They’re called Vollstrecker. Apparently, they work for MfÖS. Some kind of new morale officers. I heard a rumor they’re field agents, special forces and Knights. All loyal. All watchful. I guess the Cleansing reached us after all. Nothing bad so far. But I’m keeping an eye on these vultures.
I’m watching the casualties getting trucked out. The wounded get brought into the field hospital here, get treated and go. Some of them head back for further treatment. Maybe even go home. Others come back after a few days and they’re on the line again. I’ve seen entire fields full of dead griffs, whole towns leveled by bombers and howitzers. If they’re doing this kind of damage to us, what are we doing to them? How bad are the League’s losses?
Why don’t they just fucking give up already?
7/29/10
Paige,
It’s all gone to shit.
7/30/10
Dear Paige,
I’m writing to you from my hospital cot. Before you ask, I’m okay. Most of me, at least. I was evacuated to Middenheim’s field hospital. The attack on the river crossing didn’t go so well. The enemy was waiting with panzers, panzer-zerstorers and ambush troops. We tried to press on the bridge, and they hammered it with artillery.
I remember the second my panzer died. Zola’s gone. I was tracking a (clipped out) panzer when I suddenly felt like I’d been kicked in the tailhole. Power’s gone, I almost black out, then I taste blood. Hellseig’s screaming for us all to get out. Grimquill and I got out. Bluetalon didn’t make it. Then, we’re out in the mud and muck, Zola’s on fire, there’s machine guns and cannon rounds everywhere. It was jarring, going from feeling safe and invincible behind armor plating to suddenly back in my own skin and that’s my only protection. We take off for friendly lines again when we start getting shot at. Grimquill went down.
Hellseig and I made it back. I grabbed the letters and your picture. But I had to leave the novels. They’re all gone. I don’t know what killed us exactly. I think it was a landmine, or a panzer-zerstorer. But I got a bit banged up. Nothing too bad the doctors are saying. Shrapnel mostly. I’m fine now. Recovering as best I can, which is boring as shit.
It keeps hitting me over and over again. Bluetalon and Grimquill are dead. Zola’s gone. I don’t know what’s next for me. Word is the 41st is still pressing southeast. And I’m stuck here in my cot.
Funny. I thought more than anything I wanted to get pulled from the chaos of the fight. But now I can’t stand being away while the unit keeps going.
8/2/10
Dear Paige,
Turns out, shrapnel wounds hurt like a bitch without the painkillers. And they never last long. The nurses say they don’t want to risk I’ll get addicted to the morphine. So instead I wake up in the middle of the night feeling like my chest is on fire. I can walk, but no luck flying right now.
Word from the front is things have slowed down again. Apparently the (clipped out) was stood down for replacements. Too many casualties. Mostly panzergrenadiers. So the 3rd Panzer is taking the lead. I’m supposed to make a full recovery before too long. Then they’ll stick me in another panzer. Don’t know where.
News from home. Mother is freaking out, of course. Gave me all kinds of grief for scaring her so bad. But according to her and Uncle August, no more bombing raids on the Herzlands. The Luftstreitkräftemust have dealt with their long-range bombers. The evacuations have halted. Civilians are coming back to the city to fix things up, move back in. Uncle wishes me the best on my recovery. Not much else out of him. Guess he’s busy as an army kommandant.
Vollstrecker officers made an example out of a few deserters today. Summary execution in the courtyard. One bullet to the head. No trial. That’s what awaits those who run from their duty. As if I needed more reason to keep fighting.
They’re talking about the eastern front on the radio. Katerinburg’s under siege. The Reformisten are taking the lead on this. ‘King Wingfried’ apparently going in to liberate his namesake. Good riddance. I hope he gets killed like his cousin did. Insane, the both of them. War propaganda makes it sound like this whole business is days away from being resolved. Fallschirmjager in Angriver, panzers advancing without meeting any meaningful opposition. It’s all trash, of course. If you believe what they say, we’re about to capture the Archon. Every day we’re hot on his trail.
I can’t sleep. Everytime I close my eyes, I see Bluetalon slumped over the controls. I see Grimquill bleeding out from a dozen bullet holes in the mud. It’s etched into my mind...they don’t leave me alone. I can’t help but think that if I was just a little better, I could have killed whatever got us. I could have saved them.
I need to get out of here. Or get a drink. Both, preferably.
8/9/10
It’s my birthday today.
Boreas above, I never told you when my birthday was. Three years writing, and I never thought to tell you. I suppose there was always something more important going on. But now, while my brothers and sisters are off fighting and dying, I’m here in a hospital with holes in my chest.
Sergeant Hellseig came for a visit. Said he talked to some griffs. We’re going back to the 41st, but we’re the replacements now on a support panzer. Apparently the crew got wasted but the vehicle itself is fine. A Stahlschild, they call it. More armor, bigger gun. Slower. I’ll judge it when I climb inside. No time for the range. I’m supposed to be out of here in a few days. That’s when they’ll have the panzer restored for us and ready.
We’re going to go drinking at a local pub. A few of the other griffs are busting me out. They learned its my birthday, so they’re taking the excuse to ‘liberate’ me.
Don’t feel bad about missing my day. We both forgot to say when they were.
I’m 22. And I’m off at war. As far from you as the world seems able to make me.
8/11/10
Dear Paige,
They’re letting me go tomorrow. My ribs are still sore as Tartarus and I’m having trouble sleeping with the dead still bothering me, but apparently I’m good enough to go back in a panzer. I’m actually going to miss these dumb bastards here with me in the hospital. Some of them get to go home. Mostly the ones with debilitating injuries. Lose a leg, lose a wing, that sort of thing. Lose an eye? Apparently they rotate you back out again. Guess I shouldn’t be so surprised.
A few days driving in a truck to our staging ground isn’t my idea of a good time. Better than walking, though. And with the roads secure, we shouldn’t have so bad a time of it. Hopefully. Mud will still slow us down.
I don’t know what else to say here. They gave me a slip informing me I’m being awarded the Medallion Crimson. I don’t really care. I’ll stash it with my dress greys and leave it be. I know I should want to go home, like the others. But hearing what’s going on out there, knowing what’s happening to other Imperial soldiers out at the front. I want to go back, I know it. I’ve got a job to do now, and too many griffs to do it for that can’t anymore. It’s not just about fighting for the Empire now. Now, its personal.
I’ll have one more drink before we take off. One of the grenadiers heading home gave me her old flask. It’s nice and sturdy. Got some schnaps in it. I can probably hold onto it for a while before I have to refill.
8/14/10
Paige,
Heard Western Town finally fell. Looks like they got Dawnclaw’s troops straightened out again. What a mess. They’ll be moving on Romau itself now. Every day, I hear rumors about the fighting there. It’s held out so far for so long. Cost us so much. It might just be impossible to take while the Archons’ alive in there. But it's one of the holiest sites on Griffonia, for all griffons. So take it we must, one way or another.
They showed Sergeant Hellseig and I to our new panzer. I told you it's a new ‘support’ panzer. Not so big as a Beak, but larger than a Calico. I thought it’d be a bit spacious, but there’s five of us crammed in here now with a (clipped out) cm cannon. It's pretty choked up. For one, the loader and radio operator are separate now. Apparently the griff on the set is up in the bow, where he mans a second machine gun. That’ll take some getting used to.
The panzer came with a name; Sabine. Written on her gun tube. The crew may have gotten splattered, but apparently she was tough enough to survive whatever they threw at her. We’ll see.
So, we’ve got three new crewgriffs. Our driver is this nervous looking conscript from Feathisia, barely speaks a word of Herzlandisch. Name’s Eihol or something like that. I’m just glad I’ve been brushing up on my Feathisian.
The new radiogriff isn’t actually a griff at all. She’s a dog, apparently a fill in from Bronzehill. Goes by the name of Spotsley. She reminds me a lot of you in that she takes your brainy side but goes to the wall with it. Always spouting trivia and nonsense. Apparently she was a student back in Bronzecross when she got conscripted. So now we have to deal with her. Wonderful.
And then we come to the loader. Get this; a Reformisten -pony- from Longsword. Traveled west to volunteer for the Reichsarmee after the east rejoined. I honestly don’t know what to say about him after that. He’s an Earth pony by the name of Long Haul, and while he is good on the (clipped out) cm, I honestly don’t know how he can associate with people like that who were so dead set on causing him and his entire species such suffering not long ago.
We’re getting ready to roll out. Funny, I go back through all the notes I’ve made waiting for your next letter. I’ve written a lot of battle notes. So much so I’m starting to run out of paper in my notebook. Might have to cut them down a little bit.
8/18/10
Dear Paige,
Got your letter yesterday, got around to finally writing a full response. Thank Static for sticking up for us. Maybe Equestria will learn all us easterners aren’t warmongering idiots.
(There is a line firmly crossed out)
I’m glad to hear you and her found a place together. By now, if you haven’t moved already then I wish you luck in doing so. Changing living places can be difficult, especially if you bounce around like you and I do. But I’m writing you about it now because you’ve got her there to help you get accustomed faster. And that makes all the difference. Give her my luck in getting her talk show up and running.
I almost forgot about our questions. I almost forgot about half of what your letter is talking about. So much has happened over here, it almost feels like it's from a different time. Years ago, instead of a month. By Eyr, just a month. I’ll give it my best to answer. I need this, the sort of head-clearing talking about these topics brings.
Hobbies. Well, I used to sketch. I know, it seems a bit odd, especially after what I said about my failure at piano. But sometimes I’d sit back and sketch landscapes. Towns, military bases, airplanes in the sky, buildings. I’m no good at griffons, I keep getting the proportions all wrong. But I can sketch scenes. I haven’t done so in a while. I’ll try to send you one if I can help it. Aside from that, you know I like reading a good adventure or mystery. You got me into that. So thanks.
Childhood. I was born in Griffenheim, as you know. My parents were loving and supportive, if busy. So I had to make time for myself. I used to run with a small group of other kids through Industrie, playing in back alleys and markets and exploring abandoned warehouses and factories. We called ourselves a gang and pretended like we were so tough. We’d harass shopkeepers and play pranks on the police. I even got caught a few times. We had street ‘wars’ with other ‘gangs’ where we’d throw mud and sticks and challenge each other to fly the fastest and other dares and the occasional brawl. Then my father died, and I had to stick around at home, go work in the factory, help take care of Sophie. Things changed, and I had to change with them. I know plenty of others who had to go through something similar.
Fear. That’s tough for me. I’m seeing new things that make me reconsider that all the time. I used to mostly be afraid to die. But I’m finding out there’s worse things than that. Still don’t want to. Just seeing there’s a lot more to be fearful of. I’d say it’d have to be similar to yours. The idea of just losing people you care about and not even knowing it until after the fact. I’m having trouble with it when it's in my face. I don’t know how I’d feel if I had to delay my reaction.
I’ve got a few. Simple ones, but I think you’ll agree we’ve been asking a lot of big questions lately.
Do you sing in the shower? When I’m home, I sort of do. But definitely not while I’m out with the regiment. That would cause all kinds of awkwardness. Believe me.
Where do you want to go for vacation? Imagine if we were together for a single week, no strings attached. Where would you want to go? I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; I want to see Zebrica. It’s just the idea of going somewhere so exotic and distant is so exciting to me. Maybe travel to the Boers or the Zebrides. I just want to see jungles and deserts on another continent.
Last one. Do you like sports? I’ll admit I’m usually too busy to keep up with it regularly, but I do check in on hoofball every now and then. Go Fowls!
Also, so there’s no more awkwardness, when’s your birthday? Three years going and neither of us said when it was. You think that’d be one of the first things we’d tell. Guess we both lead exciting lives, eh?
Keep at your studies, Paige. You’re going to go do great things, I know you will. I’ll keep at it out here and fighting as best I can so I can come home to you. One day. Stuck in here like I am, with the end so far away, I feel like getting into all the mushy emotional crap again. I miss you. I can’t wait to see you.
But I’ll save the bigger stuff until we’re face to beak. It deserves to be said in person.
Yours,
-Cyril
Sent September 12th, 1010
Dear Cyril,
I am so sorry. I was so shocked by the news that Zola, Bluetalon and Grimquill are gone. I almost feel like I knew them too from what you wrote about them. I had to take a while to get that all in there. And the fact you’d been injured. I’m so sorry. I managed to go my whole term without getting seriously hurt.
Let’s face it, you’ve officially taken the trophy for ‘most suffering’. Static agrees. We finally did get moved in, by the way. It’s nothing fancy, mostly just a two bedroom one bath. Lucky me, Static is mostly a night pony and I’m a daytimer. Helps with the bathroom, though she’s got a habit of being a bit of a slob about the food. Anyway.
I heard Romau finally surrendered. Well, I guess judging by what you’ve said and the newspapers are reporting, it sounds like the defenders were just slaughtered enough to take the city. The fact it took so long, I don’t know. These Vollstrecker sound like bad news. Executioners. It certainly sounds like a purging, which makes them political officers. Watch yourself, Cyril. I’d hate for you to get on their bad side.
I’m only keeping up with the news to laugh at how bad they’re getting it. Static’s railing about how the press is obviously biased against the Empire and anypony that’s not ‘Harmonist’. It's kind of obvious now. Mixed bag so far. Hoofington folk are patriotic and loyal to Celestia. They don’t like the idea of somepony supporting the Empire, but they -are- mad about the press lying to them. Ups and downs I guess.
You -do- know how cutie marks work, right? The symbol is supposed to indicate a ponies given talents, a piece of them that they are special and amazing at. Now true, that means a lot of ponies have the -same- cutie mark. But they’re more than just symbols on the flank. Why do you think mine is a book? While a lot of them are more abstract in their representations, it's usually a no-brainer to connect once it becomes clear. I never knew you had no idea how they worked, or I might have told you this years ago.
New school term at Hoofington U. All advanced placement classes. I’ve had to quit my job and get something at night to keep up. I barely slept before because I was worrying about you, now I’m lucky if I get four hours. So now I’m a clerk for a factory. I get delivered reports for the company, I type them up in a comprehensive way. Me and forty other ponies, sitting at our typewriters, for hours into the night at this office. I have to compete with a bunch of thestrals, and they don’t have to spend half the day at school. It’s rough, but it pays the bills and I’m still at Uni. Such is life.
My parents are nervous about the Herzland War. My father more than my mother. He’s convinced the Empire’s coming back. My grandfather served in the Deponyan royal army, so paranoia about the Empire is pretty constant. They want me home. But I can’t just leave after all this. I’ve only got two years schooling in, I’m not even fit for a bachelor’s yet. I can’t give up when I’m finally GOING places.
One more semester. Then I’ll at least have a degree. Maybe then it’s time to come home. I don’t know. If I come home, it’ll be easier to get to you. But Equestria is the best place on the planet to learn magic. I’d be throwing away my shot at getting back into Luna Nova ever again.
I put together another request, but now I don’t even know if I want to. I came to Equestria to learn at Luna Nova. But now I’ve got Static, my other friends at Hoofington U, a lot of time spent here on campus, an apartment. Maybe I don’t need to go to Luna Nova to get what I want.
I’ve done more work with Static on my thesis. The crystal I’ve been building has been coming along nicely with her input. I know she doesn’t understand half of what I say. Then again, she’s a radiopony, an electrician. Ideas like theoretical arcana, even to a unicorn, have got to be pretty out there for somepony of her background. The crystal is now fully formed, and I am proud of the matrix I have in place. Now I just need to run through some calculations for power distribution through the crystal. I have to keep bleeding off the energy in order to regulate it, which annoys Static to no end (which I suppose I get, because even if the experiment is ‘successful’ a lot of time I’ll drain the energy to be safe for the next run). But I’m not just going for some military crystal like what they use in their beam rifles (news flash, apparently that’s what those strange glowing weapons you saw are too. Amazing that the Empire would consider even attempting that field of magic, much less developing working magic weapons). I’m looking at a power source of immense magnitude, something that would make those rifle crystals look like .45 slugs. Imagine a panzer powered by a crystal, or a plane. What if we could go bigger? What about warships powered by magic, or even a whole city? I’ve been doing some reading, and apparently high minds in the Ministry of Magic have been publishing articles on a theoretical spell framework to allow a magnification of spells. A sort of amplifier if you would. A tool that would let one unicorn cast a spell with the power of, say, a dozen. I don’t know more than that, but I hope my thesis catches the eyes of the Ministry. I’m never going to get the funding I need to make this a reality like that spell amplifier if I don’t.
I am glad to hear you recovered from your wounds. Less glad they decided to repay that by throwing you straight back into the war again. And a Reformisten PONY. I don’t even know what to say about that. How could he? Has he forgotten what they’ve done? The Longswordian Genocide and the Wrath of Hellquill are still being talked about in the Riverlands. If the Empire hadn’t stepped in, the Coalition would have likely invaded. Your loader is ultimately a traitor. I’m not talking about how some Riverponies call other ponies that live in the Empire, I’m saying he’s completely forsaken the ideal of everypony who fought or died for him and before him. That’s just not right. I told Static about it, and she announced over the radio that there are -ponies- joining this group. She got TONS of outraged mail. Some called her a liar. But most were just as disgusted as, well, we are. Static’s a natural born Equestrian, but she understands my horror.
Cyril, I know you have to work with that stallion. But don’t trust him. He found it so easy to forsake his race he’d abandon everything that makes ponies unique.
Okay, back to you.
I’m okay with simple questions. I really am. And I appreciate it, too. Time to throttle down a little.
Yes. I sing in the shower. ALL the time. I’ll sing songs on the radio, I’ll hum while I’m scrubbing. Static gets all kinds of annoyed when I sing old songs in Rijekospiel. Stuff from home. My mother sent me a record in a care package, and it was all I could listen to for a whole week. Static, of course, doesn’t speak it, and it's completely different music than out here. She usually just shuts herself up in her room, but when I’m in the shower she says she can hear me singing out in the living room. I don’t care. I like it.
I actually wouldn’t mind going to Hippogriffia. I’m like you, I want to see Zebrica. But now I’m a little more traveled, I wouldn’t mind seeing things closer to home as well. I’ve been interested in Aquila, for example. Such a historic city. All those monuments and the culture there.
Sports? Um. Maybe? Does wrestling count? I used to watch it in Rijekograd with my brother when I was a filly. Big huge stallions and mares throwing each other around in a ring. It was a major sport back east. I don’t really anymore. Once in a while I’ll look in on the celebrities I used to watch, see how they’re doing. Most of them retired since I knew them, became spokesponies. But no, not really anymore.
Okay, three from me. What book would you like next? I’m so sorry to hear your collection was lost in the tank. Please, just tell me what you want next, I’ll get it for you. I’m personally involved in a novel myself about a science drama from a few decades back, about creatures from another planet invading and being defeated by, of all things, bacteria. It’s one of those old novels that hasn’t aged well, like the dragon fighting one you sent me. But it’s still written quite well.
Second: what’s the first thing you’ll do when you get home? For me, I know I’ll want to go out in Rijekograd and get some food from home. Equestrian food is good, but their portions are enormous out here, and use way too much sugar on everything.
Third: how do you feel about kids? I know, I know. A little awkward given how far away we are and how long since we’ve seen each other. But it’s a question we have to ask someday. Might as well be now. As for me, I always felt like a family would just be a natural occurrence. Inevitable, you know? Then my schooling came up and my education came first. Now? I don’t know. I’ve been thinking it over. I’d be okay having foals some day. Maybe when I’m a famous arcanist. Then I won’t have to struggle like my parents did. What about you?
I miss you. I can say that again, right? Now we’re back to repeating the mushy stuff we say everytime? Static wonders how I can hold out for you after three years. She tells me I turn heads when I go out. I tell her the same thing I’ve said. Its because its been so long and after what happened with you know who that I have to hold out. We’ve come too far to let it end here, thousands of miles apart.
Come home safe, okay? There’s a lot to be said when we are face to beak again.
Yours,
-Paige
P.S: apparently my brother broke out of that Bakaran prison. Because of course he did. Now he’s apparently gone south to work as a smuggler out of the Friestaat. My whole family is just in awe of how he’s screwed up his life. And, of course, what he’ll do to screw it up again.
Sent October 15th, 1010
Dear Paige,
Gods above, where do I start?
I decided to hold off on the war notes this time, since I almost made a novel with the last letter. Now, I’m using my notes to put together a single message to you. Hopefully there will be less mood whiplash, less reiterating the same things.
A lot’s happened since my last letter to you. Since August, we’ve pushed south hard. Once we got word that Romau had finally surrendered, we knew there was reinforcement coming. High Kommand wanted us to press, hard. Get as much ground as we could so when the Sturmdivisiones come up behind us we hammer into them with fresh units. Katerinburg fell to the Reformisten after that. Literally fell. They practically leveled the city with the Order of the Ebon Shroud and a few grenadier regiments behind them. Apparently there’s a deal being worked out with Wingfried. He can’t technically be king of the duchy, but he’s the last in the line. So Katerin is working out a way to give him the title, but things are essentially still going to be run by Imperial governors. Apparently, Katerin has been the easiest to occupy so far, with more and more defecting to our side all the time. Wingfried’s still got half the duchy to retake, but an easier job means a faster end to the war.
Apparently, Aquileia invaded neutral Griefwald and they’re gobbling up all the land between them and the Empire. Everygriff here is talking about how they’re next on the list. Plenty of us are pumped to take the fight to the westerners. I say we finish this fight first, but word is troops are being mobilized to guard the border out (clipped out). Empire can’t seem to catch a break. Again.
We took Greenback on September 25th. Yale finally decided to fight back. These weren’t their militia and conscripts, though. These boys were determined, as capable as the Angriver fanatics we’ve been facing so far. They hold and they fight. Guess it just took them a while to train up some real soldiers. Too little too late, though. Even with (clipped out) panzers, we rolled in there and took the city in three days fighting. Nightmarish stuff, but you’ve heard me go on about cityfights before. This had to have been the worst though. Greenback was big. And we were practically fighting for piles of rubble, not buildings. But we won in the end. The Rectorate in the city of Yale issued their surrender. Stood down the rest of their troops. For that, I think the Empire’s going to go easy on them. Besides, we need as many of their universities and scientists intact as we can get.
The past two weeks, we’ve been carving into Angriver. I think we’ve cut their best down, because at this point they’re having a damn hard time stopping us. We took Appengen on the 6th, and then kept going until we hit Griffing the next day. They must not have been expecting that, because we only had a few militia and police to stop us. They didn’t of course. We had a deployment of Fallschirmjager from the (clipped out) division helping us. I think we really got that big breakthrough we were looking for. Ever since then, the real Angriver troops have counterattacked everyday to take the city back. But we’ve held. Now the line’s caught up with us, Griffing’s been reinforced and we’ve been relieved to get our panzers refuelled, rearmed and repaired. We’re not quite pulled out, but we can go get some coffee and decent sleep. Thank the gods.
I’ve come to appreciate Sabine. She’s sturdy, much harder than Zola was. She’s bounced shells that would have wrecked a Calico no problem. And the 5 cm can wreck Airbenders and buildings the same. I feel unstoppable in her. I reset my kill count when we changed over, but I’m back up to seven panzer kills, mostly because of how few there are out here. Half of them are (clipped out). When are they going to stop? Evergriff knows they’re here. I’m surprised there hasn’t been a diplomatic incident yet.
The replacements aren’t bad either. Turns out, Eihol used to be an auto racer in Feathisia. Those prime cars that can go faster than a griff can fly. He apparently enlisted as a truck driver but was bumped over to the panzerkorps.
Spotsley is a good one too. Sure, she’s a know it all and all superior about it, but so far she’s shown that when something needs to be done or somegriff is in trouble she’s always there. She’ll lecture you on how you did it wrong, but she’ll do it while helping you through.
We don’t like Haul much. Not because of the pony himself, he’s actually not a bad type, good loader does his job like he was born for it (that’s how those flank markings work, right?). Keeps talking about the Reformisten’s Integralist philosophy. Thing is, that’s the problem. He’s Reformisten, and nogriff knows what to make of that or what he says. A whole month and I have absolutely no idea how to handle it. And the way he talks about the whole way of doing things is eerie. They call it a ‘cultural refinement’, where they take the better elements of whatever they’re absorbing and ban anything else that doesn’t match griffon culture. Other faiths, other philosophies, art styles, traditions. The way Haul talks about it, its like its inevitable. It's really kind of creepy. This was a stallion who fought against Pallas and his genocidal maniacs in Longsword as a militiapony. Now he’s joined Wingfried’s banner. None of the rest of us know how to deal with that. And every time we ask, he says the same thing:
"They were wrong, they were traitors, they completely subverted the Reformisten ideal and as such were made examples of.”
I’ve heard the Archon make speeches like that about purging heresy in the Empire.
The Vollstrecker are just as bad as we expected, of course. More deserters shot. A few spies discovered in our ranks. Griffs sympathizing with the League. Archon supporters. The worst like the spies and deserters get shot with no trial. The others are chained and marched off. Nogriff knows where. These new Crows are with us in the attack, watching us carefully to see who’ll try to run off or retreat without being told to. Those are shot on sight, of course. Even panzer crew. I saw a Vollstrecker climb onto a Calico and execute the sergeant because he refused to drive his panzer into a firefight. Then she climbed in and ordered the panzer forward herself. They take point on near every charge, protected by their armor as they tell the truppen with them to attack behind them. It’s madness. What’s worse is, they leave the Reformisten volunteers from the east alone, like Haul. Just pass them over. Not like those idiots would ever break, though. From what I hear they never retreat if they can help it. Waste of griffpower. Or ponypower, as it is.
So, less about the war. Though I find I have little to talk about outside it. I realize that makes my letters a bit awkward.
Hmm. Next book? Tough one. I want to get my Daring Do collection back, but that could take a while, and I don’t want you sending me a whole stack to start with. I’ve got an idea instead; The Downfall of Númenor. All this interest in historical fiction got me curious. There’s an Equestrian author named K. T. Trotkin, lives in the Griffish Isles. He wrote a book based on the series of breakaways and uprisings after the Republic Revolution. I read a news article where he swears it's not based on that, but after our talks I can see the connection. Give it a read before you send it over. For some reason, I could never find it in a bookstore here.
When I get home, I want to get drunk. As drunk as I can get. So drunk I can’t even fly. Then I want to just sleep for a whole day. That would be nice, to get some sleep without worrying about getting blown up. Again. And then yeah, something to eat would be nice, like a steak.
I don’t know about the kids question. Isn’t it a little early to be asking about that? I mean, I guess I’d want to start a family one day. It never really seemed important. I always had something else I needed to focus on instead. I want to. But I (several lines are furiously scratched out here). Maybe. Things are a little strange. I don’t know if I can really think about that right now.
Three more questions. Hm. Okay. I’ll be honest, I can only think of one right now. I keep wracking my brain, but all I’ve got is seasons. What’s your favorite? Mine is autumn. That point where its cooling down from summer, the leaves are all turning and the smells of hot cooking fires with cookies, cake and meats just rolls down the street. The knowledge that winter is coming, with all the holidays it carries with it. I hate to get all poetic, but there’s something magic about it.
I think we’re in the end now. Baron Leer and the Archon are all alone now. The Empire is advancing and we’re holding Griffing. Hope is, maybe I’ll be home before New Years’. Then, maybe, just maybe, I can start looking into booking that trip across the ocean. To you, Paige.
I’ll see you. There’s a lot to say.
Yours,
-Cyril
(Folded up into the envelope is a sketch, made with a pencil of some kind, of a cityscape with forests beyond. Without color it is difficult to say if the sun peeking over the horizon is rising or setting, but there is quite a bit of cloud cover regardless. Some of the buildings are little more than rubble, and sections of the forest appear rudely interrupted as if those were from shell craters. It is a bit rough, but still apparent that much effort was put into this drawing. On the back is a scribbled note. “Sunset Over Angriver. From Cyril”)
Sent November 21st
Dear Cyril,
You have no idea how much I’ve been wanting to send this! Word about the surrender came in last week over the radio, and I’ve been just burning waiting for your letter so I can reply.
So. Your letter had a lot about the war. Obviously, the Empire won. I’m just glad you’ll be heading home after all that. You’ve been on the front for what, six months? Now that Baron Leer’s dead and the Archon captured, I can’t imagine they’ll need a tank unit to hold the south. The Vollstrecker alone seem like they’d be enough to terrify the south into compliance, honestly. I’m just happy you’re out of danger again. With you in the combat zone, I’ve been awake all night and suffering in my AP classes. Now I can get A’s and B’s again instead of C’s.
That was a joke, FYI.
Anyway, I’m sending you The Downfall of Númenor. I did read through it, for a time. I’m afraid I’ll have to pick up a new copy, since it’s less historical fiction and more history-inspired classic fantasy. So it had a whole world to get into and learn, and honestly I was too busy to get into it entirely in the short few weeks I had. I’m sorry, but I’ll get into it when I can!
I got a letter from your mother. She’s so relieved the war’s finally done. Apparently, she was worried for both you and your uncle. There was word about some combat behind your friendly lines. She apparently couldn’t even send any messages because the postal system in Griffenheim was so messed up. She thanked me for staying in touch with you. She’s worried, Cyril. Worried about how you’re acting. She wants me to tell you we’re all still here for you. Me, Sophie, your mother, your grandparents, Static. We’re all here for you. We’re all proud of you and we’re here to help after everything you’ve been through in this war. All you need to do is talk to us.
Spring. My favorite season is spring. Seeing everything in full bloom, the mist rolling over the hills and still having cold mornings. It's an amazing time, and when you’re flying over the Riverlands the rolling green hills just stretch all the way away toward the horizon.
So you’re telling me you don’t want to have kids? I understand if that might be an awkward topic, but ever? But you love your family so much. You’re always talking about how proud you are of Sophie. I think you’d be an excellent father. You’ve got enough experience under your belt to point in the right direction, you know what kids would get up to and how to talk to them. Did you ever think about what we might want in the future? I think we’ve been writing to each other about how we feel long enough to at least consider it.
Or do you just not want to have kids with me?
Okay. I got awkward. I’m sorry. I’m just glad you’re okay. And I want to talk with you more. I’d love to start planning more for a visit. I can take a vacation to come. If you do make it to Equus, rest assured I’ll be waiting for you with eager, open arms and wings.
First thing we do is fly over a city. I’ve been looking forward to flying with you.
Yours,
-Paige
P.S: wow. I kind of expected this one to be a lot longer. I guess with the war over, I just want to see you more than write you.
Sent December 19th
Dear Paige,
Yes. I’m home. Whoever that griff was that plugged the Baron, he’s an Imperial hero. They won’t release his name, but we know he goes by the callsign ‘Bogeygriff’, and the Kralle he did it with has pretty much become legendary.
The Archon’s in exile. Up north in Hellquill, in the middle of nowhere.
But you already know all this. I guess I’m just writing to fill paper. It’s different now, writing at home again. It feels like there’s less urgency. I’m on leave until the New Year. With orders to not leave the country. There’s that idea shot to Tartarus. Meaning I can’t come see you after all.
I’m so sorry. Again.
So I drink. And drink. And drink. I go to the bars with the crew. We get called heroes wherever we go. Beer and schnapps flow freely. But we know the truth. What we’ve seen. What we’ve done. We’re butchers. The League might have betrayed the Empire, but we’re not heroes. Heroes don’t have night terrors and wake up in a cold sweat. Heroes don’t need to get drunk every night to fall asleep. Heroes don’t feel disgust when they look at their medals. Heroes don’t keep leaving their girl behind over and over again. Heroes don’t get interrogated and put on a watchlist by an intelligence agency.
I should explain.
After I sent my last letter, Angriver pulled one last card on us. Somehow, somewhere, they got their talons on a few Imperial panzers and a bunch of Reichsarmee uniforms. Baron Leer had his cronies slip behind the lines and start attacking supply depots, radio posts, and command centers. By the time we were able to react, we were already shooting each other. Griffing came under attack by both the enemy -and- a battalion from the 2nd Grenadiers. And I just...mowed down everything in front of me. Couldn’t even take the chance anymore. Just minced everygriff and everything. Over the course of a week, they took our cohesion apart. I can’t say anything more about what happened, but it wasn’t good. We failed to spot the enemy at his own game, and we got our own paranoia killing Imperial truppen. The 106th Infanterie captured plans calling this ‘Operation Trauer’. Too late to stop it, but we could at least spot them again. Good news was, we got all the enemy false panzers.
All officers, sensitive personnel and panzer crews were interviewed afterwards by the (the word is clipped out). Multiple times. I don’t know how many times I was pulled into a dark room with griffs I couldn’t see and had to answer questions for hours. That copy of The Downfall of Númenor you sent me? Haul warned me that it could be seen as seditious, pro-Republican publishing. And you know what? He was fucking right. They asked me about Uncle August, told me things about my mother and sister. They’re watching you too, y’know. Said they’ve got copies of all our letters, asked me how long I’ve been talking to a Riverlands spy. I told them you were no spy, you’re a student in Equestria. On and on and on. Then they brought in these two specialists by the name of (clipped out) and (clipped out). One was this really giggly female who just seemed to love tossing out random things to make me uncomfortable. And the other was this albino demigryph. At least, I thought he was missing his wings. Then the interviews stopped. They announced Baron Leer was dead and the Archon captured by Fallchirmjager.
We didn’t even stay for the occupation. All panzertruppen were ordered back home. I haven’t even seen Sabine since. They’ve told me they’ll let me know when I can return to service.
So yeah. We won. Doesn’t feel like a damn thing’s changed. But there’s celebrations in the streets, at the temples, in the bars. I talked with preacher Bronzeclaw again. He’s got nothing for me but to hold firm to faith. I’m even starting to doubt a griff of the cloth.
Only places I go these days are temple, the bar and home. Nothing else for me here. The Reichsarmee sent me my Medallion Crimson and Ribbon Intrinsic. Useless pieces of tin.
I don’t know what to do, Paige. I kept fighting because I believed I was going to finally make the Empire a better place. Get some glory at last. Go home and rest. Go see you. Instead, I’m a pariah in the military, I can’t sleep, all I do is drink to get the memories out of my head and any time now secret agents could kick down my door and abduct us all in the night. I can’t go see you. I can barely sit down for dinner with mother and Sophie. I’m going insane here.
Look, if you’re gonna ask the question, fine. -If- it works out between us, and -if- we stay together long enough, yeah I’d have kids with you. But could we, even? What is that, half-griffon, half-pegasus? Have you ever seen any of those around? And even if that’s possible, what would they go through, being seen as some sort of freak?
I’m sorry. I’m sorry I can’t be there, I’m sorry I can’t be more positive about the future, I’m sorry I can’t get myself into a place where I’m not in danger every second. It's almost four years since we last saw each other, Paige. Things aren’t getting better here. They’re just getting worse.
December 31st, 1010 Industrie District, Griffenheim Griffenheim on New Year’s Eve. The city still hadn’t stopped its celebrations, despite the war having ended over a month ago. On the day it had all finished, grand parades had rolled down Griffenheim’s majestic boulevards, troops returning home in orderly fashion, freshly pressed uniforms glittering with new decorations, knights in their enchanted plates with blank, faceless armored visors and panzers of all three classes lumbering through with gun barrels raised high. A large part of these celebrations had been the Reformisten. Before, they had entered the city as pariahs. After the Treaty of Griffing, with the news gone public about who had saved the Kaiser and what had happened to turn Katerin loyal once more, they were heroes. Wingfried himself had been stoic in the back of his staff car, watching the lines of griffons that had turned up to cheer him and his marching soldiers on, offering flowers, food and drink from the crowd to confused Reformisten troopers. He leaned forwards to a black unicorn seated with him, and a dark-brown griffon both in the uniforms of high level officers.
“Now, my friends: Operation Tartarus awaits.”
The infamous phrase was taken by the Reformisten propaganda department, and printed on posters and banners wherever the Black Knights went.
Now, the banners remained. Soldiers still went out in uniform to be given free food, drink and even nightly companionship. They were heroes of the Empire. Valiant warriors who had annihilated the traitors in what had to be one of the most important battles in the Empire’s history. Banners of Generalfeldmarschall Bronzetail, the new face of the Reichsarmee hung next to those of Wingfried, the Black King of Hellsword. Propaganda posters of Fallschimjager descending from the sky onto a cowering and unprepared Archon Eros went up right next to recruiting posters of mighty panzers crushing all in their path and other posters of powerful artillery guns thundering over the heads of proud ranks of Imperial Grenadiers. Snow covered the streets, and the frosty winds tugged at these posters as the lone griff staggered past, trying his best to keep footing. Most of the folk in the district were in the bars and their homes, watching the clock and counting down for the new year. A better year, they knew. For now the Herzlands were reunited, loyal Imperial governors watching these former breakaways. The spirit of Mondstille persisted as well, strands of pine and strings of garland hanging next to silver ornaments on walls and storefronts. Packages and gifts had already been exchanged, and for once the typical greedy griffon mindset in the Empire was not fixed towards what to gain next.
He moved up the stairs, feeling the cold biting through the artificial warmth the alcohol had provided, as well as his ratty scarf and old coat. But he merely shivered, brushing the frost from his shoulder and fluttering his wings as he finally reached the door, a beaten and worn old thing whose green paint had long faded like the district had. His key slid home after two or three tries, and he swung the door in, fighting the gusts as he strode through and firmly shut it, so quick the candles only briefly fluttered in the harsh wind. He took a moment to contemplate the tiny flames, bright eyes sunken into his black-feathered face. Then he sighed, tugging off his cap, scarf and coat, stomping his rear legs to get the snow off his boots. He’d have to take those off too.
“Cyril?” called a voice from the kitchen. “Is that you?”
“Ja, Mutter,” he called back, feeling his speech slur a little and fighting it as best he could.
“You’re home early,” Margot’s voice continued, hopeful. Perhaps her son had decided spending time with family was the more important venture here, instead of drinking with his army buddies on this important night, such as he’d done Monstille Eve.
Sadly, and with a little bit of loathing and shame in his heart, he broke her of that notion.
“That Grenadier from the other night was there. Started back up again. The bartender threw us both out.”
“Oh, Cyril. You didn’t break anything this time, did you?” Her disappointed and downcast tone told him all he needed to know as he moved into the living room.
“Just a bottle. Over her head.”
“Cyril!”
And there she was, in the doorway to the kitchen. Margot Duskwing was a force to behold in herself. Her feathers were black as her son and brother, though streaks of grey were beginning to form around her ears and eyes, evidence of the years of hardship she’d been subject to since Stefan had been killed. As per tradition, she had retaken her maiden name upon her husband’s death, though with how busy she was these days with the house and taking care of Sophie while her son was away, no one was under any illusions of her chances to find another griff to fill her life.
Now, she was covered in flour on her apron from baking, and she glared furiously at her half-drunk troublemaker son, heartbreak replaced fully by righteous anger. Arms crossed over her chest, talons clacking as they rubbed together. Cyril, hardened vet that he was, wilted before her, glancing down behind his mother. Ten year old Sophie peered through the gap, trying to see what was going on as her wide eyes glanced between her brother and mother. She more resembled her father, grey feathers around a white face. She knew better than to say anything during these exchanges, but the look on her face told of a thousand questions she wanted to voice.
Cyril felt his defenses crumble, even before either said anything more. The alcohol-induced fighting spirit he had channeled on the problematic soldier in the bar was spent. Sergeant Hellseig had ordered him home instead of going out bar-hopping as many vets were tonight. That had already taken the wind out of his sails, and now seeing how his mother and sister were looking upon him, hurt and disappointed, robbed him of it entirely.
“Cyril, you’re out of control!” Margot snapped, literally clacking her beak as her wings flared a moment. “Every night, you’re out drinking away your pay and getting in fights and breaking things in public! You’re almost never home for dinner, and when we see you during the day you’re hungover half the time! It’s disgraceful!”
“I know, Mutter,” Cyril replied weakly, but he knew now the boiler was fired up the only way she would stop was if all the steam was let out. And she proceeded to for almost a half-hour, berating her son for his sloppy appearance, his terrible behaviour as of late, irresponsible habits. It got to the point where Sophie awkwardly went back to the bakin the kitchen. That hurt the most. The fact that little Sophie, who had for so long idolized her big brother, was so used to him getting chewed out she went to go do something else without voicing a single word. It broke his heart, but then again Cyril knew he was responsible for all this.
And then both Margot and Cyril crossed the line.
“If your father were here, he would hang his head in SHAME!”
Cyril flinched. His mother never talked about his father like that. It had always only been how much she missed Stefan, how proud he would have been. Never like this. He saw the realization on her face, the awkwardness, heard the apology coming.
But his fight reared its ugly head. Before she could say what he knew she would, he bit first.
“Well, I’m sure he would! But he’s NOT here!”
Silence. It hung in the cold house for several moments as mother and son gaped at each other, unbelieving of what they had both said. This was the worst it had ever been between them. Even when Cyril had first returned home, broken and disheartened, their outbursts hadn’t reached this kind of hurt.
Margot broke first, turning away and sighing as she returned to the kitchen, the curtain separating it from the living room falling into place. Too late, Cyril raised a claw to try and catch her, say something to her, anything. But she was gone before he had fully reached out.
Alone again. In the dark living room. Hearing the raucous sounds of a New Years’ party downstairs through the floorboards. The only lights were the ones leaking through the thin curtains from the street and the face of the radio set in the corner, accidentally left on and caught between stations, burbling static. Groaning, he stepped over to the set, contemplating turning it off and just going to bed. But something made him reach up, adjusting the tuner and volume dials until he heard music playing clearly. Once that came in, he flopped onto the couch, closing his eyes and leaning his head back as he waited. He knew this song.
We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day Keep smiling through Just like you always do 'Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away So will you please say hello To the folks that I know Tell them I won't be long They'll be happy to know That as you saw me go I was singing this song We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day Keep smiling through Just like you always do 'Til the blue skies Drive the dark clouds far away So will you please say hello To the folks that I know Tell them it won't be long They'll be happy to know That as you saw me go I was singin' this song We'll meet again Don't know where Don't know when But I know we'll meet again some sunny day
He grunted as the song came to a close, knowing exactly why he had listened to this song in particular, eyes still closed.
“Happy New Year, Paige,” he muttered as a faster paced, more upbeat holiday song came onto the set. Just as he had been the three years previous, he sat alone on New Years’ Eve, efforts to reunite with her thwarted to an almost comically sick degree. Did the universe simply hate him this much? Or was it interference by some divine being? He knew he had really lost it if he believed that Princess Celestia or the goddess Eyr really wanted to fuck up his love life. Maybe it was a sick joke by Discord or Maar. That made more sense. Or was his luck really just that bad?
The radio set crackled with static, and he frowned, bringing his heavy head around and blinking in the dark, staring at the set. Interference? Must have been from the snow. But the white noise continued, battling the radio station as the dials on the display twitched back and forth, the radio experiencing some anomaly. He leaned forward, puzzled and out of his element. Despite his lack of knowledge, he reached out, a talon pausing as he tried to figure out what to do.
Then, with a thunderclap and a flash of blue light, his world disappeared. Cyril howled, cursed and squawked in shock as he tumbled headfirst into the bulky radio set, almost knocking it over but instead bouncing off the wall. He threw a claw over his face, wishing he had his sidearm that was still safely locked up back in the regimental armory. But after a moment, the glow lessened, and he blinked as his vision began to return.
“It worked!” called a voice, echoing and shrill in his ears as he tried to place it. The flanging exclamation was strange, almost impossible to discern with all the background noise. But also, somehow, familiar. “Cyril! Are you there?” And then, after a moment. “Oh. Shit. Oh shit! Cyril, are you okay?”
Confused and not believing his ears, Cyril lowered his claw. The bright light, it turned out, had only ebbed, not disappeared. Instead, the blue glow was softer, emanating from a spectral form in the middle of the room. This apparition appeared to be made of dancing blue-white motes, dancing inside of a set of boundaries. He took a few seconds to comprehend what he was seeing as his eyes traced the outline, drawing a shape in his brain. It appeared quadrupedal, with wings that flared out in either aggression or worry. It had a tail, and a head that he tried to place as he stared at it. Was it an illusion?
Then it took a step towards him.
“Cyril?” it asked softly, in that quiet ghostly echo. The voice had normalized, for the most part. Not so much warping or distortion, though it still did every few syllables. And he suddenly placed the rest of the pieces.
“Paige?” he half-whispered, almost unbelieving. He had to be drunker than he thought. There was no way this was real.
“Cyril,” she replied, and he swore he could see a wide smile on her muzzle. “Holy shit, it worked.”
He stood, still unbelieving what was happening.
Behind her, the curtain to the kitchen flew open as Margot, brandishing a meat cleaver, literally flew into the living room wings wide and talons out, ready for whatever had dared make the mistake of intruding into the Duskwing household. Then she stopped, staring in abject stupefaction at the glowing form of Paige Turner, standing in the living room. Behind her, Sophie poked her beak out nervously to see what the noise was, then ducked back into the kitchen, eyes wide in terror.
He stepped closer, looking her up and down. She was silent a moment, letting him absorb what was happening, her starry expression difficult to make out but definitely beaming with pride and barely contained glee. Any trace of alcohol in his system had been blasted out, replaced by stone-cold sobriety as he gawked, moving around her to take it all in.
Finally, she couldn’t resist.
“What do you think? Not bad, eh?” The image then turned, facing something off towards the wall. “Say hi, Static!” After a moment of silence, Paige turned back. “She says ‘hi’. We’ve got her to thank for casting this in the first place.”
“This is unicorn magic?” Cyril asked, stunned. Behind him, Margot covered herself in the holy gesture out of habit, eyes just as wide as Cyril’s, the forgotten meat cleaver hanging limply in her claw.
“Of a sort,” Paige replied, her accented voice warping briefly before returning to its echoes again. “I took a standard message spell and er...boosted it a fair bit.”
“What? How?” If what she said was true, she had taken a fairly simple and standard spell, something even griffons knew about and replicated with magic crystals from time to time, and amplified its range by over five thousand percent! She was literally transmitting him from the other side of the world!
“My thesis,” she answered proudly. “I decided to take a wild hunch of mine and run with it. And, well...it worked!” She gushed, and he could almost make out her bright eyes, beaming at her accomplishment.
“The crystal…” he whispered. “You used the crystal to boost the spell?”
“I’ll admit, it was a bit of a long shot,” she replied, shrugging as her wings fluttered and laid back against her flanks. His eyes followed the motion, and then he gave in to the temptation, reaching out and trying to rest a claw on her cheek. To his sharp though not complete surprise, his talons went through, his claw tingling as the dancing lights began to gather around the intruding limb.
He pulled back sharply, and the lights returned to Paige’s ghostly form. She hung her head in sheepish defeat as she sadly admitted “But no spell in existence can help me teleport all the way to you. Sorry.”
He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as his brain finally caught up to his eyes.
“You’re...you’re here!”
“In the spectral flesh!” she declared proudly, then stopped to ponder on that. “Or, is it ectoplasmic flesh? Then again, it's not flesh at all, more a manifestation of arcane energy-”
“Paige?” he gently interrupted her. To her credit, she heard him immediately, lifting her head and tilting it to show she was listening. “How long is this good for?”
Her ears drooped, and he knew it was bad news.
“Not long...maybe five minutes. I tried to time it so I’d show right when the New Year was going to pass over there. Did I get it?”
Cyril glanced over at the old, worn clock above the fireplace. Even he hadn’t been aware of what time it was, but sure enough there were only four more minutes until midnight. He nodded, dumbly, still trying to wrap his head around the concept.
“Ja…just on the nose,” he looked back over to her, frowning. “You couldn’t have tried this before?”
Here she looked a little taken aback, but pressed on after a moment.
“I didn’t know it would work before. I’m not a unicorn. And a message spell is, at best, able to cover a continent. I had, maybe, one shot at this. Reaching Griffenheim took...well. All of the energy I had in the crystal.”
That was SEVERAL years of charging and stabilization efforts, gone. She had burned all that work for five minutes of talking with him. He was stunned as the full implications of that finally hit him.
“But...your thesis?”
She waved a hoof in the air, the lights dancing around and leaving small contrails in her wake.
“I’ve still got, what? Two years before I need to finish that. Besides, I can get it all back. Just gotta get multiple unicorns to submit to extensive charging sessions while I make sure it doesn’t overwhelm the spell framework.” She shuffled awkwardly, scratching her mane with a hoof. “How hard could that be?”
“But-” he clamped his beak shut as his eye saw the hand on the clock twitch. Three minutes until midnight! And here he was, standing around like an idiot asking questions that wouldn’t matter soon. With that realization dumping cold water on his mind, he knew he had to act fast.
“Paige,” he started, gesturing behind her. The apparition turned her head, her magic vision landing on a still frozen Margot. But Cyril rushed over to his mother, gently pushing her forward. “Paige, this is my mother, Margot. Mutter, this is Paige.”
The two were silent as they studied each other. Paige, at least, had the benefit of not being forced to try and perceive details about a magical illusion, but she at least gave Margot the chance to recover. Finally, Margot leaned over to her son.
“I thought her mane would be longer.”
Indeed, while Paige had let it grow out since her days in the RAF, it was much shorter than when they had first met, her bangs barely to her jawline. Paige recovered quickly, smiling and nodding.
“An honor and a pleasure to meet you, Frau Duskwing,” she said in her accented Herzlandisch. “I am sorry I cannot shake your claw. A strange first meeting, I know.”
Margot recovered, clearing her throat and tucking the cleaver away.
“Think nothing of it, dear. These are strange times after all.”
Paige’s ‘eyes’ traced down behind them both, and she leaned down, smiling as the two griffons looked back to see that Sophie had gotten her courage together to step out from the kitchen, gawking up at the spell ghost.
“And this little cutie -must- be Sophie! My Gods, she’s such a pretty little thing!” Paige waved a hoof, grinning. “Hello there Dragi! Don’t be shy! It’s me, Paige! Your penpal!”
Cautiously, Sophie stepped forward, once more using her mother as a hiding spot as she looked up and said “H-hallo Fraulein Paige.”
Paige actually -squealed-, prancing in place. “She’s adorable!”
Down below them, Cyril could hear the party beginning to gather up, and glanced at the clock. Two minutes left.
“Paige?” She looked over to him, smiling and happy. “Why this? Why now? After all these years and everything with...well, us.”
Her smile faded, and she studied his face for a long second, so long he almost glanced at the clock to make sure she wasn’t just about to disappear. Her ghostly wings rustled.
“I had to try,” she said, so quiet and so warped he almost missed the whisper. “When I got your letter and saw what had happened. I couldn’t stand the thought of you here. Alone. Trapped. Hurt. I know it's not much. And I don’t know when I’ll get the chance to try again. But I get to see you. Talk to you.” She reached up, about to stroke his face before remembering that he wasn’t there either. “You look so tired.”
She leaned over, and with careful motions gently put her muzzle against the side of his beak. He felt the tingling as his feathers and skin met the arcane energy, and for a moment he swore he could almost feel an actual warmth of her coat, hear her soft breathing as she kissed him. He leaned in a little, turning his face to run his cheek along her manifested one, gently preening her image, the tingling spreading down his neck.
Below, their moment was spoiled as the party-goers began chanting the countdown from twenty. They’d have, at best, a minute after the countdown finished. He pulled back, so happy to have had this opportunity, but so sad it had to end, and so soon. He wouldn’t get another chance, and who knew when they’d physically see each other?
So, he took it.
“I love you, Paige.”
She paused, watching him carefully, almost examining him. No, she wasn’t examining. She was shocked. It was a little difficult to tell in her starry gaze, but he finally realized he had pulled a fast one on her, and for a moment his heart sank in terror. Was she about to tell him-
But then she snorted.
“You’re no fun! Isn’t there a time-honored tradition where I spend months weaseling it out of you while your male pride prevents you from saying it until one of us is in mortal peril?”
He chortled, disbelieving her response before he laughed as well, mostly at the sheer absurdity of the statement as any humor in her voice.
“Not-not this time,” he said as he got his laughs under control. “Sorry to kill your fun.”
TEN!
She stopped laughing, watching him carefully, a decision being made behind her eyes that he could see, even when her manifestation warbled and warped. They were almost out of time.
Nine!
“I love you too, Cyril.” She said it quietly, softly. They only had this moment, these bare seconds before the cold barrier of separation would come slamming back down between them, and they were forced back to the lonely life of waiting an entire month for any word from each other.
Eight!
Everything would change now. Or would it? At the end of the day, they would still be split by an ocean and two continents, and who knew how many wars in between?
Seven!
“Hey,” Paige said quietly, seeing the look on his face. He blinked in surprise, focusing on her again.
Six!
She smiled, and in that briefest of moments, he swore he could physically see her there, his memories of the harbor and the photo he still carried. “It’s not goodbye,” she insisted.
Five!
“Not until we want it to be.” She reached up again, and her hoof seemed to melt slightly into his jaw. He ignored the tingling, instinctively trying to press into her.
Four!
“It’s, ‘until next time.’ As long as we keep saying that.”
Three!
“Then it’ll never be goodbye.”
Two!
“Until next time, then.” He muttered, staring down at her and cursing how unfair the world was. The gods had brought her so close, so DAMN CLOSE. This was a mockery, an insult, dangling in front of him what he desired most and could never have. And judging from the look in her starry eyes, she was feeling the same kind of hurt.
One!
“Love you,” she said, quieter than ever.
Happy New Year!
“Love you too,” he whispered back.
They both braced, watching each other carefully as the clock began ringing quietly, the party downstairs breaking out in cheers as the year officially rolled over to 1011 ALB. January 1st. But she didn’t fade. Not yet. After another moment, they both let out breaths they hadn't realized they’d been holding. Paige turned, looking back at Margot (who nodded) and waving towards Sophie, who braved emerging from behind her mother to wave back, smiling as well. Paige turned back, about to say something more.
That’s when the front door, which Cyril realized belatedly he had forgotten to lock, flew open in a blast of wind, snow and panzer crew.
“Duskwing! Gelukkig nieuwjaar!” Truppen Eihol called, the Feathisian driver clearly more than a little drunk as the griff stumbled in the door.
“Sit down ‘fore you hurt yerself, you lout!” Spotsley snapped, stumbling under Eihol’s weight before roughly depositing him on the bench in the entry hall. “Duskwing! I swear to fuckin’ gods if you don’t come get this daftie, I’m leavin’ his arse in your hall!”
“Calm down,” Sergeant Hellseig said quietly, pushing past the two arguing soldiers. “Before you two become even more of a disgrace.”
But it was Long Haul, the Reformisten pony loader, who made it through first. Words died on his lips as, with wide eyes, he took in the magically projected form of the pegasus, who was just as stunned to come face to face with him too. For a moment, the two of them simply grappled with their confusion and inability to process what they were seeing.
And then, in a gently fading light and a gentle breeze, Paige’s image began to fade. Sensing her end, she glanced down at herself before sharply up at Cyril, trying to say one more thing. But before the words could manifest themselves, her form broke up, and the motes of light blew past, over Cyril who automatically reached out to try and catch her. Of course, by the time the lights made contact with his feathers, not even the sensation of them bouncing off him remained as his final connection with her faded at last.
“Recalled to duty?”
Sergeant Hellseig nodded, leaning against the table as he fiddled with the cap in his hand. “Leutnant came to the bar with the news after you left. The 41st is shipping back to the camp in two days’ time. We’ve all been cleared of suspicion.”
Cyril leaned against the couch, looking over the sergeant’s shoulder at his mother and sister in the kitchen, slicing up the cake they had been baking as Eihol drunkenly tried to take a piece while Spotsley reprimanded the drunken driver, making sure to properly give him his slice and not stab himself with his fork.
“Where are we going?” Cyril asked, now glancing between Hellseig and Haul. The pony hadn’t said anything about the apparition he’d witnessed, and that was fine by Cyril. The less he had to explain to everygriff, the simpler it would be.
“The Frontier,” Hellseig replied, seemingly not noticing or not caring about the tense looks the gunner and loader shared, likely chalking it up to the disagreements they’d had since they had been paired up. “The Reformisten brought Lushi back into the fold. Now the anchluss is complete and the Herzlands are reunited, King Wingfried is taking his Black Knights south. Towards Prywhen and Blackrock. Given they have no panzers of their own, we’re part of the Imperial Expeditionary Korps assisting them.”
The communist republic had taken down the infamous bandit queen while the Herzland Wars had raged, so attacking into Blackrock was going through republic territory. Any idiot could see where this pattern was going. After Prywhen and Blackrock, the Empire would be eager to retake the jewel of the south, Cyanolisia. Or, in this case, the Friestaat. After that, the rest of the south could be seized at leisure.
“So, we just ended one war to start another?” Cyril asked quietly. Hellseig winced, but Haul remained steadfast.
“Operation Tartarus has been in the planning stages since the Reformisten existed. It was going to be launched whether the Empire was there or not,” the Earth pony said matter of factly. “But with Imperial panzers, grenadiers and aircraft behind the Reformisten, what was thought to take a considerable amount of time and resources could be accomplished in less than a year. And with the Landwehr holding seized territory, we worry less about pacification and more on winning the battles.”
“That positive about your chances of success, are you?” Cyril quipped sarcastically. Taking the southeast in a year? Insanity. Just walking that far was an endeavour in itself, much less fighting for it. “I think Asterion and Sicameon have something to say about that.”
Haul shrugged. “Those are the optimistic projections from the briefing. Even I shall admit, it will likely take slightly longer than the Geheimstadt is predicting. But it will still be extremely rapid.”
“And how do you happen to know so much, Haul? Last I checked, I outranked you.” Cyril cocked an eyebrow. Surprisingly, the pony snickered, a small smile on his lips.
“Wouldn’t you like to know, Duskwing.”
“In any case,” Hellseig interjected. “We have our orders. The Empire wants to focus on Aquileia. Which means the Reformisten takes the lead in the east one way or another. We’re there to blow up anything they can’t. Simple, easy mission.”
A few minutes later, Hellseig was satisfied his gunner knew the objective, moving towards the kitchen to slap some sense into his drunk driver and foul-mouthed radiohound, noting that Margot Duskwing was on the verge of taking up her knife again. Left alone with Haul, Cyril contemplated simply turning on the radio and relaxing on the couch.
“Was that her?”
Cyril looked at Haul flatly, the two watching each other carefully. With a small, measured reaction, Cyril slowly nodded. Haul nodded in response, seemingly deep in thought.
“She must care for you deeply, to go to such lengths.”
Cyril didn’t answer. Just stared back. But the loader understood, sighing as he rose and trotting off towards the kitchen too.
He’d be missed. In a moment, the rest of the crew would demand he come over to share in the New Year festivities with them.
But for now, Cyril leaned back, listening to the quiet buzz of the radio and stared out the window at the snowy streets of Griffenheim. Then smiled, at last.
Happy New Year. I meant to tell you that when you made your ‘visit’. Sophie won’t stop talking about it. She keeps asking me questions that I can’t answer about magic, how it works, all that noise. Honestly, I understand just enough to comprehend -how- you did it, so I can’t really tell her how you shouldn’t have been able to and how it -doesn’t- make sense.
More news of a military nature; we’re cleared of suspicion. Sergeant Hellseig told us the 41st has been recalled after MfÖS finished their investigation. Which means now I get to return to camp, get back on Sabine and actually get back to the business of doing my job. Mother and Sophie are safe now. It’s a New Year’s miracle.
But now the bad news. We’ve been called up again. Apparently there’s something going on to the east called Operation: Tartarus. The Reformisten are spearheading it, and all I’m allowed to say is that they’re requesting panzer support. That means us in the 41st. I can’t say much, you know the way things go. But word is now that Lushi is flying the flag of the Empire again, its a certain rogue nation gone the way of civil war recently. I know that doesn’t narrow it down, but a lot of secrecy’s going into this operation.
We’re being deployed eastwards. Once we reach (the location has been clipped by a censor), we’re to spend a month or so training with the Reformisten so they can get their heads around combined arms tactics with panzers. From what I hear, they’ve already got Imperial advisors on the ground, but no armor of their own. That’s where the Empire comes in. We go in with a few other panzer regiments and an infantry division or two, some aircraft loaned to the Reformisten and a whole lot of suppression forces behind us. That’s the plan, at least.
I’ve been told not to think about this as a war, not like what happened with the Holy League. The Grenzwald Territories aren’t supposed to be capable of that sort of coordination or advanced resistance. But you and I know better. We’ll see.
Thank you, by the way. I know how much it means to have done what you did, using up the crystal’s energy like that. I don’t know much about magic and how it works, but I know you’ve been working on that thing since we met. I didn’t get the chance to say all that when we ‘talked’. It means more than I could ever say that you gave that up just for a few minutes.
So. Remember Haul? My new Reformisten loader? Turns out, he caught sight of you that night. I don’t know if it’s somehow illegal or not, but so far as I can tell, he hasn’t ratted on us. Which kind of surprised me. He did mention how much effort you must have gone through to send that message. I don’t know what to think about it. I’ll keep an eye on him. Less worried they’ll freak over the use of magic thing. More worried they’ll see me talking to a ‘Harmonist’ as a problem. Political agendas are always an issue here with the Republic still sniffing at our claws.
You know what? With the end of the war and everything happening over here, I completely forgot our three questions thing going on. So, in light of everything that’s happened, I’m hereby resurrecting it.
Question one: Birthday. This is a bit of a free one. You still haven’t told me, and I’d like to know ahead of time so I can send a letter, and a gift. I may not make many idols, but what I set aside for myself is just spent on booze and other little shit at this point. I can put it to much better use for you, especially on your birthday. After all, I have three years to make up for at this point.
Two: what kind of language would you want to learn next? I know you’re fluent in a couple more tongues than I am. So what’s next to learn? I think I might go Wingbardian, given all the ‘mercenaries’ we keep running into. Maybe Aquileian (kind of a weird complex on that. We’re encouraged to learn it so we can be useful in the field but nogriff wants to because of the whole ‘Republican/Harmonist suspicion’ sort of thing). Kind of sad that I’m looking at this by what’ll be useful for the next war, but you know everything happening over here on that. Anyway.
Three: do you have an idol in your life? Like, anypony or anygriff you look up to? I know you’ve always been drawn to science and magic types. You spoke highly of your meeting with Princess Luna, and you seem to know more about the scientists in Griffonia than I ever thought to ask. But who do you get inspired by? I’ve always got my father to look up to. My mother is a great source of strength. And the stories of heroes out here are good inspiration. But with everything happening, I’ve been really looking to Uncle August for motivation. He wrote me again after everything that happened. We don’t talk much these days, to his regret. But he told me it would be alright. Turns out, he was the one who arranged my transfer to the east. A whole division sent east for my own sake. To ‘get my head on straight’ he said. I’m thankful he’s looking out for me. I’m also a little glad I don’t have any cousins.
You asked me a question some time ago, and I’ve had time to think it over. And given what happened the other night, and what’s happening in the world, I feel maybe I have the chance to tell you what conclusion I came to. I answered this my last letter, but I was too bitter about it. I wasn’t thinking, and I said a few insensitive things.
Yes. If we had the chance, and we were happy, I would want to try and make a family with you. I’m not sure how much success we’d have. But if we are ever handed the chance, I’d be an idiot not to try if you wanted to. Someday, when we’re ready.
I know we’ll not see each other until we can get face to face again. But I’m looking forward to that with renewed eagerness, however long it takes.
Love,
~Cyril
Sent January 28th
Dear Cyril,
First off, I’m glad you’re doing better. You certainly didn’t wait long to write. I’m glad to hear that. I wasn’t sure who does what after making the equivalent of a magical telephone call.
So, your Reformisten comrade is...interesting. I’m a little unsettled by his discretion. Part of me wants to believe the pony in him is just letting us have this. The other part thinks he hasn’t sold you out to his ‘buddies’ because he’s waiting until the right moment. I don’t know. He isn’t natural, if you ask me. Joining an organization like that. And from what you told me of his Cutie Mark. I don’t think there’s a single pony between Equestria and even the Riverlands with a mark meant for war. Field Marshal Lipzig would be our best candidate for that (dedicated his whole life to the Republican Army), and he certainly doesn’t have it. If Marks are able to be shaped into war instruments too, I’m afraid of what that could mean. Just keep an eye on Haul. I don’t trust him, and neither should you.
Maybe I’m getting overly paranoid. You’re closest to the situation. You know what to do. You’ve always been good at that.
First of all, Happy Hearts and Hooves Day. If I’m right, this letter will get to you just before (or just after). It would mean the world to me to say it. Enjoy the attached cookies! I sent a bag to your mother and Sophie. Made them myself, with Static’s help. Static says hi.
Second, your question about my birthday doesn’t count, since that was something we were planning to discuss before. But I’ll grant you this information out of my own grace and kindness regardless. May 15th. My birthday is May 15, so if you plan to get me a happy birthday letter and a gift, I’d recommend you start soon.
Remember, I like purple.
Though, on second thought, I know what I really want. Shame that I can’t have it.
University is still going, as it does. Midterms were kind of a blur, but I’m still plodding along. Well, I say plodding. I’ve been trying to keep up my high-level classes while balancing my job at the office, but it's a bit difficult. Before the RAF, I was more flexible with my time. Now, it grates me when I’m awake at night. It’s an annoying thing I wish I could drop. I was in for only a year. But the Reserves keeps me in the habit, so the night shift is terrible for my health.
Heard back from my parents, wishing me happy holidays. They’ve mellowed out. My father will never like me being in Equestria, and my mother will always be so passive about it all. But they’re coming around to me being gone so long.
No word from my brother yet. Starting to wonder if something bad happened to him in...well, you know where. No way to tell until he comes up for air, I suppose. Brook’s always been good at getting out of trouble. He has to, with how talented he is at getting -into- trouble.
So, I know you’re burning for my answers to your two other questions.
Language to learn next. Well, I’ve done Herzlandisch, my own mother tongue, Equestrian, a little bit of Aquileian myself, a bit of a few others here and there. I even picked up a bit of Bison, but don’t ask me to carry on a conversation with a buffalo. They’re very protective of their culture. So I’d have to say the next language I’d want to learn might be Greneclyfian. I’ve been hearing they’re getting more involved back east, and if or when I ever go back it might be of good benefit to be able to speak to the Changelings. I assume they’ll have a greater role with the Riverlands. It’s kind of sad, to hear the distrust and discrimination they’ve faced, all because they’re shapeshifters, different creatures coming from strange lands that nopony understands. It’s a lot like the thestrals out here in Equestria. But from what I’m reading, the situation’s turned around at home for the Changelings too. Good.
Next, idol. Well, that is a tough one. I’ve tried to expand my horizons for so long, I haven’t focused on one for a big amount of time. Ooh, except for one. Morgend Longpaw. If you haven’t heard of him, that’s okay. Even among the scientific community he’s a bit of a recluse, and somewhat of a pariah. The theories he’s proposed are not widely accepted but he refuses to renege, so the Griffonian scientific community has made it difficult for him to get any legitimacy. Firstly, he’s been forced to take over the family business in Flowena, so that’s not going to get him many fans. But I’ve loved his work, because it really inspired my own. He’s currently the leading theorist in renewable crystal energy being implemented on a wide scale in things such as automobiles and city power plants. Sound familiar? Well, in Morgend’s case, he has happened to infuriate the oil and coal barons of Griffonia while also refusing to back down under pressure from other Griffonian scientists. There’s been a lot of controversy around him. There’s even been attempts on his life, his family. But he inspired me to start looking into crystals. I always wanted to do magic of some kind, but here was my way in. Someone else who wasn’t a unicorn, who could work with magic anyway. How could I stay away from that? Word is he even has a prototype for his design, and it uses a little something called ambient charge enchanting. Can you imagine that? A crystal that recharges itself from the magic in the air? No unicorns or anything like that needed? Just put it down somewhere with magical energy and leave it alone.
Okay, so since you’re going to war, again, I’ll ask the three questions -before- I start worrying about you all over again. I know you said it's not the same, but I’m not going to stop fretting over here. See, there I go stressing out when I said I wouldn’t.
Okay, question one: dream job. Let’s say, for one reason or another, rather than stay in the army or even rather than ever enlisting in the first place, you decided to do something else. What would that be? I think you can already guess mine, from everything up until now. The topic of magic crystals used in industrial applications and power substitutes is a brand new frontier, and I want to be at the forefront of that discovery. It’s one of the few schools of magic I can pursue, since I’m not a unicorn. But what about you? You’re great with machines, and I know you’ve never had a chance for higher schooling, but you’ve got a natural gift, Cyril. You should do something with it!
Next: have you had any accomplishments you’re particularly proud of? You’ve done a lot with your life, and there’s got to be something you look back fondly on. I know you’re full of doubt, so let me tell you what I’m proud of; you took the problem of feeding your family the second it came up, you love your sister to death, you’re incredibly respectful of your mother, loyal to the Empire regardless of the crap they keep throwing at you. You always have your morals and ideals, you stick to doing the right thing. Cyril, there are so many things you’ve done I’m proud of, and love you all the more for. C’mon, pull one thing out for me?
I’m proud of the fact that I’m here, in Equestria, doing what everypony told me was impossible; learning magic. True, I’m no longer at Luna Nova, but I’m on the way despite what they all thought of me. Take that, Professor Slide!
Okay, last one; would you ever want to be famous? Have your name on marquees and newspapers, be recognized wherever you went and have whole countries talking about you? I’m not one of those glory types myself, but I must admit that after talking about Longpaw, the idea of being in the headlines is a bit alluring. Though, maybe not butting heads with the scientific community. The need for bodyguards. Family being harassed. Death threats.
Maybe not.
Okay, the part where I worry over you. I already told you I’m concerned. You survived the Herzland Wars, don’t go getting blown up by some communist landmine, okay? If you die after everything that’s been thrown at you, after what we both went through with this long-distance relationship the past three years, I will kill you myself.
Seriously, though. Stay safe. We both know the worst things can happen at the flip of a riverbit. I don’t want to lose you after coming so close to getting you back. Keep your eyes open, head on a swivel. And come back to me.
Love,
~Paige
Sent February 19th
Dear Paige,
I’m glad your letter came in today. They’re putting our panzers on the trains next week, destination; eastwards. (I’ve started figuring out what specific information the censors are looking to clip. Victory at last) I’ve got everything packed up, and we’re getting one more weekend of leave before we hit the Grenzwald. I would take it at home in Griffenheim, but by the time I get there by train or wing I’d have to get ready to come right back out again. So me and the lads are planning to hit the town tonight, get some beers as a kompanie. I pity the pubs we choose to pillage; they don’t stand a chance once a military unit on leave gets underway.
We’ve got a few Bronzehill units here with us at this location which shall not be named. Apparently they’ve been entrusted with marching north and putting down the Sunstriker berserkers. Serves them right. Those Maar cultists are nothing but murderous anarchists. From all news, every free Bronzehill division is going north. They’ve got a pretty impressive set of all-dog air wings assembled too from what I hear. Good luck to them, they’re the best suited for the task. Spotsley wants to go with, I can see it. But she hasn’t said a word about leaving. Complains about not being sent in, of course, but never asks to be transferred.
You got the math pretty close, by the way. I know Hearts and Hooves Day passed for you already, and I appreciate the cookies. They’re quite tasty, and the rest of the crew thinks so too (bunch of thieving vultures). I bought you some Flowenan chocolates, managed to hide them long enough to wait for your letter. So it’ll be a little late, but I hope you appreciate the gesture at least.
About Haul: I don’t really trust him either. The rest of the crew is a bit offput by him, but he’s professional enough and does his job with no issue. We can put up with some ultranationalist preaching for a job well done. Doesn’t mean I trust he won’t eventually sell me out to MfOS or the Geheimstaat, but I at least know I can do my job too.
By the way; is this your way of saying pony culture is the only good one out there?
I’m kidding.
May 15. Purple. Got it. Let’s hope I get the math right too.
Dream job? Honestly, I never had much chance to do anything but work in the factory until I got old enough to enlist. Then the idea of moving on to something else never occured to me. I’ve never had a dream job, I’ve just always wanted to do what I can where I’m at. I suppose, if I was ever not shooting the Empire’s enemies, I might want to go into fixing automobiles. After you pointed out to me that my role here gives me good knowledge of machines, I talked to a few mechanics in the motor pool. It's not a dream job by any stretch, but it is something I could do in peacetime.
Accomplishments I’m proud of. I don’t know about that. I’ve done a lot in my life. I’m not sure I’m proud of any of it. It always seems to come with some drawback to rob it of any integrity it used to have. The closest I could come to thinking of something I hold with pride is Sophie. She’s only ten, but she’s already got a sharp mind, and it seems like she’s going to go down the right path when she grows up. I’m already proud of her and what she’s getting set up to do, and I know I had a part in helping her learn those lessons.,
Do I want to be famous? No. I don’t want that kind of attention. I can live my life without griffons watching me in the papers or on the television.
It’s odd. Ever since I spoke to you face to face in my house, you’ve been on my mind more and more, but the ache of you not being here has gotten worse too. As if with how close we got I could almost feel you there, and the fact I was that close and still so far from you makes me feel cheated. Don’t feel bad. I don’t regret what you did. Just wish I was there even more now.
Okay, questions for you. Let’s say you get a million bits in the mail. No strings attached, like a prize or an inheritance or something. It’s a lot of funds, I will admit. If I got a fortune like that, I don’t know what I’d do with it myself. Maybe buy Mother a better house, closer to the Imperial District. After that, maybe invest or buy shares? I’d have to find out how the stock market works before I do that. It’s got numbers, right?
Favorite festival or holiday? I’ve got to tell you, I don’t know much about pony traditions, and I know less about Equestrian ones than Riverpony ones. But mine would of course have to be Geheimesnacht. I think we had this conversation years back. The idea that the magic of the past seeps into the world around us is so intriguing to me, even if it does bring unsettled spirits with it. Of course, there’s also Imperial Day. The marches, the songs, the cookwagons in the streets. Anygriff with even a shred of patriotism in their veins has got to feel their heart swell at the sights, sounds and smells. Mind, they both come with beer and a day off. That might have something to do with it.
Final question: what’s the most beautiful place you’ve ever visited? I know this one is a bit subjective, but you’ve been all across Griffonia and now over to Equestria. Something has to have stuck with you from all that. For me, I remember when I was in Griefenmarschen. Not the best of memories, but we were out on anti-partisan patrol during the occupation one night (overkill? Maybe, but we weren’t taking chances). We were on our way back when dawn came up over the horizon. Now, the panzer column was going through a valley, so when the sun came up over the hills and spilled down, it was like a golden curtain falling on the snow. I haven’t seen anything else like that before or since.
I’ll try to stay in contact as best I can out east. We’ll be using the Reichsarmee mail train, and I would prefer that over whatever frontier system has to be rigged up, as unreliable as you know it is. Let’s hope for once our cynicism is unfounded.
Keep up your studies. I know you have it in you to do this. Just a few years of suffering to go, after all. Remember, put my unit on the envelope instead of my address to get the letter sent to my position. Otherwise, it’ll go home to Mother. Just a reminder.
Love,
~Cyril
(The letter is attached to a package of chocolates from Flowena, which carry quite a hefty price tag on them.)
Sent March 14
Dear Cyril,
I am sorry to have to watch you go to war again. Well, read about it. The Herzland War is only just over, and now they’re asking you to go follow a bunch of mad knights to conquer in the name of ‘imperial glory’. Big surprise there. Empires will be empires. But it doesn’t make it easier on you, me, your mother, your sister or your uncle. Still, no point complaining, I guess. I’ve only just realized how much I already said that part. But I’m allowed to worry about my buckfriend.
Thank you so much for the chocolates. They were delicious, but that was quite an expensive gift! You didn’t have to do that. I don’t care they were late either. You got them to me, and that’s all that matters.
I just want you to stay on your toes. The Reformisten may be playing the whole ‘reformed’ bit nowadays, but you can’t completely alter an organization without parts of it remaining. Anypony that willingly associates with what they once stood for, especially one from Longsword, I’d bet is brainwashed. Or worse.
Moving on.
School is still plugging onwards. I’m past the point where the excitement has worn off. Now, I’m just trying to get through and earn a degree so I can maybe stop for a few years and do some actual work. Static’s radio show is getting more popular, but she’s too political for me to listen to everyday. Still, she’s gotten a small following from the Southrons (their word for themselves, apparently) who believe the Royal government is ignoring the signs around the world. First she started about the fixed articles in the papers keeping ponies from knowing about what was really going on in Griffonia, but now apparently there’s some word from up north about trouble in the Wastes. And apparently the army is doing nothing about it. So a bunch of these ‘survivalist’ ponies have started using Static as sort of their sounding horn to pass news out. She does it, of course. They pay bits for her to read flyers, and we’re hard up for what we can get for rent and food. Oh, right. I lost my job. Apparently, a thestral can do my work better and with more ‘energy.’ So they hired one. Ironic, really.
There are some days I think going back to the military isn’t a bad idea.
Also, I know you were only joking about it, but I do feel I have to point out; no pony culture in the world has the foundation of taking things from others by force. Which is kind of how half or more of the griffon nations do things.
Okay, question time. We’re getting good at these, aren’t we? Favourite holiday. It has a complicated name in Rijekan, but in Equestrian it translates roughly to Ancestor’s Day. Basically, we remember our ancestors (surprise), what they did in life and how they lived. Great-grandparents, granduncle, some more distant relatives, you get the idea. It’s a saying back home, that you really die two times – first in the body and later when you’re forgotten. It's a big thing in the Republic, and in most of the Riverlands really, though I do know the Deponyan and Ponaidhean ponies have their spirit worship, so it winds up being a different affair for them. Though lately spending time here in Equestria I’ve really gotten involved with Hearths’ Warming Eve and Hearts and Hooves Day. You know about H&H Day, but the first one’s got more history to it. The Equestrians celebrate the union of the Pegasus, Earth Pony and Unicorn tribes that formed the country; so the holiday is meant as a celebration of friendship and harmony. Though since I’m not Equestrian I can’t really celebrate that part (from a cultural point of view) you can see how the story permeates into the wider attitude the ponies here have. I know my letters have focused on some of the bad parts, and it’s soured a bit with the recent world events, but you can’t believe how friendly Equestrian ponies are, at least compared to home. If you are walking down a street, expect somepony to say ‘hi’ to you with a smile randomly or ask how you’re doing. It's really nice, especially compared to what you or I are used to back east.
Now, what I would do with a million riverbits? That’s more difficult. I would definitely send some back to my family in Rijekograd, but even then it leaves me with a lot of money. Really, like the amount, there’s a million things I could spend it on. Though, with Morgend’s theory, I would really like to spend it on research dealing with renewable crystal energy. If you think about it, the return benefits of it succeeding easily surpasses the million bits; it would be way, way more than that, and I’d never have to worry about securing funds for myself after.
Favorite place? That’s a bit easy. So, basically, when I was a filly we went to visit some relatives in the northeast, near the border with Nimbusia. It's a really mountainous region, with a lot of forests as well. Now when I think about it, it's similar to your story: the last day before we left, I woke up at dawn and went to the window, which faced over the valley. I saw the sun rising up over the mountains and just spilling down to light up the whole place, letting the trees cast long shadows across the landscape. That whole scene stuck with me, to this day. It's gets better when you realize that this part of the world is one of the first to see dawn, so I was one of the first creatures on the entire planet to see the new day. It's nice when you think about it that way.
Okay, three from me. First of all, is there anything you do to reduce your stress? I understand you drink and hang out and don’t have much else when you’re out in the field, no real time for hobbies, but you’ve got to do something to pass the time, live with the army life. You know I love my music and sinking into my studies, but every once in a while, Static and I take a night and go to the cinema. It doesn’t even matter what the picture is, just as long as we get out. Then we go for drinks after. But what about you?
Question two: wardrobe accessories. Not to say any pony or griff needs clothes, but sometimes there’s that something you just can’t live without. Since I’m letting my mane grow out again, I’ve found it gets a little awkward to groom, so I’ve started braiding it. Not quite an accessory, but I always make sure to start my morning with the brush and a few hair ties. Twenty minutes later, braided mane. And I get you wear a uniform, but there’s got to be something else you just can’t go out without, right?
Third: drinks. I know what your favorite beer is, but is that your absolute favorite? Mine is strawberry milkshakes. It’s so odd, in the Riverlands you don’t find milkshakes all that often, but with how much Equestria loves ice cream, I can find a parlor on almost every corner. I don’t know what I’ll do when I go home.
I understand your issues with the mail system. Though I do have to say it seems to be getting a bit more efficient. Obviously you can’t tell me where you’re going, but if it’s where I think it is, you’ll be closer to home than I’ve been in years. A bit ironic. And it makes me homesick and missing you all over again.
Do me a favor; I know you and my father don’t get along, but try writing them again. It takes so long for my letters to reach them, I just want them to know I’m doing okay and thinking about them. It’s a lot less time for you to write, and you only have to go over once border, whereas I have a whole ocean to write across. And besides, I want you guys to get better. Find something you can relate to, even if it’s a little thing. Otherwise, this barrier between you two is never going to get better, and we’re going to be in for a rough ride. At least try. I can understand if it doesn’t work out anyway, but at least you’ll have made the attempt. For me?
Don’t ask about my brother, by the way.
Love,
~Paige
Sent April 12th
Dear Paige,
First, Happy Birthday. I know it’s still a month off, but I know I won’t get another chance to say it before, and I’m tired of writing about events after the fact. I couldn’t get you much out here in the middle of I can’t tell you where’s-ville, but I know you always love a good read, so I picked up a local storybook on myths and legends, “Raganų Istorijos”, which I’ve been told roughly translates to “Witch Stories.” Have fun with the language, I can barely read the title. Gives you a twofer, a new language to figure out and a book to go with it.
What I -can- tell you about was our short stay in Hellsword. As it turns out, the target we were moving towards has not yet had its rail network set up to the Imperial standard gauge (though from what I’m seeing, the whole thing needs to be ripped up and replaced regardless). So we offloaded in Visaginas to move southwards. Traveling with us we have several battalions of Reformisten soldiers, who had to march most of the countryside due to bad roads and lacking trucks. First off, the thing that got me was just how overwhelmingly the pony population outnumbers griffs out here. Aside from you and Haul, I’ve only seen a few in my time. And on some level, I knew this was pony country (Visagina was the center of the pony socialist uprising during the civil war). But I’ve never seen this many in one place. For every one griffon I saw in the city, there had to be a dozen ponies, but strangely the force we travelled with were mostly griffs. As you might have expected, there was propaganda everywhere, even more than in the Empire. Posters and banners and some kind of police with those special badges, ponies and griffs shouting Wingfried and the Emperor’s name all over the place or going “Angriff”, a lot of saluting and the Reformisten flag flying under the Imperial one. It’s actually really disconcerting. Oddly though, it didn’t seem like they were miserable about it all. So they’re doing this hot-stepping either out of passive fear or they actively believe this crap. Maybe both.
The roads we went down in the panzers seemed just like anything back in the Empire. Markets were bustling, shops were open, colts and fillies chased after our vehicles pestering us about the panzers over the noise. They seemed happy, though I suppose I’m a poor judge. A few even came out with Imperial banners, started waving them. That’s...probably the friendliest greeting I’ve gotten when we rolled through a place. I’m not saying I like it. The amount of conditioning is evident, and these ponies are okay with just letting a bunch of griffs rule over them who just a few years ago were committed to their very genocide. Wingfried be damned, who’s to say someone worse doesn’t take power when he dies?
We went south from there. The terrain is hilly, mountainous in some places. Their railroads might not be very good, but their roads are pretty well taken care of. Even the dirt ones. Every once in a while, we passed a militia watch station, and behind said station are a set of gallows. They’re usually bedecked with the rotten corpses of griffons marked as traitors, either hardline Blackcloaks or Pallas’ followers. Little more than dried skin over bones inside scraps of uniforms by now. But they apparently keep changing the signs, replacing the paint or the old wood. Someone wants everypony and everygriff to remember this. We passed one, just like any other, and Haul out on the turret getting some air, he points to one and said “That’s Pallas Dusktalon.” Just put out to rot like the rest. The sheer amount of control the Reformisten exert on their lands kind of answers my question of just how everygriff and pony here seems so happy. Not sure they’re really given a choice otherwise.
At least the Reformisten troops are decently drilled. The non-Knights are well-trained. They apparently use a similar structure to the Reichsarmee, calling themselves the Ostheer. These pony troopers don’t stick around long to chat, they mostly come look at Sabine and then take off when we try to ask them questions. But while their officers will talk with us, we don’t like doing it for long. They’re like Haul, continuing to go on about the purity of Imperial culture, the benevolence of King Wingfried and the filth that is communism. While I agree with the last one, the fact they can all pull a lecture out of their ass is equal parts annoying and worrying. ‘Angriff’ indeed.
I’m a bit separated from the rest of Imperial news, but I did hear something that caught my ear. I don’t know if you’re aware, but rumor is that there’s some rumblings coming out of the Changeling Lands. Something that’s got Uncle August and the rest of High Kommand getting nervous. By the time this reaches you, it may be too late. Or it could wind up being nothing. If it's leaked down to the lower ranks, even out here, it must be something important, though. I know everygriff says the Changelings are our friends, and that’s still the official story. But recently, every time I’ve seen Changeling troops at Imperial bases, there’s always been this tension. We’d always eat at separate tables, drill in separate yards, practice with different weapons. All that comradery and cooperation from years ago is gone. Something happened between the Changeling mission and High Kommand. I don’t know myself. Call it a weird feeling. Like there’s this gap between us now. You’re closest to the trouble. Stay alert. I don’t know that there’s much more I can do for you from here.
I’ll write your dad again. Not sure what to say to him. I get that this rift needs to be addressed, but if he doesn’t like me now, I’m not sure what to say to change his mind. We don’t exactly have much in common to discuss. As you well know. Not to mention it's a little tricky getting mail to the Riverlands through the Refromisten mail network.
Questions, then. Stress reduction is a bit of an odd one. You were air force, so you may not be aware of just what the front liners do to keep the edge off. I’ll avoid the utter stupidity to keep it tolerable, but we like target shooting cans with our sidearms, playing cards and placing bets on the sports teams we can listen to over the radio. It’s all gambled on, of course. No griff goes into a competition without something to gain, and bragging rights don’t mean much when you’re stuck with each other for weeks on end. Eihol makes a small fortune betting on the automobile races in the paper. Amazing.
This one made me laugh. Then scratch my head. Paige, Mein Leibe, I have worn civilian clothes I think maybe a dozen times or so in the past month. I don’t get much time to accessorize. Although, if I had to take a stab I might say my panzer goggles. We all wear them to protect our eyes in Sabine. I’ve always got my eye on the gunsight, so when Eihol takes us into a dip, I can at least not go blind. And then outside I’ve gotten so accustomed to them I just wear them around my neck everywhere I go. Habit, I suppose. Same with my coveralls, really. Though, on the few times I do go out, I have this blue hat. Nothing special. I picked it up from a cheap clothing stall. But I’m used to headgear. So that hat goes with me everywhere when I’m back home in Griffenheim. I put a pin with the logo of the Reichsarmee panzerwaffen in it. Little things, I suppose.
Well, you know I like my beers. Braufenweisen especially. But I do enjoy a good soda pop. Peach flavored, if I can get it. I told you some time ago that it’s a novelty out here. Doesn’t mean we don’t like it. So if I can get a day in a civilian town, I’ll spare a day where there’s no coffee or beer and look for a fruit-flavored pop. Brand doesn’t matter, as long as they’ve got the flavor.
Three for you right back, then. It’s getting difficult to think these up. We say again for the fifth time. And yet, we somehow keep doing it.
Do you miss your time in the military? I know you’re still in the Air Force reserves, and you had plenty of bad memories, but from what you wrote, it changed a lot of things for you. Might there have been something you remember fondly, at least? I don’t know what I’d do outside the Reichsarmee, as we’ve addressed before. And your input has really got me starting to think about looking into something I can fall back on. Can’t be in a panzer forever, right?
Second, Equestria or the River Republic? Not in a which is better sense, but where do you see yourself settling down? I know Rijekograd is where you grew up and your parents live there, but you seem to be having a great time in Equestria. No shame in staying where you like. I’ve been across the Empire, and now I’m wandering land she used to own, and will again soon. I don’t know where I’m going myself right now.
Finally, and this one might seem a bit awkward, but you’ve got Spotsley to thank for this one. Turns out she’s a fan of those trashy romance novellas. Anyway; if we do wind up having kids one day, how do you think they’d turn out? I know this one’s a bit sensitive because of what we had spoken of before a few letters back, but I guess we can’t afford to step around things in a letter-relationship. And, I didn’t have anything better, really. Personally, I (several sentence starts are scribbled out, smudged, wiped and written into the crease, as if the writer had folded up the letter a few times before continuing to write).
I just hope it all winds up okay. Hybridization’s apparently difficult enough. Four limbs, two eyes, one head. Everything fine. After that, doesn’t matter.
Okay, are you being serious with that one? Need I point out Nimbusia? Lake City? Deponya? Even your River Republic’s princess fell trying to conquer Wittenland (cracked open a history book not too long ago). And Griffonian culture has far more to it than martial prowess. There’s honor to code, chivalry, drive to accomplish. Ponies are creative and cooperative, I’ll give them that, but there’s no reason to ignore the parts of our cultures either one of us dislike.
Love,
~Cyril
Another slip of paper was in the same envelope, and written in a different ink, with a different writing style, were the simple words “YOU SHOULD BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY. OTHERS ARE READING. THIS IS HELLSWORD NOW. WILL WATCH OUT, SEE WHAT I CAN DO.
-LH”
Sent May 9th
Dear Cyril,
I have to pick up on your power of observation. Our unit’s been put on alert, which is disturbing because I haven’t flown anything in over a year now. My pilot’s license is a bit out of currency. They won’t tell us what’s going on, and the news appears to be blindingly oblivious. The only clear enemy on the continent is the Changelings, so if ponies can’t put the pieces together we kind of deserve to be taken by surprise. Apparently, we’re to report for ‘maneuvers’ near Mariposa. Which is a miracle for me since I have yet to find another job. I could use the extra pay, rent’s coming due. Between what Static and I will make together, we should be able to pay it. I just hope it won’t be for too long. I’d hate to have to clear my school backlog.
First, some good news. I ran into somepony at class today; another thestral that served up north in the Army during the Crystal War. Turns out he was using the same idea as I was, take the money for school after service and use it quick as possible. His name is Hills in Shadow (I think he’s from one of the tribes in the southeast) and he apparently served in Gloaming’s unit. You remember her? We had some good talks about our time in the north. Turned out, to my surprise, she really missed me before she got killed. Talked about me a lot to the unit, which surprised me because she wasn’t much for conversation when I knew her. I don’t even think we hung out a lot outside of study. But I haven’t thought much on her the past year. I feel awful for that. And now to hear she actually thought really highly of me? I considered us friends, but now I’ll never get the chance to have spent more time, done more with her. And I don’t have a lot of friends left.
(The next line has a few scribbles, as if the author made several attempts to write something, but gave up and moved on.)
Second, some bad news. I know you’re busy being the mighty hammer of the Empire (only half sarcastic there) so I wanted to report a few things happening at home you may not be aware of. Mostly because it doesn’t mean much to anypony so far away from it and also so you know what to keep an eye on when you get back. Which you will. Anyway. Apparently, there was a bit of stirring in March. Remember that business in 1009, when Lake City and Diamond Mountain almost started a war over Deponya? Well, Heavenly Snow and Lake City have formally left the River Coalition. I kind of saw this coming, with what my parents have been telling me about back home. The River Republic, Bakara and Wittenland have been making strong attempts to unite the region. A series of economic reforms and pacts got signed, railroads built, trade concessions etc. Boring politics you only need to know the gist of. My mother knows how much I like hearing the details (and I know you don’t). All you need to know is that the eastern half of the Coalition wants to draw all the Riverlands together and form a stronger nation, perhaps even a truly united one. While the western half, which is Lake City, Deponya and Diamond Mountain, keep protesting loss of independence. So, with all this going on, of course that’s when socialists in Bakara and the Republic want to start kicking up trouble, right? So keep in mind all of this is happening back in March. Yesterday I see in the news that the Coalition’s been broken. The Principality officially left. And with them, they took Diamond Mountain and Deponya. And as you’ve pointed out, the Empire is getting stronger (so is a greater threat to all the Riverlands according to the paranoid politicians in charge). There’s no way the River Coalition and the new East Griffonian Co-Prosperity Sphere (seriously) are going to leave things alone. So watch yourself.
I want to go home. It sounds like things are getting serious back there, between socialist uprisings in Bakara and the shit with Lake City. I’m worried about my parents. My father wants to stay, stubborn ass that he is. But my mother says she’s looking into the possibility of leaving. Where to, she’s not sure. But neither of them want to get caught in this. I’d send them some bits (the exchange rate is good with all the crashes and whatnot) but I don’t have anything. At this point, I’m already committed here, and I can’t leave without formally being released. Which means I can’t do a damn thing.
I know that doesn’t affect you much. Just felt like getting it out. Nopony here would get it either. Except Static, but you know how she is when it comes to politics.
Listen, I’ve been giving it some thought. Both before and after I got your letter. I’m sorry. The pressure I put on you about kids so long ago wasn’t fair. And after your last letter and how it really must have been hard for you to think it over, I just wanted to take that pressure off. I know the odds of hybridization. And I would love for nothing more than to look forward to that possibility. But I know what we’re thousands of miles apart, have been for years. And making you face what’s been on my mind isn’t fair. While it's sweet that you’re getting worried too, I’m okay. Really. Step 1: get face to beak meeting. Step 2: plan for future. I promise, I’ll stop jumping ahead.
I’ve got my bags packed and waiting by the door. As I write, Static’s closing down her station. Tonight’s the last night we’ve got before we head to the depot. I almost feel like taking a few drinks, but we’ve got to be up early. But I had to take this time to sit down and write to you. Funny thing is, I got your last letter a few days ago. But if I hadn’t, I would have written anyway. Then we’d have another letter in circulation. Wouldn’t that be ridiculous? But I didn’t want to miss my chance to say something. I can’t help but feel like we’re getting close to something here, the world on edge like it is. Everywhere is getting more and more chaotic, like it's all building up to something. I almost feel like, if I don’t write you now when I’ve got the chance, I’ll regret it. Call it a bad feeling, or maybe your sense for danger at long distances is rubbing off on me. I’ll take the latter, personally. Especially if it's literal.
(A few small scrapes, as if the author was considering scratching out the last line)
Wow, that was terrible. Segue to questions and answers so I can actually pretend I got something done with this letter.
For your first question, I find it ironic since I’m being mobilized short notice. Guess we’re in the same boat. But yeah. More than I realized, I missed a few things. The job security, for one. Two lost jobs and a month of unemployment later and I do miss the sense that I at least could keep hold of something. The food was...not good. Quarters were free I guess. And it was amazing to fly airplanes. Until, y’know, the whole battle thing. I know you’re a lot more accustomed to that. Makes my term in uniform seem like a foal playing dress up. I’ll be okay playing Airmare for a little while. Take a break from city life.
River Republic. Hooves down. I like Equestria, I do. It’s calm and quiet, everypony here is nice. Aside from a -small- case of evil invasion, it’s peaceful. But it’s -too- nice. I know that seems a bit odd to say, but I really can’t take the whole “friendship” angle that keeps getting heaped on. It’s nice to cooperate and all, but we both know reality, and ignoring the rest of the world doesn’t mean you’re a paradise in comparison. My family aside, I need to live somewhere that’s in touch with how the world really is.
This one technically doesn’t count either, since I answered it earlier. But I think I have an idea. I gave it a bit of thought when I wanted to apologize for the pressure. But here goes. I still remember your face. Every detail. My eyes would be good with your feathers, I think. A muzzle would make things a bit more comfortable. But claws and talons would let them interact with the world. Wings, of course. Then we could all fly together. Your stubbornness. My artistic flair. They’d never give up on anything in life. That’s the kind of thing I’d want for our children, should we ever succeed. But we do have a few more steps in between to accomplish, don’t we?
Three for you then.
What do you remember of your father? You talk about your mother all the time, but you seem really hesitant to mention anything more about him. Stefan, was it? I understand it is painful to think of him. I just want to know more about you and your family. Your mother doesn’t speak much about him either. I think his loss might have been too much for her. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. My father, Stern Vigil, has been a river worker since he was a foal. I told you my grandfather served in the Deponyan Royal Army, but my father didn’t want anything to do with that. So he moved east to get away from the Empire and settled down in the Republic after he met my mother, Poppy Banks. I know you’ve written him, and you know he’s a bit intense. I thought that might bring you two together, given how like him your mother is. I’m sorry that hasn’t been the case. I know he’s harsh and judgemental, but he does it because he cares. His father died for a kingdom that barely paid their family back. He doesn’t look well at armies or the Empire for either of that. He tells me all the time he can’t look out for me if I’m across the world, and my brother’s already run off with the criminal lifestyle. I know I disappoint him, but I also know I make him proud. He just has a hard time saying it. Mother has always tried to mediate between us, and her job’s not easy through letters. Now he’s got all the trouble back home, I’m worried he’ll be too focused on Brook and I to keep his eye on what’s happening there.
Do you keep touch with friends? You mention you’ve been moved through a few units, and you go drinking with your comrades. As well as the ones from Industrie you probably see when you go home. Ever since I left the Riverlands, my friends in Rijekograd have been writing me less and less. Now I’m losing touch with my Equestrian friends from Luna Nova. All I seem to have left is Static, a few ponies from my RAF days and the friends I have in Hoofington. And I’m worried that, when I move on somewhere else, I’ll lose touch with everypony there too. More and more, I come to value your letters as my only permanent source of conversation (aside from Static, though some days she’s so dry and sarcastic I just leave her alone).
Finally, to change up the tone a little and make things somewhat cheerier, what’s the most daring thing you’ve done? Aside from what you’ve been through in the army, you mentioned having a pretty wild childhood in Griffenheim. And children, whether foals or chicks, always dare each other to do stupid, intense things. For me, I remember this time when my friends and I found this series of caves. Nopony knew where they went, and we didn’t even know they were so close to home. We were fascinated to see what was inside, but so scared to even try it. So, I went first. And got lost. The place was practically a honeycomb inside. I got out eventually, but let me tell you, I wasn’t too smart when I charged in cause I wanted to impress my friends. I still remember those deep, dark caverns. Beautiful, but I was terrified the whole time that I’d found the lair of a dragon or something. Obviously, I got out, but those caves have stuck with me the whole time. I’ve never just thrown caution to the wind like that again. Always look things over, always have a plan, my father says. And I’ve stuck to that ever since. Well, tried to at least.
Now’s my usual time to say I miss you. Things are getting more and more tense on both our ends. You back at war already and me still unemployed and struggling. Still haven’t heard back from the EEA (Equestrian Education Association) about my scholarship. If I could at least get them to help me with some things like bills and rent, it would be a lot easier. But military education only covers tuition, not food and board. The decision to move out of the dorms may have not been a good one, but if I go back I lose Static as a roommate. But don’t worry about me. There’s nothing for you to do, so there’s no point in you freaking out too. I always have a plan. Right now, that’s to report for these exercises and rack up a bit more reserve pay for rent. But you’re the one at very real risk of getting killed, not me. So do me a favor; don’t go sticking your head out for some communist sniper to take it off. If you die, I’ll fly over to Griffonia and dig you up just so I can bitch you out myself.
Love,
~Paige
P.S.: In case you’ve forgotten, I still have your medal. Keep it close to my heart. I’ll be carrying it everyday on these maneuvers.
(Inside is a photograph of Paige, in her RAF fatigues. From the background, it appears this was taken in her apartment. Her smile is wide and energetic still, wings flared excitedly, her photo of Cyril held up so the camera can see it. Flipping it over, the writing on the back reads “To Cyril, Now you have one too. -Paige”)
Sent June 14th
Dear Paige,
I’m finally allowed to speak on our destination and what I’ve been up to with details, though I’m pretty sure you figured out where we’ve been going. We’re in Prywhen now, heading south towards Cyanolisia. The 41st Panzergrenadiers’ main objective is to beat Beakolini to the border before Wingbardy absorbs the entire south, like he did with Falcor. Like he’s doing now with Sicameon. It’s not dramatic to say on my part, but we’ve been rolling through the Griffonian Liberation Army like a knife through ancient scroll paper. The communists don’t have any panzers of their own, and with the Reformisten and their Knights backing us, I’m reminded pretty firmly of Griefenmarsch. It’s not a good memory. Everyday it’s the same thing. Wake up, move on enemy positions, overwhelm them, move on. The GLA griffs don’t even have a sufficient amount of artillery, no panzers, no airplanes. The Reformisten troops and Grenadiers we have with us are our only limiting factor. These militia fighters seem so...tired, I guess. The city fights aren’t even really fights anymore, and a lot of these towns barely deserve the name. We’re fighting an enemy with his wings clipped and a claw behind his back. I’m sitting behind thick centimeters of steel armor plate with an MG and a cannon, and the most they seem to have is hand grenades and the occasional artillery piece.
The only upside? A lot of them are choosing to surrender. More and more each day. Good. Less for me to have to mow down.
We’ve all had to soften our approach here. At first, it was slaughter all resistance inside a town. We weren’t taking many prisoners then. Now, as more griffs are just giving up, the Reformisten are moving to the propaganda campaign. They keep going on about “integralism” and restoration of Imperial glory. Given what I’ve seen here, it's not like the revolution did them much good. We’ve started escorting food convoys recently. These griffs are so thin. A lot of them are giving up now they understand we’re willing to feed them. I’ve heard most of our POW camps are turning into aide stations. Landwehr, Reformisten, Reichsarmee. We’re doing more garrisoning than fighting lately. Only the harcore GLA communist fanatics are really holding out. They’re getting thinner by the day.
Imperial and Hellsword divisions are moving east from Blackrock. Apparently, the bandits there didn’t put up much better fight. They’re coming towards our lines to join up and catch the GLA forces in a vice. And behind us, behind both thrusts, comes the Landwehr. More and more occupation forces. If it keeps up like this, we’ll be to Cyanolisia before month’s end. Faster if negotiations with Gryphus are successful. From all accounts, we might be able to convince them to return to the Imperial banner without a fight. I don’t know how much you know about Gryphus, but they have two very powerful political forces down there controlling the Free Towns (what, you thought the Free Towns were actually in charge?); the first is the Militärorden der Brüder vom Herzlandisch Haus der Heiligen Opinicus. You might have heard of them simply as the Order of Opinicus. Long story short, they’re a bunch of crusader nuts left over from Grover II’s days. Bringing them back in would be a huge source of local griffpower. I know they’ve apparently become very vocal about carrying on their crusade. Well, now they can purge to their murderous hearts’ content without starting a civil war in Gryphus. The second I know you’ve heard about. De Gryphusische Südkontinent-Gesellschaft. The Southern Continent Company is notorious, and securing their trade networks and spreading their assets out over the Empire again would mean huge things back home (not to mention their huge Landsknechte army). Apparently, King Wingfried and Grand Duke Gerlach are negotiating with the Grandmaster and Governor-Executive, and the news the officers are telling us sounds promising. One more Imperial territory returned, one more war avoided.
Don’t ask about Griffonstone. Apparently we’re staring over gunsights with Wingbardy. Nogriff wants to start that war.
Less politics. Most of what I’m getting is from the Reformisten, the newspapers and the officers, so you know at least half of it is bullshit. I don’t want to keep going on about war stuff with you anyway. Much better things to talk about.
The way this war has been going has given me time to think. I have a few of your letters here, and I’ve been looking through them a lot. Rereading them. I’ve got your photo taped over my gunsight. I’m back to you stuck on the brain. The hills make me think of you, talking about your home in Rijekograd. I roll into a town and I think about how you’d want to try and help all these griffs out of their suffering. I talk to Reformisten soldiers and I can’t help but remember your warnings (Haul had a talk with me, by the way. Apparently he’s trying to make sure we understand at both ends how to not draw attention). I see Imperial planes overhead and can’t help but think of you. You’ve literally wormed your way into my head at this point, and refused to leave. I can’t say I mind too terribly. I miss you. But it's the better kind of missing you now, instead of just being bitter about being so far apart. I’m getting hope back that we’ll have our chance after all. This war won’t last much longer. The frontier is falling faster than the Black Knights or High Kommand predicted.
Nogriff is really happy with this farce of a war. Spotsley keeps track of the northern campaign. The Sunstriker Front has bogged down. Bronzehill’s troops are refusing to back down, but Sunstriker’s not giving an inch either. I can tell it’s getting to her. But she doesn’t ever want to talk about it. I’m worried about her. There’s something else going on there she isn’t telling us. Sergeant Hellseig is just as enigmatic as ever. Eihol’s kind of getting quiet. Dipping into his drinks more. We’re watching him as best we can. Seems the only one whose spirits are up is Haul. He’s in a chipper mood. Goes on and on about the same old rhetoric. Bringing prosperity to the land, restoring the Empire through Operation Tartarus. I think he just likes being with his ‘people’ again. Much as the Reformisten say they’re on our side, they feel like a separate nation. They claim they’re here to restore the Empire, but they shout Wingfried’s name a lot. They don’t really seem to declare any victories for the Kaiser. They’re invaluable as combat troops, and the Vollstrecker don’t seem to have a problem with them. They certainly have a loyal following. But I’m not alone in thinking the sooner we finish here, the better.
My father was a good griff. It’s been a long time. And it is still painful. But we’ve been honest with each other. Nothing hidden, nothing obscured. I know everything about you. You deserve to know everything about me. Stefan Richtofen was a career soldier. He gave his life for the Empire. He was always proud to serve, and he told me he would be proud of me when I served. He purposefully avoided going to the akadamie so he could stay in the field with his troops, rather than be stuffed in an office. This was long before the reforms I went through. It was a different time, after the Revolution. He was a bit absent, true. Sophie hardly remembers anything about him. My fondest memories were of him coming home. He’d be tired, but he was already ready to catch me when I flew at him. He never shouted, never got angry. He was stern when he disciplined, but never over the top. Mother said he was the best thing to happen to her. And then, one day, he didn’t come home. Instead there was a Reichsarmee leutnant at the door, cap off and looking awkward. Just like that. He never got to see me enlist. He never saw Sophie start flying. And I never got to see him at his best. Just taken away by some rioter in Romau. I never want to go to that city as long as I live.
My old friends are like yours. We drifted apart. I still have a few comrades I hear from in the Imperial Guard, back before I joined the panzerwaffe. I have a few from other kompanies I talk to. But the ones in my unit, I -know- but I’m not...close with. It's like you’ve said. We’re so afraid of losing each other, we try not to form bonds too deep. We’re all brothers and sisters here, and we’d die for each other. But nogriff really talks much about home. Just a little bit of small talk here and there. It’s different between panzer crews. Infantry squads. That’s where the real brotherhood is. My friends at home are either in the army too or they’ve settled into their own lives. I see them every once in a while. We chat. But I don’t send letters to them. Not nearly as much as I do you.
The most daring thing I’ve done. Well, you hit that nail on the head. Before I had to become ‘responsible’ there was this one time. Back when Industrie was still its half-deserted state when I was a kid, we hosted this ‘gang war’ on our city block. We wound up getting really close to the Imperial quarter, and then the contest became about who was brave enough to try and fly towards the palace. There we are, a bunch of dumb idiot kids standing on top of a factory at the waterfront. We keep trying to fly out towards the palace over the Griffking, only to lose our nerve and turn back. Finally, I just say fuck it and glide out as far as I can...I lost control at the end, smashed into the outer wall and flew back as fast as I could. After that, the Guard finally caught on to us and we scattered. But still. Good memories of a simpler time.
I think I’d like to take a break from the questions. Just for a few letters. It’s been a good way to get to know each other. But I think we’re both struggling for them, both questions and answers. I’d rather talk about what’s going on in your life right now anyway. Just for a bit.
Be careful, Paige. I know these are just training maneuvers. But this is all very strange to me. Nothing feels right about what you’re telling me, what Uncle August isn’t telling me, what the brass is saying. Just stay prepared. I’m just a lowly Korporal. But even I can smell an army on the march. And I don’t know if it's Equestria’s or someone else's.
Stay safe. I love you.
~Cyril
Sent July 10th
Dear Cyril,
Something’s happening. I can tell. The officers don’t want to talk about it, and communication outside the base has been restricted. We’ve been put on constant alerts. Recon squads go out all hours of the day and then they’re confined to quarters for days after. I don’t know how much longer before I can’t send mail.
You were right. There’s more than just our squadron here. A LOT more. Mariposa’s military complex is packed full of air squadrons, army divisions, royal guard, mages, tanks. Thing is, most of them are reservists and National Guard. I talked with a few ponies from other units, and they say the same story. We’re supposed to be here for war games, at the order of Royal Army Command and Princess Luna herself. But so far as I can tell, no mock battles have happened anywhere. We’ve been here for weeks, apparently just training and stockpiling equipment.
I’ve been assigned to a Blenheim, #83. Apparently, taking a crash course in map reading is enough to qualify me for navigator, because I’m running dual duty. It’s this strange heavy-fighter/light bomber mixup. I’m not sure the RAF is really sure what they want it to be. Static is with us as radio mare, and we’ve got a new pilot assigned us. Solar Ace, Flight Lieutenant. He’s an okay sort, one of those stiff upper lip types you hear about from the RAF. Yes, they exist. Fortunately, I was never assigned one of them except as an instructor. But the thing is, he’s professional military, full-time. They never just mash half-qualified crews together in the same flights, much less the same planes.
We’ve been briefed on Changeling weapon systems. And honestly, what they’ve got in the sky outclasses us by a wide margin. These planes are sharp, advanced, lethal. And from what we’re being told (and I’m not allowed to relay) they’ve got a bucking lot of them. But most of this is speculation, from recon reports the brass keeps censoring. They’re hiding something and only giving us the barebones. I really feel like I’m being jerked around here.
It’s like I’m back in the Crystal War again. We wait up every night after exercises, listening for the alerts, trying to pick out something other than our own birds. We’ve got CAP flying all night, every night over the base, and the AA perimeter is always manned. This doesn’t feel like an exercise. This feels like we’re expecting an invasion. The ground units are dispersed between here and Vanhoover, and MPs are checking everypony’s papers everyday. They keep talking about tightening security measures, and at first that didn’t make sense. Until I remembered that Changelings can shapeshift (in my defense, it only took me a few seconds to remind myself). Now I don’t know who to trust, or what to say to anypony. Which is likely what the bugs want.
Cyril, something bad is coming. This may be my last letter for a while. I’m sorry we never got that time to spend together. I’m sorry that Solid ever happened. I’m sorry I had to stick it out here in Equestria. I should have come back to you.
I’m actually really scared, Cyril. And my biggest fear is that I’m going to lose my only way of talking to you. That this -is- going to turn into another war, and I’m not going to hear from you again. I get that I’m just rambling through nerves down here, but I honestly have nothing else to do. Radios are confiscated, telephones are only available to officers and there’s buck all to do here on base that we haven’t done a hundred times already now. We’re not allowed to go into town, and all I brought with me to read are textbooks and that Longsword story book you bought me (nice pictures, but I’m still piecing the language together). I get stuck in my head when I get stressed out, and when I get stuck in that loop, everything appears to get so much worse. I’m starting to wonder if I may be getting anxiety attacks. I don’t know anymore.
Write me back. Now. The second you finish this letter. I don’t care what the buck you’re doing, get me a reply. Don’t leave me alone out here.
Princess Luna had been debating on dimming the moon when she raised it these past few weeks. If her suspicions bore out, a dim moon would make an invasion of any kind difficult for an attacker. They’d be forced to either attack during the day, in which Equestria’s large air force could more easily assist her ground forces, or try to make the attack in the darkness, during which accidents would occur, friendly fire was a certainty, and units would of course lose their way. But in the end, she kept the moon cycle as normal for one reason; Changelings were nocturnal shapeshifters. This wasn’t your normal enemy they faced over the northern border, this was a foe who could literally change their appearance to give themselves the physical attributes they needed, fly over rough terrain, and use their black carapace hides to conceal themselves in darkness even without their abilities. After Chrysalis’ attempted coup, Luna had committed herself to learning everything she could about them, and it still wasn’t enough. They were like nothing she had ever faced before, and Equestria was already a malnourished state defense-wise against regular foes like griffons or monsters. The Crystal War had exposed deep faults in the Royal Armed Forces, faults that had been ignored or handled too sluggishly. While Luna’s own influence had improved after her work reforming thestral rights with Celestia, she found that the undying adoration the Royal Army had for her only got her so far. Many of her attempts to alter training had her run headlong into Chancellor Neighsay of the EEA of all ponies. It turned out that soldier curriculum, by outdated traditions in place for centuries, fell under their oversight. Attempts to procure better equipment ran into treasury problems, production had issues with industry leaders and even an attempt to muster up additional ponypower was headed off by her own generals, who pointed out that such a decree from her when no war was active would likely be hotly contested.
After everything Luna had done, she couldn’t fix the one thing she had finally become comfortable handling in this day and age. She assumed improving the lives of the thestrals and reintegrating them into society would bridge the gap, but while she had reversed their fortunes, the nation paid for it as businesses and society were thrown into confusion. Managers and businesses that discriminated against thestrals were promptly punished, leading to an air of extreme caution and sensitivity. As it turned out, Twilight’s proposed reforms had worked too well, too fast. Things were only just going back to normal.
Luna sighed as she gazed down to Canterlot from the high ledge, with its wide boulevards, high white towers and bright lights illuminating her streets. She should be going out soon, to guard the citizens of Equestria’s sleep from nightmares. But all she could think about was the border, and the ponies stationed there as little more than sacrificial sheep. Oh, she didn’t want to think of them as such or to throw away their lives. But her options were severely limited.
“Ah, Luna,” said a melodic voice behind her, snapping her out of her thoughts. “I see you haven’t left yet.”
“You are up late, Sister,” the alicorn of the night replied, not looking back as Celestia stepped onto the balcony with her, her pleasant white coat and rippling rainbow mane contrasting not only her own, but also the darkening shadows across the palace walls. It seemed no matter how late it was, Celestia was always bright and radiant in appearance. “I assumed you would have retired by now. Or at least gone to relax for the evening.”
“I haven’t seen you for several days now. And even then, you’re always so busy.” Perhaps Celestia sensed her sister’s apprehension, the dark storm of thoughts brewing in her head, because she stopped short of coming up next to her at the railing. “You’ve certainly been...invested in military affairs as of late. A few weeks ago, you were asking to review the naval budget. Now I hear you’ve called up wargames at Mariposa between the Army and Air Force.”
“Only the reserves and National Guard,” Luna pointed out, now actually looking at her sister with a stoic expression she normally saved for uncooperative ministers and public appearances. “Since I was forbidden from using the regular troops.”
Celestia didn’t even look surprised, merely examining her sister carefully. “I never said you were forbidden. I said it was a terrible idea. That there were ponies who would get in your way.”
“Tia, who are we kidding?” Here, Luna’s expression finally changed, though into one of exasperation. “We are practically -queens-! Any decree we give is followed without contest! -You- are the only one who can stand in between my orders and my soldiers!”
“-Your- soldiers?” Celestia asked coolly, an eyebrow arching even as her eyes narrowed.
Luna huffed, not in the mood to split hairs. “-Our- soldiers, whom -you- placed me in charge of!” She spat, pointing an accusing hoof at the day alicorn. “Why ask me to command them if I cannot fix the problems I see? Why charge me with Equestria’s defense if I cannot move them where I need them? Why ask me to oversee training and equipping if I am denied the funds I need to change both?”
“Luna, enough.”
“No!” Even she was a little taken aback by her response, and Luna needed a moment to recover, compose herself and continue, now much quieter and calmer. “Sombra is gone. But the threat -is- real. We are in danger here, and everytime I try to change something, I am stonewalled. By ministers. By budgets. By -you-.” Luna sighed, shaking her head as she gestured out beyond the balcony. “The world is still full of peril. You have -been- there, by my side. We were not given this nation to let it fall to our enemies.”
“Luna,” Celestia tried to intone gently, her face softening once again. “I understand your worries. But as you said, Sombra -is- gone.”
“And what a victory -that- was!” Luna snapped back. “How many lost for our victory, Sister? A hundred-thousand of our subjects dead and wounded to push Sombra back. And how many Crystal ponies died for the liberation? Every one of his soldiers we killed was a citizen brainwashed or enchanted into doing his bidding. In the end, the only ones who suffered was -we-. Sombra was never confirmed destroyed. I know he is STILL out there, somewhere, and now abruptly the Changelings have an advanced, unified industrial nation and a massive army full of griffon-designed tanks, which they have used to conquer two of their neighbors! The warnings are all over the walls, Celestia! And yet, we do -nothing!-”
“We don’t need to do anything,” Celestia replied. “When the Changeling economy has balanced itself with the resources they now possess, they’ll see Chrysalis for the insane being she is and depose her.”
“Bullshit, they will,” Luna snapped. Celestia blinked, taken aback and shocked. They were from an older time, Luna especially more than herself. They didn’t use crass language like that. While she was proud of how her sister had adapted to the modern day, eleven years just didn’t seem like enough time to break her of her usual air of high nobility. A voice in the back of Celestia’s head reminded her that Luna had found a very strong bond with her generals and admirals, and had even toured army camps on the front during the Crystal War. Clearly, she had picked up a few modernized words here and there.
Luna pressed on. “Tia, Chrysalis is the one who united the hives! -She’s- their savior! The very reason they won over Olenia in the first place! What on this earth makes you think they’re going to just cast her down when the system she has put in place is -working-? That is the most idiotic thing I have ever heard!”
Silence. The quiet night stretched on between them, the two sisters huffing as the emotion of the moment rolled over their argument. This was not the first time they had clashed over this issue. And it was the same result every time. Luna would attempt sweeping reform of the Royal Armed Forces, Celestia would head her off and then Luna would be forced to work from the sidelines, affecting small change here, introducing minor measure there, dispensing instructions to the generals to keep them going towards possibly reworking the heap that was their defense force. In some regards, she had been very successful. The Lunar Sea Fleet had gotten their first cruisers last year, and the Celestial Sea Fleet now had three modern Rockhoof class carriers to it. The Royal Air Force had finally replaced all their Hurricanes with Spitfires, and from what she’d heard the new Celestia infantry tank design was ready to go into prototype phase next month. At this rate, they’d be able to mass produce some time next year. But the large scale changes she knew they needed to stand against Chrysalis’ Imperial Army were always shot down. The lack of ponypower to train new divisions and fill the gaps in existing ones, the lack of a modern, portable machine gun to give their bolt-action Lavender rifles some tactical support, an outdated tank doctrine that specifically kept armor on light and medium tanks thin because of their place in Equestrian battle doctrine, and of course the absolute shunning of additional submarines due to them being ‘cowardly’ weapons. None of it was fixed, only softened.
Finally, Luna sighed, calmed down. She looked Celestia right in the eye and wearily asked “Why?”
“Why?” Celestia repeated, not as if she didn’t understand, but more as if she were processing the word. And that was when Luna brewed into a cold fury, sweeping a hoof to point out beyond Canterlot, to the northwest, trembling in her barely controlled rage.
“Why! Why am I unable to mobilize when our recon flights -clearly- tell us the Changelings are massing on our border? Why am I barred from increasing recruitment rates and authorizing propaganda campaigns to fill our ranks? Why must I work in the dark, in secret meetings and clandestine calls to get my generals the orders they need to make certain Equestria is kept safe? Why, when Queen Velvet begged you to step in and save her country, did you override my recommendations for a first strike, or even to support a resistance movement? Why, Tia? WHY?”
Her voice had escalated, from a stern and cold pitch through to insensate fury, all the way up to her Royal Canterlot voice, Celestia’s mane blowing in the wind she generated. And yet, the elder was unphased, merely looking down at her sister.
Both literally and figuratively, Luna thought scornfully.
But Celestia surprised her, then. She smiled. And Luna’s rage doubled, feeling the clawing darkness that was always present in her mind returning, whispering, gleefully boasting that Celestia would never see her as her equal, always the stupid little sister to be controlled. The voice that said she was the one who should be in charge, without inane weights holding her down. The voice of Nightmare Moon, the part of her she had locked away inside herself for years.
“I see now. Ironic. The one banished to the moon and stepping out of time has grown up much more than I ever have.”
And in a moment, Luna’s fury abated, leaving her flabbergasted, trying to struggle for words.
“Wha...how do you mean?”
“Luna, when you came to me for help with your thestrals, I almost told you to strike out, accomplish it on your own. In my mind, undertaking this campaign would have been such an experience for you, becoming your own mare and finally cementing your place as a true ruler of Equestria, loved as much as feared, and a firm figure. But a dark vision passed through my mind, and I knew too much was at stake. Yes, you were capable, but I had to make -sure- the reform succeeded.” Celestia moved past her, taking up a place at the railing now herself, staring first up at the moon, then across the horizon towards the northwest. “When you rallied Equestria to face Sombra, I knew you were still the same warrior who defeated him a thousand years ago. And our troops and public were behind you, every step of the way. But then the Crystal War ended...and the peace came with it.” She turned to Luna again, sadly. “Ponies wanted their calm, quiet life back. To grieve their lost loved ones and to reclaim their sense of safety. We had won. What was the point of staying armed, ready for an attack? Surely you saw it in their dreams?”
Luna had indeed. During the Crystal War, the ponies dreamed for victory and safety from the evils of the north. With her new duties of running a war, Luna had shamefully been forced to ask Celestia for help once more with safeguarding their dreams, especially with Sombra’s vicious umbrals at large. Her war had been fought at the sides of mages as much as with the soldiers in the snow. She nodded, mollified and listening intently.
“And after? What did they dream of?”
“Of life returning to normal,” Luna sighed. “Perhaps even better than normal, as if to forget what had happened to begin with.”
“Ponies are not natural warriors anymore,” Celestia pointed out. “Our lust for battle has long been left idle, to wither and die. The Riverlands diplomats I meet point out to me the vast difference when I hired instructors from the east.”
Luna’s ears perked up at that. When had she done that? Riverlands instructors? In her camps? Surely she would have heard about that? But no...that fell under EEA jurisdiction. Luna had moved on from that stonewall. Had Celestia gone around the EEA anyway?
“I am not blind to the threat of the Changelings, Luna. Nor am I so feeble as to believe Friendship would defeat Chrysalis a second time. You cannot make friends with armies. This is a new war we face. A brutal one. An industrial one. And so, I stalled for time. The longer Chrysalis spent on Olenia and her own affairs without believing she needed to rush to attack us, the longer you had to work.” She smiled at her sister, who frankly looked flabbergasted. “I used those same thestral reforms we worked out with Twilight to pressure industry leaders who stonewalled you. I kept the nobles busy with parties so they wouldn’t be paying attention to the new ships you commissioned with commoner officers. Planned railroad projects when you set up new airfields in the south and to the west so the material movement would not raise attention. When I said how mobilizing the regular troops would enrage our populace, ponies who want nothing to remind them of the dark war we fought not so long ago, I made sure nopony was aware of you moving reserves north.”
“Sister...I…” Luna was stunned speechless for a moment.
“While I admit I could have done more, or simply let you have at it with your opponents, I didn’t want the good will you had gained with the people go to waste. Equestria loves you now, Luna. You saved them from Sombra’s legions. The last thing I wanted was for them to hate you again. However right you were. Are.” Celestia sighed, head hanging, her mane drooping slightly. Did she suddenly look much more tired than before? “And, I will admit to a fault on my own end in leaving Chrysalis be. I truly thought the Changelings were united by nothing more than a cure to their hunger. Why else would they support such a mad creature as Chrysalis? By the time I saw my error in reasoning, it was too late. And if I could not help you prepare us for war while saving the love you now had, I could at least make sure nopony got in your way.”
Celestia turned back to Luna, away from Canterlot. Her face was now grim, determined. “You’ve been warning me of Changeling mobilization for some time now, yes?”
“Yes, Sister.” Her recon agents and planes had confirmed as much since the beginning of June, massive amounts of forces moved to the border from Seaddle all the way across the frontier. The few spies she had been able to secure in Olenia said that garrison units were being stripped of planes and heavy hardware, and a polar bear naval officer with leaked intel had revealed that the Grand Armada had slipped its moors days ago. The signs were all there.
“Then, Luna; I fear you will finally be proven right in these next few days. So. I will no longer stand in your way. And I will no longer protect Equestria from you, whatever measures you feel need be put in place. Instead, I trust you to do the right thing to protect our realm. I will support you, all the way.”
Luna slowly stepped forward, until she was standing next to Celestia at the railing, both of their gazes pulled almost by an invisible force towards the northwest. They were silent for several minutes, contemplating the impossible task set before them.
“Acornage will fall,” Luna finally stated. “The defense line was not completed. It is still understrength and suffers many gaps. Whitebell will likely go the same. Mariposa I do not have high hopes for. Vanhoover, we will likely only delay them. And the Celestial Sea Fleet must be given orders to sail, at once. The Lunar Sea Fleet will not last against the Changeling Armada, not after they absorbed those Olenian battleships.”
“I will sound the general mobilization at once. I can dispatch the Royal Guard to respond immediately.”
“It will still take them several days at least to make it to the front. We need to prepare for heavy losses.”
Celestia nudged Luna, and the smaller alicorn looked up at the taller one. Actually, was it her imagination, or was their height difference not quite as pronounced now?
“You have a plan, I take it.”
“Yes. With your permission-”
“You have it.”
Luna blinked in surprise, the words dying on her lips. “I have not said it.”
“I do not need to hear it. You have proven worthy of my trust on many occasions. This, our most important hour, is no different.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that,” Celestia assured, smiling proudly at her sister. In that moment, both of them shone more brightly on the balcony, Luna’s star mane lighting up like the constellations it resembled, and Celestia’s coat was like a lighthouse on this top tower. “Go. I will take over the dreamwatching for tonight. I’m more prepared this time. But from now on, we split it. We’re both about to be very busy at all hours of the day.”
“Like nothing we know of, Sister,” Luna agreed, stretching her wings and taking flight, immediately soaring off towards the building of the Ministry of Defence. Within seconds, her black and blue form was gone in the darkness, swooping down to lead Equestria in her darkest hour.
Now alone on the balcony, exhausted from the day but committed to the duties of the night, Celestia took a deep breath, steeling herself.
“You may be the only one to save us from my failure, Luna.”
And with that, Princess Celestia flew off to do what she had always done; buy Luna time and space to do what -she- had always been best at.
Major General Deimos Falafel sighed, blowing out a cloud of hot air into the frost, watching it immediately be swept away. Though it was by all rights the middle of summer further south, winter technically never ended in the Crystal Empire, merely relaxed its grip. There was no snow, but the temperature plummeted to such a degree that patches of frost could still be found on the ground. The wind scythed down from the mountains to the north like an icy blade, covering his command post in a spray of early frost, normally not unwelcome to the Crystal ponies, but now an unwelcome reminder of what they faced; an enemy even more adjusted to the bitter cold than they were. Snow and ice would not slow a Changeling down.
“Any word from Blueblood?” Falafel asked, tugging his coat tighter around him. To his dismay, the Crystal trooper shook his head, already knowing the answer.
“No sir. Mariposa’s gone silent.”
It was no secret that, as vital as the Crystal City was for manufacturing the Empire’s war material, the true center of coordination for the current war preparations up and down the border sat firmly with Field Marshal Prince Blueblood. His intel and troop movements had been far more accurate and informational than anything from the Crystal City or Canterlot, and it was in him that the Crystal generals along the Sneig Line put their trust. Word from the south was that Blueblood had been forced to secretly and silently evacuate the whole town of Acornage, turn it into a military hardpoint. The Equestrians were getting desperate to overcome their lack of foresight.
“Try Snowbury, then. See if we can’t reach the Prince-Consort.”
Falafel stepped outside his headquarters tent, suddenly feeling the urge to get some fresh air. This late at night, his entire command post was lit brightly by crystal powered arcane spotlights, casting the area in an icy blue that did little to put him at ease. Around him, grey uniformed ponies were constantly in motion, unicorns studying arcane patterns, intelligence officers attempting to decipher field intelligence, radioponies shouting and receiving orders at a breakneck pace. In the distance to the west, he could see the lights from his division’s positions, eight thousand soldiers scattered across this narrow valley. To the north, the high peaks leading to Yakyakistan formed a natural, impossible to cross barrier guarded by Crystal pegasi, and the thick forests of Frozen Butterfly province made an impenetrable barrier held by seventeen other Crystal divisions, all dug into fortified ready positions. Here in the Jade Hills was the enemy’s only possible entry over flat ground. They wouldn’t stop the Changelings, and neither would the divisions behind them or at the fallback line, but they would certainly make them pay for every inch they tried to press into the Crystal Empire. No surprise attack here like what they had done in Olenia.
“Lieutenant?” Falafel asked over his shoulder, calling his aide over. “Bring the division to alert status. All hooves on the line. If the Changelings are going to try something, it’ll be now.”
The unicorn nodded, saluting as she galloped away, leaving Falafel standing at the sandbag wall, caught in his thoughts. Dark had his dreams been since the end of the Crystal War, when Sombra’s insidious hold over his mind had cleared and he finally could control himself and absorb the consequences of his actions. The things he’d seen. The things he’d done. Ordered done. He had been offered a retirement, but he knew he’d never function outside of the army after that. Now, he was beginning to regret his decision, as they changed out one enemy for another, merely years apart. Deimos’ mind had been plagued by visions of dark creatures, innumerable shapes overwhelming the land as he could do nothing but stand by and watch. Worse, at times his nightmares had him participate, commit heinous deeds alongside these shadowy creatures. It was enough to make him wake in terror most nights, panting and sweating at the visions and the memories they conjured. A hoof gently came up, touching the Snowflake submachine gun he had strapped to his flank. Never again. He’d take his own life before he’d allow himself to be overtaken like that again.
When word had reached him from Prince-Consort Shining Armor that an invasion was imminent, Falafel had immediately gotten to work. The Empire didn’t have the ponypower to last in a sustained fight, so the name of the game was a fighting retreat with Equestrian air support. Even now, positions were being prepared along a carefully prepared fallback route, over which they would tear the Changelings a new one until they reached Snowbury. If their line still couldn’t hold after all that, the final fallback point was the Crystal City itself, which had been made a fortress since Sombra’s banishment. They would hold at least as long as Equestria, perhaps even longer if fortune was on their side. No word on Princess Cadance’s intentions yet, but hopes were high that she’d fight beside her troops, just as Shining Armor was already prepared to do in Snowbury.
Deimos let out a breath, reassuring himself. Everything was in hoof. They had the situation under control. It was -not- going to be the same as the last war.
“General!”
Falafel turned, frowning as a radiopony rushed up from the comms pit, headset gone flying and panic across his features. He skidded to a halt merely a few feet from Deimos, the two MP ponies reflexively reaching for their weapons a moment.
“Sir! We just lost Snowbury!”
The command post froze, various Crystal ponies halting whatever they were doing as their heads all swivelled over at the radio operator’s brazen declaration. Falafel’s first reaction was to internally panic, both at the news and suddenly having all these eyes on him. Sombra’s curse the first time had shook his confidence, and he’d never regained it. Having to respond to a crisis like this with so many witnesses was his every fear, and he grappled internally to not freak out as he got his own racing heart under control. Abruptly being isolated from the entire army, twenty divisions of ponies, was enough to make his soul seize up in terror at the possibility of isolation.
Breathe in…
Count to four…
Breathe out…
Count to four…
Okay, he thought. This is clearly a big deal. Time to step up, be the officer you always were. Address the anomaly. Sound the alarm, that’s what was needed here. The invasion may not be underway. But it was best to act like it was.
“No. It’s -not- him,” the general whispered quietly once he’d steadied himself, taking only that half moment to compose himself before he shifted to a familiar attitude. They had trained for this, fought like this. “I need that ready alert sped up, get the division on stand by ASAP! As of now, we must assume we are being isolated from the army group! Get me the guns, I want every inch of this valley sighted by a howitzer or mortar!” To the radio pit, he ordered “Check the lines, If it’s the weather we can call up a pegasus team to get us better reception. But if we’re talking physically cut, we might be looking at Changeling sabotage.”
Quickly, several of his subordinates moved in his direction as the radiopony scurried off, and he began barking off orders to his battalion commanders. This. This, he could do. He had a plan, and all contingencies were planned for. The Royal Air Force would be on standby, and if the offensive rolled out, the 19th would stall the Changelings long enough for Blueblood to be warned and ready for the main attack.
“Captain Frost,” he continued, turning to his chief artillery coordinator. “I need you to-“
The wind came again, chill once more, but somehow even colder than before. It wrapped him in its icy embrace as he huddled, attempting to start again, cap pulled down on his red and black mane. His words abruptly caught in his throat, as Falafel glanced over a shoulder towards the treeline. He hadn’t picked a direction on purpose, it was more of him running off adrenaline and locking into combat mentality. But for whatever reason, he looked away to the south. Army engineers had scouted the area ahead of time, choosing a suitable location for his field headquarters where he could move to command the division. And he was fairly certain they had never reported any corrupted crystals in the area. Sombra’s mind-controlled Legions had never made it this far.
And yet, just a few hundred meters down the hill, sticking out of the treeline, was a large, purple shard, flowing with dark and sinister energy. Falafel’s eyes locked on it, his mouth hanging open, his mind reeling. The visions returned, darkness hazy over his mind, shouting the orders to lines of masked troops, the creatures made of shadow surging past him. The feeling that every thought, emotion and action had been robbed of him by somepony who viewed Deimos himself not with amusement or even as a toy. But as a mere slave. A tool to use and dispose of at will, nothing more. The mere sight was too much for him. All the confidence he had been feeling, the momentum he had carried, flew out of him in an instant. He had been right. And he had talked himself down from the idea. But he -had- been right...
Captain Frost frowned, watching the general carefully before he too glanced to the south. Fortunately, Frost was more on the take as he immediately recognized what the crystal implied, spinning to one of the nearby MPs.
“Sound the alarm! Get security troops up here, we need the area-“
General Deimos Falafel heard the shots, felt the splatter of blood on his face. But it took him a moment to react, blinking blearily and reaching a hoof up to wipe the sticky red liquid from his muzzle. By the time he realized what had happened, his gaze slipped down to the Snowflake in his hoof, and then to the corpse of Captain Frost and the two nearby MPs on the frigid ground. His stomach lurched at the sudden, sickening realization. Around the HQ, other infiltrators revealed themselves, cutting down officers and MPs that went for their weapons. A unicorn radiomare blew the head off the nervous stallion who had been feverishly trying to contact Snowbury, an artillery coordinator cut down two battalion commanders discussing fire control over a map of the valley. As half his command was cut to pieces by the other half which turned out to be the enemy, General Falafel could only watch on in shock and terror, frozen in place. Unable to act.
Then, a dark presence, like oil sliding over water, slipped over his mind. His soul suddenly felt caught in a vise grip, a familiar feeling he’d certainly been through before, and the white stallion choked as he tried to turn to face what he already knew he’d see.
"No...you were destroyed! This...this is impossible-"
His eyes darted feverishly towards the radio pit. There had to be a survivor, somepony still alive and unturned who could warn the army group! The nation! Even as shots rang out, he had to give the order. They might die here, cut down by the enemy, but they could give the Empire a fighting chance. But a sickening thought crawled over him; the radio lines were down. Whether that was the Changelings cutting them, the infiltrators taking advantage of the storm or one of his operators having sabotaged their sets, they were still cut off. Smack dab in the middle of a group of twenty divisions, and they couldn’t even shout for help with their last breaths.
But there! As one of the Changelings moved away, he spotted an aide kit, sitting on top of a crate nearby. He scrambled over, hooves fumbling with the latch. But after a moment of panicked reaction, he had the lid open, glancing feverishly to make sure he hadn’t been spotted, seeing more and more Changelings and glowing green eyes that signaled the fate he feared above all else. And then, with the flare gun in his hooves, he took a few feverish steps outside, aiming high and pulling the trigger. The weapon only bucked lightly, the phosphorous starshell screaming away into the sky. He’d done it! He’d sent the only warning he could, but he had overcome his-
The flare was green. The signal for an artillery barrage, now hanging high in the sky over the Evergreen division’s positions. He had grabbed the wrong shell.
He felt the despair wash over him. And then, that dark presence in his mind was given strength, tenfold now, shadowy tendrils coiling through his mind. His last act, his sacrifice before his ultimately cheap death, nothing but wasted effort. But he could at least face the being he had feared, and known, had returned this whole time. Before he could complete his turn, the dark presence finished taking control, and he stopped in place, his eyes glowing green.
Behind him, King Sombra smirked, leering over the ruined command post at his victory. Those officers who hadn’t been killed by the strike force had been turned to his command, and all looked to him with the same vacant expression on their faces. Like a shadow itself, a massive dark purple umbral loomed over him, an sentry trooper’s head stuck in its jaws, struggling feebly to get away. And when the dark king spoke again, that little shred of Falafel’s mind that remained his own (so small and insignificant compared to how much had been taken by the suffocating power) quivered in fear at the voice. A voice he had hoped to never hear again, as if from shadows themselves, from all directions at one, at once everywhere and right behind him. And this time, he could no longer take a minute to calm down and reassure himself it wasn’t real. Because it was.
“Ah, yes. Hello again, Deimos."
The general merely nodded, a blank expression on his hypnotized face. Abruptly, Sombra heard the sound of a hammer drawing back, and glanced annoyed over to see Falafel’s unicorn aide, tears streaming down her face, revolver held in her magic pointed at Sombra’s armored head. She must have hidden away when the shooting started. The Changelings hadn’t noticed her yet either. Sloppy. His annoyance turned to amusement, and the dark king merely chuckled, turning away from the unicorn dismissively as his red horn glowed.
“A strong one. Always one, I suppose. You know what to do, General.”
The unicorn blinked, confused for a moment before a rattle of gunfire rang out, a bloody line of bullet holes stitching across her chest and she fell to the ground, blood already soaking into the ground. Falafel’s submachine gun smoked, held steady as the general watched to ensure she was dead before he brought the weapon down. Sombra didn’t have to order the mare killed, not when he could have easily turned her, but the Changelings could use a show of force. To make sure they knew -who- was in charge here.
He looked up at the green flare, now slowly drifting away from the headquarters, blowing with the icy breeze towards the 19th division’s positions. A smirk caught his lips. Already caught in the middle of their alert, the troopers below would be looking up, confused and conflicted. Radio messages to the headquarters, already ringing out over the sets he could hear, would go unanswered. Ponies would instinctively fear they were being targeted by their own guns, victims of a friendly fire incident. How deliciously ironic. Chrysalis had warned him to be cautious. To take no chances and keep his infiltration quiet and careful for maximum effect. Now, they could do things -his- way instead.
“Let’s get some fire on those positions,” he said idly, holding up a hoof to inspect it for dirt or imperfections. “Confusion will make it easier to turn the division, and I’d hate to interrupt the invasion timetable.”
At his spoken order, one of the surviving artillery coordinators saluted.
“Yes, My King.”
As the artillery coordinates were fed to the howitzer positions, Sombra breathed deep, sighing as he prepared to turn his new army. The guns fired, the shells falling on the 19th’s prepared positions. Screams rent the air.
“Ah. Good to be back.” He glanced to General Falafel, once again staring into the distance, eyes glassy and waiting for orders. Sombra grinned, conjuring a Legionnaire helm into being. “Thank you, Deimos. You’ll be quite useful.” He chuckled at his own small joke, once more looking to the flare hanging in the sky, its green light ghastly against the shells exploding in the trenches.
Behind him, the umbral closed its jaws, crushing the trooper’s skull. The hind hooves twitched once, twice, and then fell slack.
July 11, 1011 0114 hours Fort Ord Royal Army Base, Mariposa 33rd Air Reserve Wing
Past midnight on a Royal Army post normally meant silence. Gear and vehicles shut away and personnel resting their heads for the night, MPs and patrol sentries out on duty at gates and doors, attempting to stay awake. But tonight, like across the northern Equestrian border, Fort Ord was lit, alert and ready. Ponies constantly rushed back and forth between barracks and offices, delivering reports and showing up to late night duties. Planes touched down on the runway, parked just long enough for a refuel, a maintenance check and swap of pilots. Fort Ord alone played host to five-hundred Spitfire fighters, with dozens of bombing craft and several assorted ground attack wings. But it was only one of two air bases in the north, with the other in Vanhoover serving an even smaller air host. Princess Luna’s preparations had given them a fighting chance, and little else. Their odds were still grim at best.
She sat at one of the picnic tables in one of the grassy break areas, quietly watching the runway and airfield. From here, she could just spot her craft, #83. Where before during the Crystal War, a Blenheim had looked big and fearsome, after watching what was filling the sky to the northwest it looked clunky and fragile, not at all fierce like a warfighting machine. Not like the aerial apex predators the Changelings flew, the Silver Slayers as some of the pilots who had witnessed their astounding speed and maneuverability had dubbed them. If the Changeling craft were like sharks, the Equestrian aircraft seemed more like whales. The metaphor was chilling.
Beside her, Static leaned over, nudging her navigator/bombardier.
“Hey. Snap out of it.”
Paige blinked, looking back to Static as the latter used her magic to pluck the smoldering cigarette from her lips, blowing out a cloud into the air. The two had been passing the smoke back and forth the past hour, trying to figure out how to relax enough to finally go to sleep. They couldn’t. Recon flights were buzzing overhead on a regular basis, and the constant rumble of tanks and trucks overlapping the plane engines meant there was no way to pretend that the possibility of the war they knew was coming was remote. Because, at best, it was inevitable. On one hoof, it might take some time to arrive, allowing the Royal Army the time it needed to actually fully mobilize and organize. On the other, the level of activity suggested it was imminent, within the next few nights for sure. Not many were getting the level of rest they needed until they collapsed from exhaustion
Paige didn’t reply at first, just extending a wing and carefully taking the smoke back from Static, wedged between feathers as she pulled it back, taking a drag of her own, the red coal tip flaring in the night.
“When the hell did it all get so bucked up?” she finally asked, looking off at a squad of infantry troopers hustling by, rifles slung over a shoulder as they trotted in formation. “A year ago, our biggest worry was making rent.”
“Technically, it still is,” Static quipped, magically stealing the cigarette back as Paige blew out a cloud of smoke. “We just put it on hold until we get back.”
“I had my studies,” Paige continued, ignoring her sarcastic crewmare. “You had the radio. Things were getting better.”
“C’mon, we all saw this coming,” Static pointed out. “When the Changelings took Olenia and nopony did anything about it, the invitations were sent. Even Cyril could see what was happening, and he’s halfway round the world.”
Paige simply sighed, opting not to retake the smoke when Static levitated it in her direction. “I guess you’re right. Wonder if they would have come after us if Equestria had been better prepared.”
“Oh yeah, they would have,” Static replied, and Paige frowned over at the red unicorn. “You weren’t here when they invaded the first time. Got real close to taking Canterlot and everything too. If it weren’t for the Elements, this war wouldn’t be a question. The invasion would have happened, and we would have been even more bucked than we are now.”
It was quiet between them at that point, watching the planes on the tarmac preparing for night patrol. Some of the bombers were being attended to by crewponies, doing maintenance while the flying crews slept so they could be ready to go at a moment’s notice. Occasionally, a pair of MPs could be seen on patrol, watching for suspicious activity. Changelings were shapeshifters after all. Though, in all honesty, another reason they were watching the planes so closely was that a lot of the groundcrew were thestrals, batponies who had been allowed into more technical jobs than just combat arms with Luna’s reforms. The first batch of actual batpony pilots were still in training, but for now the Royal Air Force was happy to use thestrals’ natural inclination for night schedules to cover maintenance shifts for the other ponies that were much happier during the day. And yet, despite the new tolerance laws and regulations paving the way for thestrals to come back to society, old barriers still remained. Silent and unspoken, but it was hard to kill an idea, and this one would be thrashing in its death throes for some time to come.
“How’s Cyril?” Static suddenly asked, grinding out the cigarette and tossing the butt towards the trashcan nearby.
Paige blinked, surprised. While Static wasn’t quite uncaring, it wasn’t in her nature to ask about affairs across the sea. For the most part, Paige told it to her best friend at will, and had to judge when it was time to shut the spout to stop the flood of words. Static mostly asked about things like rent money, her job, information on politics or what the Empire was doing that contrasted Equestrian stories. Never about Cyril, or her parents or brother (though last she’d heard, Brook had skipped down to Macawia to slip away from the inevitable fight between the Empire and Asterion over the Friestaat). So, this was a new mood for the red unicorn.
“He’s...well as he can be. Last I heard, the Empire was absorbing Prywhen.”
“By conquest?”
“Actually, from what he sent me, it looks like the griffs are giving up. The famine’s hit hard, and the communists haven’t fixed much more than the old kingdom did. I think they just want someone that isn’t going to buck things up even more.”
Static chuckled, shaking her head. “Funny. That used to be anygriff -but- the Empire.”
“Cyril’s just happy he doesn’t have to shoot as many griffs,” Paige replied, smiling back. “He’d rather take on a surrendering enemy. I think he’s still haunted by the Herzland War.”
“From what you told me and what I read up on, that’s understandable.”
Silence again, as the two mares stared out into the darkness, their eyes no longer truly focused and instead following the crews more out of habit than actually watching their activity. Finally, Paige once more broke the silence.
“What are we going to do, Static?”
Sweet Static didn’t respond at first, watching the activity in front of them with an equally blank face. For a moment, Paige wasn’t certain she’d heard her, but then Static sighed, shifting on the bench as if she’d come to a conclusion. She turned to Paige, fishing the aviators out of her jacket and perching them on her forehead, just under her horn.
“Same thing we did in the Crystal War, I suppose. Fly, and fly, and fly again. And survive. No different here.”
“Except the enemy has decent aircraft this time.”
Static laughed, but it held no mirth to it. “Better aircraft. We’ll have to be the better fliers.”
They let that impossible statement hang between them for another twenty minutes, watching nothing happening at all while waiting for possibly the largest war the world had ever seen, before they finally left to get what sleep they could. Static headed towards the barracks. Paige made her way to the ready strip.
Paige had made it her habit to walk by No. 83 every night before bed. With a smaller crew than her old bomber, there was more for each pony to do, so keeping aware of what was happening was important. Plus, with the current crisis the ground crew were busy with dozens of other planes. She wanted to make sure for herself that 83 was ready to fly when they needed her. This routine was calming, assuring, and helped with some regularity in the current time. Paige saw no reason to stop.
But tonight, as she reached 83’s spot, she saw something a bit odd. While she was more than used to seeing ground crew and officers inspecting and crawling over her plane, they’d already gone through maintenance checks to be on ready standby. There shouldn’t be anypony near her. And yet, there was. A dark green Earth pony MP, white stripes on his sleeves clear in the dark, was peering under the wing, looking for something. By all rights, she shouldn’t interfere, but this was her plane, and MPs were supposed to work in pairs. Where was this sergeant’s partner?
Suspicious, she moved closer. “Evening, Sergeant,” she called out, her accented Equestrian distinct. The MP started, whipping his head around in shock. “Something I can help you with on my bird?”
The pony checked the rank patch on her sleeve, squinting at her own sergeant’s stripes, a recent promotion upon her being activated. Apparently, to her surprise, her time in service had actually meant she was a promotion candidate, and her experience had given her a hasty leg up. In peacetime, there was normally a much more extensive process for NCO selection.
“Apologies, Sarge,” he replied, eyeing her up. “We got word the bugs might be trying to sabotage some of the planes. Last minute inspections up and down the tarmac.”
That...was actually a good point. If the Changelings were about to try a first strike, they’d of course sabotage Equestria’s aerial readiness first. Assured air dominance would let them wreak havoc on the ground.
“Where’s the rest of your crew?” the MP asked, looking past her down the runway, towards where the ground crew were preparing a small group of Spitfires for takeoff.
“Bed, I assume,” Paige replied. “Which is where I’m headed. Just wanted to say goodnight to 83.”
The MP raised a brow under his brimmed Bronie helmet, but merely shrugged in acceptance.
“Carry on, then. Just make it quick. You know the orders on wandering personnel after dark.”
“I could say the same to you, Sarge,” Paige quipped, to which the MP merely chuffed, turning back to her plane and leaning down to peer underneath the craft. She grunted as she shifted the Thundersplash strapped over her back. With the panicked state the force was in here, everypony on base was required to carry their weapons at all times. Static had been given a revolver, designed by some creature with fingers, while Paige herself had been handed the SMG, a Hippogriff designed firearm.
She moved closer, running a hoof over No. 83’s aluminum hide. Untested in battle, aging a little ungracefully with her rough and weathered paint job. All the training flights they’d been doing lately had taken a wear on her, and compared with parts maintenance, redoing the camo when it was still mostly intact had been rated a secondary priority. She sighed, taking a seat looking up at her plane, her mind everywhere else but here on the airfield. When had everything become so complicated and dire? A few years ago, she was a bright student on a scholarship to study her lifelong dream, a budding long-distance relationship with a cute soldier griff and a comfortable (if somewhat unstable) home to go back to when her schooling was up. Now? Now she was a veteran combat pilot in an imminent war on the other side of the world against an enemy she knew next to nothing about, the one she loved was constantly out of reach and in danger around every bend and her home was, from the news stories, ripping apart at the seams. She had Cyril, of course, a small and sad smile coming to her muzzle at the thought. Her coltfriend’s next letter would make her feel better. Though separated by an ocean and two continents, his words always made her remember their good times through the years. A shred of normalcy. Which she desperately needed. Her last letter had only just gone out. She’d have a whole month of waiting for his next message, and the news might still be bad.
Paige sighed, standing and saying her final goodbyes to the craft. Old and battered it may be, but it was certainly faithful. Good, Paige thought. They’d need that, if the worst came down. When it came down. The pegasus from across the world turned, finally ready to go lay down and get some needed rest.
The first plane exploded.
Paige’s head whipped around, short and curly mane bobbing around her head. The craft had been a Wellington, parked on the bomber line and ready to taxi onto the runway in mere minutes. It had been intended to be sent forward and bomb clusters of Changeling troops and armor, escorted by Spitfires and Blenheims. In the regular Air Force, she was being replaced by the new Beaufort bombers. But now, she was little more than a pile of flames and scrap, burning brightly in the relative darkness of the airbase. Paige held her breath as the alarms began ringing. A payload accident, maybe? Something gone wrong with the fuel?
But then another one, right next to it, exploded. Another. And another. And then a Spitfire. It was as if a chain was being worked down, where aircraft were exploding in segments.
A dreadful realization crept into Paige’s mind. A terrifying discovery that, upon making it, she both kicked herself for missing and suddenly knew she had to act on. With little hesitation, she wheeled around, standing on her hind legs with wings flared as she brought the Thundersplash up, holding down the trigger. The MP had been running, but not towards the explosion like other crewponies and MPs were doing. He’d been running -away-. The Thundersplash wasn’t designed for accuracy, and the recoil was strong when firing on full auto. But at this range, with the Thundersplash’s legendary rate of fire, she landed half of the twenty round magazine on target. And .45 caliber rounds were designed to bring a creature down hard.
For a heart stopping moment, Paige was terrified she’d just made a terrible mistake. That she’d merely shot a stallion who was panicking as hard as everypony else in the base was, and fleeing in the wrong direction out of simple fear. Her paranoia had just led her to cut down a friendly. But then a sickening green flash engulfed the corpse as it hit the tarmac, and instead of an Equestrian Royal Army Military Police sergeant the figure turned into a black-hued, chitin-skinned soldier in an equally black uniform, splayed across the ground in a puddle of blood that wasn’t even red. She galloped over to No. 83 as more explosions rang out, desperately peering under the craft. Sure enough, hidden in the landing prop, most likely hastily planted because of her arrival, was a trio of small, white tubes taped together and affixed with a mechanism. She didn’t need to see the front to know it was a clockwork timer. She could hear the ticking. Immediately, she seized the bomb, needing only a second to find the button on its face to stop the timer. Simple and rugged. She breathed out a sigh of relief, only for another round of explosions to rock the airfield. More aircraft brewing up. More Changeling sabotage.
And then the gunfire started.
She heard a shout in the near distance over the alarms and the flames. Then the chatter of the infamous “Arisian Typewriter”. More and more, and now pistol and rifle fire was added to the mix. A battle had broken out for control of Fort Ord, and she couldn’t make hide or hair of where the combatants were. She trembled as she began fumbling for another magazine, unsure of what to do now but knowing she had to do something.
Abruptly, a weight slammed into her, and she flailed, certain she was being assaulted by another Changeling infiltrator. But instead, the yellow visage of Lieutenant Solar Ace greeted her, impeccable dress jacket askew as if he’d been in the middle of taking it off.
“Where’s Static?” he shouted over the cacophony, that unflappable air he usually wore gone like it never existed. Paige tried to focus, her eyes sliding from her pilot to the flames behind him as a fresh, new Lancaster blew spectacularly, consuming the nearby crewponies and the MPs battling Changelings for control of the site. At this rate, the detonations would claim more ponies in the chaos than the fighting would. She blinked hard, shaking herself as she finally got her head straight.
“She was heading back to the barracks! Not ten minutes ago!”
“And now I’m here!”
Both snapped their heads over as Static herself appeared around No. 83, her horn glowing as she levitated several bags and flight caps. Belatedly, Paige realized that her ready bag was one of those few things Static had grabbed, likely from their barracks as soon as the first explosion rang out. The unicorn only waited a second before tossing the gear out, Ace grabbing his flight cap out of the air and his ready bag, Paige doing the same a little less gracefully, her cap smacking her in the muzzle and her bag clumsily hitting her chest.
“Wait! Sir, what about the others?”
“The airfield is lost!” Ace retorted, shoving his bag up to Static in the Blenheim and tugging his cap down over his ears. “Even if they root out all the Changelings, we have to make sure the plane gets up! Living pilots and flying craft are critical! The bug have -got- to be crossing the border right -now-!”
She felt her stomach turn. Of course, Ace was right. They had to get as many planes as possible out of the hooves (or mandibles) of the saboteurs. The Changelings would exploit this confusion to swarm over the border. The fighting was likely about to start any second now. And one way or another, they needed to respond.
They were away in less than two minutes. Ace pulled the nose up far too short, flying over the heads of an active firefight on the tarmac, framed by the flames. Horned and sinister looking infiltrators fired their stolen weapons at desperate ponies in Bronie helmets, fighting over the dying remains of the airfield as craft flew by in a mad flight, many crashing into wreckage or being brought down by delayed bombs. As they pulled away, they were joined by a hoof-ful of other craft that had escaped the chaos and slaughter. Paige hoped more would manage to escape, because what was in the air now was a pitiful fraction of Fort Ord’s total air wing. What few craft had taken off now angled as a group towards the west. They’d have to land in Vanhoover, get orders, find out the situation. And then, off to war.
She looked up, at Cyril’s picture taped above her bombsight. Carefully, she reached a hoof up, smoothing out a corner and reapplying the tape to the metal. She wanted to say something meaningful, poetic. Their world had just changed, again. And in the most drastic way possible, bordering on shattering. Under any other circumstance, from all her novels and study of various languages and technical manuals, she always had the proper word or term for a situation or definition.
Now, words failed her. As she flew on towards war, and Ford Ord burned behind her, she simply stared at the picture of the griff she loved but might never see again.
Not even tears ran down her face.
July 10, 1011 2054 hours Near Temsoar, Acute Forest, South Prywhen 41st Panzergrenadiers, 8th Heergruppe
The fire crackled hungrily, orange flames reaching up to tear at the darkness. Here in the forest, they had plenty of wood to harvest, dump into the pit they’d dug and lined with stones. As long as somegriff manned the fire, they’d have light and warmth. The chittering of insects filled the air as the night settled on the camp clearing, the firelight stubbornly resisting the darkness. The griffons sat around the fire quietly, chewing on hardtack and jerky, gulping water from their canteens and contraband liquor from small flasks. This clearing held three panzers drawn around the area, with trucks of soldiers beyond settling into their own campsites while the sentries on watch defended the kompanie with submachine guns and flashlights, on alert for the hardline GLA fighters they’d been hunting the past month. And other things, of course. These ancient woods held worse than just griffon guerillas. The electric torches swept the treeline, the sentries quietly and nervously scanning. Manticores and hydras were known to frequent places like these, stalking for prey in the gloom. The darkness conjured up childhood stories which suddenly were both more terrifying and not quite so far fetched all of a sudden.
The campsites were full of Imperial soldiers relaxing, the panzergrenadiers settling in for quiet stories, card games, reading letters from home and doing little meaningless maintenance on kit, cleaning rifles and loading magazines for pistols. But under this air of relaxation, a sense of tension remained. They’d expected fanatical resistance from the GLA. But it seemed that the moment a figure of competence like the Empire had shown up, with healthy, hearty soldiers demanding surrender, the starving griffons of Prywhen simply gave up the revolution in exchange for a hot meal and a clean place to sleep. After the Herzland War, it was sobering. And, ultimately, unsatisfying for many who had gotten their blood and battle lust fired up. Now, instead of armies of communists throwing themselves at their panzers, they were searching for band of resistance fighters, stamping them out and grinding south. The campaign for Prywhen was over, everygriff knew that. And with the Host in a state of tribal civil war (again) and Gryphus signing the treaty to bring them back into the fold, Operation Tartarus was (for a rare exception) proving to be far simpler than expected. Aside from, of course, taking care of these last holdouts. Sydia would fall soon too, and that was it. No more help from Stalliongrad or the Republican socialists in the far north.
The camping area was split in two. While regular Reichsarmee troops clustered around their panzers and trucks, talking quietly as they wondered what insanity their officers had planned at the headquarters not far away, Vollstrecker stalking amongst the platoons watching for disobedience, the other half of the campsite was a large, central area. A much larger bonfire was in the middle, with sleeping bags and tents lining the outside in a ring. No trucks or panzers on this side, however. These were the Reformisten soldiers and Black Knights dispatched to this area, and they were in much higher spirits. Unlike the more subdued, frustrated panzertruppen, the Knights and their soldiers were instead enjoying their own drinks and meals, excitedly sharing battle stories and looking forward to the next day. Their spirits were high. To them, they were on the path to greater glory and the redemption of Hellsword. Their own Prince Erich had delivered a speech over the radio yesterday, urging Reformisten and Imperial soldiers to final victory in the east, not that Cyril would care. He was most likely a spoiled griffon noble much like his father. With Gryphus returned, Prywhen all but reconquered and the Host embroiled yet another civil war, it seemed all that was left was to push the minotaurs out of Cyanolisia. And nogriff expected the Sovereign Republic to put up much fight.
This campsite was quiet, the soldiers just happy to keep to themselves for this rare moment of peace. The past year has been nothing but war, preparing for the next fight and suspicion from on high. Now, with Operation Tartarus beginning to come to a close, they were looking forward to going home for actual rest, instead of waiting for a possible execution notice. The armored platoon consisted of two Calico light tanks, speedy and quick, as well as their beefier sister, a Stahlschild medium tank with its larger gun and impressive armor, with a handful of ADGZ armored cars, heavy scout vehicles meant to find targets for the panzers. The platoon crews didn’t quite interact with each other, that was down to the sergeants who were clustered to one side. But this squad, this crew, were intimately familiar after a year of service, through several vicious warzones.
Eihol snoozed next to the fire, a half-empty bottle of schnapps clutched in one claw as he snored, the brim of his cap tipped low over his eyes and beak. Next to him, Spotsley read a letter in her paws, eyes skimming over each line. She’d read this letter several times already, evident in the worn folds from taking it out and putting it away multiple times. No one else nearby knew what it said, as she had been especially cagey about its contents. Sergeant Hellseig was off with the other panzer commanders now, discussing their next step with the leutnant and trying to figure out the mess they had gotten themselves into. And Haul...Haul was somewhere doing whatever it was he did. He had a tendency to disappear for some periods of time before reappearing as if nothing had happened at all.
Vise Korporal Cyril Duskwing grunted, poking the fire with a stick, his mind elsewhere. A claw came up, adjusting his service cap for the thousandth time. The lack of proper battle had given him plenty of time for reflection, something he hadn’t taken much time with during the Herzland War. Now, though, he had too much of it. In truth, he was not really here. His mind was across the sea, in a land he had never visited but he knew quite a bit about. Paige’s letters had been bothering him of late. Both in terms of what was happening for her and where she was. For all he knew, Equestria could be at war by the time her next letter arrived. Ten damned weeks to hear if she was okay, at minimum. It didn’t help that he was stuck out here, in this damned backwater away from the newspapers and the radio programs. All they had out here was Der Reichswehr Rundfunk, and everygriff knew a good portion of that was propagandized nonsense. Just yesterday, the radio had announced that relations with Vedina had reopened, and negotiations were underway to reintroduce them to the Empire. The lack of details meant all the soldiers knew there was a hell of a lot more to the story than that. The same with the report that Skyfall partisans had apparently attacked a Feathisian radio station yesterday. While that one he was a little less certain on, it made no sense for Federation militia to come over the border and attack an Imperial target.
But for all this, the lack of any news on Equestria, and now the word that the Riverlands were collapsing into complete chaos, meant he was isolated, uninformed and left to wait. Letters from Paige’s parents had stopped due to the difficulty in both location and traffic. Now letters from Paige took forever to arrive as well. As isolated from her as the world could make him, it seemed. He took a drag on his cigarette, his mind clouded and occupied.
“Fucking officers,” Sergeant Hellseig grunted as he abruptly took a seat next to Cyril, wings rustling in irritation as he settled. “Same damn thing that we’ve been doing. Press on into the woods, secure the region and prepare for the next stage in the offensive. They don’t know what we’re doing, same as us on the ground.”
“I take it the meeting was a success then, Sergeant?”
“Gah, no more than usual,” Hellseig agreed sardonically, tugging a pipe from out of his coat and lighting a match from the bonfire. “This time, the Leutnant actually knew which direction we were going. I can only hope the Kapitan has the same idea.”
That was unfair to Leutnant Stonefeather and Kapitan Greybeak, who were both competent commanders and had proven themselves in combat just as much as the two enlisted veterans. But it was common habit to blame the griffs in charge when something went wrong, especially when things weren’t making sense. Cyril merely grunted, stubbing out yet another cheap cigarette as he went back to staring at the fire, Paige’s last letter folded in his claw. She’d sent it to him back in May, and he had managed to get her a response in June. With the extended need to circle through army post offices, that was the going rate of letters. Sometimes, it was hard to remember what he’d written to her, it was so long ago. He was grateful she wrote such extensive explanations to help him recall.
And a photo. He held that in the other claw, carefully examining it in the firelight. For a pony, she was beautiful, her curly mane and tail cropped for military service and her attitude, if tired, still said she was ready to take on the world. What he wouldn’t give for some of that boundless optimism and confidence she always had. Actually, what he wouldn’t give for her.
“Got a response from Paige?” Hellseig asked, puffing on his pipe. Cyril shook his head, holding up the photo. He’d seen it, he knew the letter she’d sent it with was old. The veteran sergeant merely nodded in reply, puffing another cloud. “Chin up, lad. She’s in the safer place. Long as you keep yourself in one piece, it’s only a matter of time.”
Cyril merely nodded again, looking at her picture one last time before tucking it and the letter into a jacket pocket, taking care to wrap the photo in the paper. It got hot in the daytime quite a lot, and he didn’t want to risk the picture getting warped by his sweat. The letter he’d receive more of.
“Sarge, can I ask a question?”
“Axle grease,” Hellseig shot back, to which Cyril frowned in confusion. “For the grey spots.” From the smirk on his sergeant’s beak and the twinkle in his eye, Cyril could tell he was joking, and let out a sound halfway between a chuckle and a sigh of exasperation, thrown for a moment from his own pitiful reverie. Which, it seemed, was what Hellseig wanted. “Go on, lad.”
“I’ve never asked you but once...how do you do it, Sergeant? All these years?” Now it was Hellseig’s turn to frown in confusion, and Cyril cleared his throat, trying to move past his own awkwardness. “Away from your family.”
“Ah,” the veteran responded, comprehension dawning. “The greatest of a soldier’s struggles after he’s avoided death; keeping his loved ones close. It’s not easy. Many fail. Especially hard for young couples.” Here, he gave Cyril a meaningful look, to which the young gunner blanched and looked away. “Scheiße, lad. I’m not telling you to give up on her. But sometimes reality takes the lead. And reality is, you haven’t seen her in, what? Four years?”
“About. She gave me a call on New Years’.”
“My Adelaide lived in my hometown. We grew up together. She said goodbye to me when I boarded the train for Krona. And she’s been there every time I’ve gone back.”
Hellseig’s face darkened as now he too looked down into the fire, his cap brim rugged low over his brow and casting the features behind his beak in shadow.
“Terrible things I’ve put her through. Separation, loneliness, doubt, endless worry. But the fact that I could come back at any time made it worth the struggle, for us both.” He glanced up at Cyril again, his expression now one of pity. “You don’t have that. You’re halfway around the world from her. All your interaction is boiled down to a claw full of letters and a phone call. She’s cheated on you. You’ve both nearly died, and the other would never know it. Any other creatures would have moved on by now. Found somegriff closer.” He paused, studying Cyril’s now-stoic expression. “Except you, it seems.”
Hellseig sighed, tapping the loose pieces of out his pipe before taking another puff, considering the facts carefully.
“You’re outside my realm of expertise, lad. I’ve had times where leave was cut short or canceled. Sure. But...there was, at least, always the chance. The possibility. I missed two of my kinder being born. More holidays, birthdays and anniversaries than I can count. They’re all the reason I’m here, and I can’t be there for them.” He paused a moment, then chuckled abruptly. “Though by Boreas, I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I retired. -When-.”
They were quiet again, these two soldiers separated by at least a whole generation. Across the fire, Eihol still snoozed, while Spotsley was looking very determined to not be eavesdropping on their conversation, staring intently down at some novella from Strawberry. Inside Sabine came a clatter, likely from Haul making adjustments to the shells’ timing heads, being the single-minded obsessive stallion he was. The night air was otherwise quietly overlapped with the buzz of low conversation from the other fires, where the rest of the kompanie did the same thing this crew was doing.
Finally, Hellseig sighed, tapping his pipe again.
“Look, you love this formel? This mare? I mean -really- love her? Ready to pass over any easier, less troublesome alternative that pops up until you see her again?”
Cyril thought it over hard, eyes fixed on the fire, grey beak set firm as he considered the facts, trying to puzzle out some great formula in his head, about a female not of his own species, not of his nation or even on this continent that he might possibly not see for even years after, or possibly ever if the war he feared was coming actually came. There was already a massive distance between them, and the fact that he had already felt a huge amount of doubt told him some part of his brain had accepted the likely reality that this relationship was going to go nowhere. Too many things kept happening to keep them apart. They’d spoken one time since that day in Rottendedam, and it had been for a few minutes at best. What if they were both just fooling themselves? What if he was just being a massive idiot?
But it came to him in that second; of course they were idiots. Neither of them went with the safe, simple option. For better or worse, they were both cursed to the struggle, the idea of suffering for what they wanted. And that meant she’d be there for him when they finally met. And it would make it all worth it in the end.
He turned to Hellseig, nodding firmly.
“Yes. I do.”
The sergeant quietly watched his subordinate, whom he’d mentored the past four years. There was a fire burning in Cyril’s eyes, a passion Hellseig knew had been burned out of himself a long time ago. Good. The kid would need that if he was going to survive the emotional hell he was putting himself through.
“Then keep it up. Keep it alive. That’s all I can tell you, Duskwing. It’s up to you after that. All I can do is show you the door to how it works. Down to you to open it.”
A shriek split the air.
Cyril and Hellseig looked up, sharply. They knew that sound, quite intimately in fact. Spotsley snapped up straight, ears perking in alarm as Eihol fell off his seat, awake and sober instantly.
“INCOMI-”
The griff who started shouting the warning never had the chance to finish, as the artillery shell that fell on the camp detonated two trucks, a fireball brewing up and blasting a shockwave out around it in a cloud of black smoke. Soldiers and knights were sent flying, some in tatters and others merely stunned, trying to shake off the impact of the concussive force that hit hard as a god’s fist. But then there followed another, and another, and another. The shelling rocked the camp, artillery bracketing the campfires and parked panzers. Luckily, whoever had done the sighting seemed to have screwed up, for the second volley landed wide, splintering trees and pockmarking the ground.
“Get to the panzers!”
Crews scrambled. Wings flared, claws clattered on steel, weapons were tossed and readied. The screams of the wounded were almost drowned out as the next barrage rocked the camp, more on point the time. More panzers and more soldiers died, trucks and ammunition brewing up. The shelling seemed determined to wipe the armor from existence first, the choice of someone with at least a mind for tactics. The grenadiers and knights flew and ran to prepared defenses, dodging and weaving through the barrage as they went. But before they could reach the dugouts, a mighty bellow rang out from the treeline, half bestial and filled with primal rage before the empty space was abruptly filled with the crushing surge of a line of heavily muscled, khaki-clothed figures surging towards the Imperial line, horns down and weapons up.
“Minotaurs!”
The cry went up, and was repeated up and down the line. Bayonets were hastily fixed, shotgunners looking for flying infantry clumsily reoriented, and Knights drew swords as the charge continued towards the defenses, ready to meet the bovine surge. The few troopers actually on the line realized the direness of their situation, beginning to fall back under the press. Weapons which were chambered to kill griffons and ponies faltered against the lumbering mountains. Minotaurs were huge and muscled, and even as lean as these soldiers were (evidence of a once deprived diet only just beginning to normalize with fertile fields back in their hands) they still towered over the largest Imperial soldier. A barrage which would have normally decimated a griffon surge only took down the enemy piecemeal, and then they were among the panzers and trucks, bellowing and roaring, shouting and clubbing. The battle descended in an instant to a furious, close-range melee as talons and fists traded blows, shotguns boomed and pistols snapped, stocks used as makeshift clubs, swords and spades slicing in the darkness, fire at close range ending on bloody bayonet points. In an instant, the Asterion charge had negated the Empire’s firepower advantage, bringing the fight to -their- field.
It happened slowly. Not expecting the surge, and not equipped for it, panzergrenadiers began to fall back into the camp, firing as they ran, some flying to clear more ground. Panzer crews, still attempting to start their engines, poked their heads out of their vehicles, only to be shot upon rising or dragged from their steeds to be carved to pieces. One Stahlschild had a grenade shoved into its hatch, the boom reducing the crew inside to tatters or flesh and uniform.
And then, a boom and a shout. A panzergrenadier fell, his head a mess as blood spurted from the mass of shredded flesh and feathers that was once his neck. His fellows paused, hesitating. Over their heads, a Vollstrecker landed on a nearby panzer, shotgun in claw as she pointed it down at the retreating troopers, racking the slide and ejecting a spent shell.
“Pathetic! Get back in and fight! Show the enemy your backs and you will get no mercy! Neither from the ‘taurs or from ME!” A minotaur pushed through the gap between two panzers, bellowing in fury as he clutched his rifle, charging towards the frozen grenadiers bayonet first. For his trouble, another boom rang out, blowing away half his skull and dropping the Asterion like a lead weight, plowing into a campsite firepit. “There!” The Vollstrecker griff cried. “You see how it is done! Now, follow me!” With that, she gave a single pump of her wings, landing on the far side and shouting the charge, leading the now frightened but recovered grenadiers to surge back in for the counterattack, their weapons chattering wildly.
In a strange turn, the Hellswordian troopers were holding better. Their weapons, designed primarily after rifles meant for hunting monsters on the frontier, were taking chunks out of the larger, beefier taurian charge. Though they were still forced to give ground in the face of such suicidal determination, they had not devolved to a route like their Imperial comrades. But the gap was still ever closing. They would not be far behind.
Cyril stood behind Sabine’s turret, SMG held steady as he gunned down one invading minotaur, then another. The damned things took half a mag each to put down, though he was certain the frenzy of the battle may have contributed to that. It was a much different experience, fighting outside of Sabine, his soft skin and feathers feeling exposed and frighteningly vulnerable. The engine of the panzer coughed as Eihol worked frantically, trying to warm the engine’s glow plugs without flooding her diesel carburetors, Spotsley hollering abuse at the driver between her flurries of howling on the wireless for air or fire support.
“Duskwing!”
Cyril turned, in the middle of a reload, as a Minotaur clambered up onto the engine hatch, a broken rifle held in meaty hands as the bovine trooper closed in. Thinking fast, Cyril kicked upwards quickly, boot meeting groin and dropping the taur where he stood so Cyril could draw his sidearm, blowing his enemy’s head off.
“Thanks Sarge!” he hollered as Sabine rumbled, finally starting up.
“Get your tail inside!” Hellseig returned, feeding a new belt into the MG and chattering off a burst into the chaotic frenzy of violence around them. “I need you on the gun!”
Another cluster of rounds smacked off the turret next to him, sending the young panzertruppen scurrying up in a hasty flurry of feathers and tan cloth, Hellseig moving aside and taking the weapon, firing a birst over Cyril’s head. Inside, Sabine was almost as chaotic as outside, with Eihol, Spotsley and Haul all yelling at each other over the noise of the engine and the combat outside, arguing about some ridiculous thing he didn’t catch. Cyril merely clambered over to his seat, swapping his cap out for the leather hood and goggles, pressing an eye to the gunsight as one claw came up to his chest, feeling for the pocket for just a moment.
Then, it was action time.
“Duskwing, Spotsley!” Hellseig shouted over the intercom. “Squirt that treeline! Buy our lads some time! Eihol, roll us up to cover the others!”
The coax and hull machineguns added their fire to that of the top mounted gun, while Sabine turned, her treads grinding through the muck, engine roaring in fury as she crushed a pair of tents, surprising a cluster of minotaur troopers on the other side. Not having their own anti-tank weapons, the bulls fired with their rifles, only to get mowed down by the three machine guns as their rounds spanked off her armor plating. Nearby, her sister panzer Rosenknospemoved into accompanying formation, her 5 cm gun booming before a direct hit from the sporadic artillery ripped her apart in a fireball, spewing flaming shrapnel in all directions and adding further to the chaos. Sabine’s own cannon boomed, a countering fireball blowing through the treeline and mulching a cluster of Asterion soldiers. Rallying at the sight of friendly armor, Imperial and Hellsword soldiers fell in on her flanks, renewing the advance and sweeping forwards. They were finally back in the fight.
But all was not well.
“Team, listen up!” Hellseig called out as his MG chattered. “I just got word that the Kapitan is dead. A sniper got him during the shelling. And Leutnant Stonefeather is unresponsive. The medic thinks he took a shot in the spine. It’s down to us now.”
“Sounds familiar!” Cyril shouted back, traversing right and letting another shot out, reducing more of the minotaur charge to tatters and splinters. Response fire was intense, as the ‘taurs realigned their own MGs onto the rolling armored vehicle. The amount of bullets hitting Sabine was so thick, he almost couldn’t see his surroundings, and he feared the vision block might take a hit, rendering him blind. With a clank, the next shell was levered into position, the breechblock slamming shut.
“Clear!” Haul shouted as he moved out of the way of the gun.
“Duskwing, enemy panzer moving through the treeline!”
Calling the lumbering hulk a panzer was stretching things quite a bit, as the boxy, rhomboid shape and slow speed told them all this was clearly an outdated and far inferior model. It’s own stubby cannons poked out of either side, and Cyril didn’t even wait for the shell to be swapped to armor piercing, letting the 5 cm do its work. The HE shell, as it turned out, was more than sufficient to demolish the poor imitation, the enormous fireball of her petrol engine setting fire to the surrounding woods.
But more shapes were emerging now, and while some had the same outdated look as the first landship, there were profiles of far more modern panzers in amongst them. Shapes Cyril instantly recognized.
“Wingbardy panzers!” he shouted, and Haul didn’t need to be told twice, immediately slamming an AP shell into the breach.
“Clear!”
“On the way!”
Cyril didn’t even wait for the order, and Hellseig didn’t need to give it. Cyril stamped on the trigger, the gun boomed and the shell tore through a Lend-Lease panzer. Fortunately, they were lighter models, and the vehicle slewed to a halt, its turret aflame and its armor holed. They were doing it. So long as they held here and matched whatever the minotaurs threw at them, they could act as an anchor for the rest of the armor to get on line and the infantry to dig in here.
But up top, Sergeant Hellseig had a different view of the field.
“General, we’ve stopped the charge for now. I think the Asterions are about to break.”
”Sergeant, that’s not a factor anymore. From what I’m hearing, ammunition is at critical levels. Your trucks are destroyed and casualties are mounting. I need you to fall back from that grove before you’re overrun,” came the voice of Vollstreckergeneral Wolfheze, commander of Hellsword’s own Vollstrecker division. With the Kapitan and Leutnant out of commission, the nearest command post in radio range was the Vollstrecker’s own down the hill. Normally removed from the chain of Reichsarmee command, these circumstances proved anything but normal. ”Are you sure this is an armored offensive?”
Sabine’s gun boomed again, and Vise-Korporal Duskwing chalked up another panzer kill.
“That’s confirmed, General. We’re seeing battalion to regimental numbers of attackers here. We’re dealing with the infantry as best we can, but our panzers have sustained serious losses. They caught us unawares.”
”Then Asterion somehow got a panzer division over the Creeper Mountains. This war has gotten much more serious. I’ll need your panzers to regroup back here. That’s an order Sergeant. I’ll get you what support I can, as soon as I can. Godspeed, Hellseig. Wolfheze, out.”
Hellseig cursed as the radio to Feldkommando went silent, replaced instead by the chaotic chatter of the platoons here on the ground. The battered kompanie was finally reforming, and until the enemy panzers had emerged it had certainly looked like they had the situation in claw. Now, however, the ‘taurs had gone from on the verge of breaking to nearly suicidal once more, surging towards newly prepared positions, right into MG fire. He added his own fire to the noise, considering the situation. Options were not great. While they were holding as best they could, if the General’s prediction was correct and an entire division was heading their way, they needed to form up with the rest of the 41st to respond effectively. But at this rate, movement would be on the backs of panzers and by claw and wing. None of their trucks were getting out, and only a few armored cars remained. He fired another burst, cursing the gods, cursing the Empire, cursing the Reformisten and by Tartarus cursing the minotaurs for this surprise attack.
He was supposed to be home by now.
“Fuck it,” he hissed, gunning down another cluster of minotaurs. One of them had been rushing towards a Calico with what looked like satchel charges. A grim fact that only underlined Wolfheze’s words. “All platoon leaders! I need a tally and an orderly fallback by fire to the other side of the grove, to the north! Gather the wounded as you can! Leave the dead and what equipment you can’t run with.”
”Duskwing!”
“I see it, hang on! On the way!”
The 5 cm boomed again, and another Lend-Lease panzer slewed in the mud, having tried to sneak around a wrecked Asterion landship to get a shot on them. Hellseig glanced down into the turret, watching his crew in action. Haul smacked another shell into position, coughing as the turret filled with acrid smoke, hollering out the clear as he closed the breech. Duskwing had his eye pressed against the sight, now switched to the MG as he mowed down yet another charge, the high-caliber bullets tearing bulls to bloody chunks. Up front, Spotsley was spitting insults at the same rate her gun spat bullets, until it ran dry and she lit up a storm, fumbling for another belt in her fury. Eihol twitched, watching his surroundings through the vision blocks, one claw on his shotgun, ready and waiting for another suicide charge.
They were a good crew. Hellseig had been with the Panzerwaffen since its creation, and before that had led infantrygriffs. This group was the best he’d ever worked with, coordinated and dedicated, skilled and experienced. Which made what he would ask them that much harder. He closed his eyes, breathing out as he absorbed the reality of what he needed to do.
“Eihol, prepare to advance.”
There was a pause as the whole crew absorbed what their sergeant had just said, and honestly Hellseig didn’t blame them. The order was an insane one, considering their position. Outnumbered and under constant assault, the idea of advancing into that storm was practically suicidal.
”Uh...a-are you sure, Sergeant?”
“As I can be, Korporal. We need to buy time for the kompanie to fall back. They’re never going to make it under this kind of pressure.”
“We’re with you, Sergeant!” Haul shouted back, saluting up from his loader’s seat, any trace of doubt erased from his face. “We’ll all win Iron Crosses for this!”
Hellseig had no doubt the stallion would go with whatever he had said. Spotsley was quiet, for once, as if trying to consider the odds before she finally spoke.
“Okay. Let’s do it.”
Duskwing looked up at him now, goggles pushed up to expose his eyes. In that gaze, Hellseig saw doubt, a hint of betrayal, questioning and a bit of sadness. But the Sergeant merely nodded, silently telling Cyril that this was the only way. The gunner paused before he nodded back, firmly, a new determination in his eyes as he pushed the goggles back down.
Eihol, meantime, was less certain.
“Sergeant, we’re gonna fucking die!”
“Not if we’re fast enough, Korporal,” Hellseig shot back, chattering off another burst. An idea came to him. “C’mon, what are you afraid of? I’ll buy the beers when we get back. All rounds on me!”
A pause.
Then, Eihol chuckled. It was mostly out of shocked realization, an acceptance of fate, finally squaring up to embrace what was inevitable. The chuckle turned into a laugh, which spread to Spotsley, who snorted into her radio before she too busted up. Then Duskwing, who just shook his head and smacked the gunsight, guffawing at the situation. Haul was, predictably, the last one to join in, but he did indeed chuckle, more as if he was trying to figure out what was so funny here.
A bullet ricocheted off the turret, but Hellseig was beyond caring now. Laughing as well, he fired back, then ordered “Advance then, Korporal. Für den Kaiser!”
“Voor de Keizer, Serjeant!” Eihol replied, gripping the levers and cranking them both forward. Full frontal assault.
Sabine rolled off her position, down into the hell. As the other panzers were falling back, supported by panzergrenadiers, knights and Hellsword regulars, the Stahlschild advanced into the storm, bullets and grenades ignored as she practically soared in. Confused queries over the radio were ignored, in favor of the crew focusing on their task. Three MGs chattered, interspersed by the 5 cm claiming the occasional panzer. But the charge had left the minotaurs fumbling. They hadn’t expected a counterattack, and even one as small as Sabine on her suicide run left them fumbling. They had no reliable anti-tank weapons, and with their own armor appearing incapable of stopping the oncoming panzer, the bulls finally halted, faltered, and finally began to break. The retreat was slow at first, but picked up speed as Sabine advanced further, finally clearing the killing ground and parking herself right into their positions at the treeline itself. From here, they could see down the forested hill, as flares lit the ground head in a ghastly dull red. The estimated division was moving into position, spreading out across the valley below and preparing to move on the unprepared Imperial line. With this assault regiment blunted, it would only be a matter of time.
“Panzer, 9 o clock!”
“I see it! On the way!”
The gun boomed, another enemy panzer gone. How many had they killed, just here in this one fight? Seven? Eight? How many would the enemy send up at them? How many did they have?
“Eihol, keep us moving!”
Reality came crashing back down as Hellseig ducked under a thrown grenade. A minotaur, not twenty feet away, roared in defiance, firing his pistol up at the sergeant who, caught blindsided, drew his own and put four rounds into the minotaur’s head. But the enemy were getting their bravery back, realizing there was but one panzer in their midst. The only way they could survive was to keep mobile, fire and maneuver and not get swarmed. Eihol pulled Sabine back as the MGs chattered, retreating off the high ground back into the killing field. Their charge had become a mad struggle, suddenly surrounded and now the sole focus of attention. The retaliatory fire seemed to quadruple, rapid fire rounds pockmarking the already cratered hull. The paint was nearly completely stripped away, the unit designation, camouflage and kill count on the hull little more than smudges now. The gun boomed again. And again. Hellseig brought his MG around, chewing up another suicide bomber, the satchel charges detonating seconds after the soldier fell. Where once the odds were against them and they laughed, now death was certain the crew only got furious, cursing and yelling and spitting. Smoke filled the panzer and Spotsley threw a fit as her MG overheated, the barrel glowing red hot. Haul opened the shot locker again, only to pause as he took stock of what they had left before silently hauling out another shell.
But Hellseig could count in the middle of the fight. And he had been.
“Scheiße!”
A minotaur had landed on the tank, right over the driver’s hatch. Hellseig tried to bring the MG down, but the angle was too steep, and the bull put the gun tube between them both. He went for his pistol, but the driver’s hatch popped open, and the barrel of a shotgun emerged. With a muffled boom that sounded like it was almost underwater, the buckshot blew out the minotaur’s lower torso, and the corpse tumbled away.
“Ja! Fuck jou, en de koe die ons met jou vervloekte, jij doorweekte hoop!“
“Eihol, look out!”
But it was too late. Distracted dealing with the first boarder, Eihol missed the second, who hopped onto the track guard, bellowing in their strange, southern tongue. Neither Hellseig nor Eihol had the chance before, with twin blasts that rocked the panzer, the satchel charges detonated in the bull’s hands, ripping her track and the front sprocket clean off. Sabine, still going full tilt, crashed bodily to a halt, skidding through the dirt and roots, finally halting as she crashed into the trunk of a tree.
Silence. Aside from the panzer’s still rumbling engine, their surroundings were quiet. Their mad charge had bought enough time and space for the kompanie to retreat. They’d likely be heading down towards Wolfheze’s command post by now.
The crew recovered slowly. Bruised, battered, coming down from their battle fury. They slowly began checking systems, counting ammo, taking stock.
Hellseig stood, looking at where they’d crashed. A tree was nothing to the panzer, but the blast had crippled her, tore up the armor, ripped apart her suspension and road wheels. Even without the crash, Sabine would never drive again. The damage was too great. It was a wonder they weren’t all dead.
He turned, looking towards the abandoned campsite. They could run for it, try to catch up to the kompanie’s rearguard. But Eihol was nursing a head wound and a concussion, a consequence of both the crash and having the hatch open when the charges had gone off. He’d never be able to run. But they had to do something. Now they had been taken out, the minotaurs would be one them in seconds. Minutes if they were lucky.
Hellseig dropped into the turret, sighing as he laid back in his seat, dabbing at his own temple and the blood there. Shrapnel, maybe. Perhaps from the blast itself. His cap had caught it and spared him the worst.
Duskwing and Haul were going over the gun. The hydraulics were a wreck, meaning the gun and turret would have to be operated by claw crank. And the shot locker was nearly empty. Maybe ten shells left, only three of those AP. Spotsley was quietly seeing to Eihol, asking him questions and bandaging his head, trying to keep him conscious. Hellseig groaned, taking his cap off as he considered the situation. If worst came to worst, and they were overrun, Sabine would be their best chance of survival, a place to hole up. Their one way trip had done a number to the enemy panzer force, and certainly bought them time. But with Eihol’s injuries and the distance they had to cross, leaving was not an option anymore.
“Weapons,” he croaked, picking up the SMG he’d taken from Duskwing and handing it back. The gunner took it quietly, checking the mag and then swapping with a full one from his satchel. Haul peered out his loader’s hatch at the darkness beyond, watching carefully for the enemy, while Spotsley took Eihol’s shotgun carefully, having to reach for shells.
“Okay, someone needs to scout the area. The rest of us are going to get ready for-“
A bellow only the woods cut off Hellseig’s statement, and he cursed as it was answered in a chorus from further back.
“Or we could go for the desperate final stand now, then!”
He stood at his station fully now, checking the belt on his MG before cocking it, steadying his aim. The treeline was teeming with movement now, indistinct in the darkness as the panzer’s headlights were pointed in a different direction. But the sergeant barely had to aim, as muzzle flashes showed them pushing so close together he simply had to point in one direction and hold down the trigger. The MG stuttered, and in the flashing lights he could see chunks torn out, meat fed into the grinder. The turret rotated slowly, and the coax chattered too, adding it’s fire to the sergeant’s own. Spotsley popped open her hatch, the shotgun in her paws as she fired, rack the slide and fired again. The surge of bulls was truthfully only a few seconds long, maybe twenty at most. But to them, it felt like they held for an hour, adrenaline coursing as lights flickered in the darkness. Hellseig’s wings were fully flared, though he struggled to tuck them down out of danger.
As the troopers finally broke and run, leaving behind a slope covered in meat and uniforms, a clattering came to Hellseig’s ears, that of treads and armor plating. Another Asterion landship, struggling and primitive, but with Sabine helpless as she was, even the small cannons it carried would be enough to deal serious damage.
“Duskwing!” he hollered down. “Minotaur panzer! Four o clock!”
“Roger that!” Cyril hollered back, cranking the handles furiously, the turret inching around. The gun tube swept over through the dark, almost in slow motion. Hellseig held his breath, beak clenched as he hammered away. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d slip a round in through a vision slit, or hit some critical part. But all he saw were the sparks of ricochets, and the cannon on the right flank swiveled towards them…
Then, Sabine’s 5 cm was aligned.
“Target acquired!”
“FIRE!” Hellseig screamed over the MG, the blood rushing in his ears.
“On the way!”
The gun boomed in the night, her muzzle flash blinding Hellseig. But even more blinding was the Minotaur landship brewing up, its primitive sides splitting and fuel and ammo cooked off, ripping the plates asunder as the wreck slewed to a halt.
“Yes! Kill confirmed!”
The crew cheered. Already an ace several times over, Cyril Duskwing punched the air. This felt like the most important kill of his career. Even Haul broke, leaving over and throwing his hooves around the gunner’s neck in a half-hysterical, half astounded hug. Spotsley howled, though her ears had to be ringing too. Hellseig laughed, smacking the top of the turret. They’d done it! Now they just had to figure out a plan to get out of-
He heard it before he saw it. In all the noise, none of them had realized that even though the panzer was dead, the clattering continued. Hellseig turned, feeling slow though he swore he was moving as quick as he could. There, in Sabine’s headlights, resplendent in the light, was a Wingbardian M11 medium panzer. A brand new, freshly painted model, passed on to the Asterion by the look of the black flag painted on her hull. And it’s large, very modern 5 cm cannon was lined up directly on them.
“PAN-“
Hellseig’s world went white.
The Stahlschild was an excellent medium panzer. A solid gun, good transmission and easy to manufacture. But she was the Empire’s first true foray into medium panzer design, and as such this carried multiple problems. A rather cramped interior, a separation of radio operator and commander to either end of the panzer and, most critically, flawed plate armor standards. While a good panzer, these issues had consigned her to already be replaced by her successor, in development even now.
The plate buckled. Then split.
Cyril awoke in fire. He blinked, trying to figure out why he still couldn’t see anything. But after a moment, he finally got his panzer goggles off and away, and blinked blearily. The lenses were covered in blood. And from the glow, the panzer was on fire.
He started, attempting to stand. Then he realized two things. One; he was in excruciating pain, which when his brain finally caught up left him staggering against the turret of the panzer. Two; the reason for this was the twisted metal wreckage of the gun assembly, combined with the peeled innards of the turret’s armor which was currently crushed together around the catastrophe of flesh and feathers that used to be his left wing.
And he was screaming. High, raw, unchained shrieking at the top of his lungs. He felt understanding give way to panic and fright, and automatically tried to pull away, which gave a -tearing- sensation. Oh gods, it fucking hurt so much, what in Tartarus was this shit! He felt like the flesh was slowly being ripped off his back, ligaments in the wing connected to him pulling and tugging in ways they were not meant to.
Abruptly, Haul’s visage filled his view, shouting and hollering something that Cyril couldn’t hear over his own white hot agony. Luckily, Haul managed to pin the gunner down long enough that he could still, finally hearing the stallion’s words.
“Duskwing! You need to stop thrashing around! I can’t get you out like this!”
Behind him, Sabine -was- on fire, fully alight. The paneling, the fuel, the ammunition. Flames licked at the turret walls, and all power seemed to have gone from the panzer. Cyril’s eyes, if possible, opened even wider at the realization, Haul’s words drowned out again. He was going to die here. If that Wingbardian panzer got another shot off on them, and there was no reason it wouldn’t, they’d finish the job. The enemy crew must have assumed they were brewed up. Cyril took a quick role call of himself, awkwardly patting himself down. Legs were good, arms were okay, head fine. In a strange twist of fate, he seemed to be unscathed aside from his wing.
And then the answer presented itself.
“Cut me out!” he screamed, the small actions he’d done incurring an agony in and of itself. He couldn’t help but thrash in his seat, feel the bones and flesh grind in the twisted metal. Haul shook his head.
“I can’t! I don’t have a torch! Just sit still as you can, I’ll try to pull you out!”
“No, Haul!” Cyril reached over the wrecked gun assembly, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling the stallion closer. “Cut it off!”
Haul was dumbfounded, staring back at Cyril in astonishment. “You...your wing? Cut your fucking wing?”
“The bones are powder anyway! Even if I get out, I’ll never fly!” Cyril shot back. The reality of that statement would hit him later, and the grim remorse to come with it. But right now, in the pain and suffering that was anchoring him to Sabine’s burning hulk, all he knew was that he had to get out by any means necessary.
“Cut! Me! Out!”
It took Haul another few seconds to come to terms with what he was being asked to do. But finally, he gulped, nodding as he clumsily turned, fumbling through the burning wreck to pull out the toolkit. The flames were closer now, the smoke suffocating and blinding. Neither could see clearly. But Cyril could just make out the blurry form of Haul, rising with the hatchet from the toolkit. He would have forced himself to watch. But between the everlasting pain and the smoke and the heat, his eyes closed.
It didn’t come off in one stroke. He felt the impact, but the flesh was suffering so bad he almost didn’t feel the pain. Almost. A second stroke. Now he -did- feel the pain, and with that panic set in again. He screamed, feeling his blood spatter the turret. He almost asked Haul to stop, begged him, but somehow he managed to keep his beak clamped shut again. A third stroke, and he almost passed out. A fourth, and now he did black out.
He awoke to feel himself being pulled from his seat. Voices spoke around him, and he couldn’t make them out. But he felt cold air, almost ice on his face and matted feathers. They were outside. He was out.
They passed him gently down the panzer, Hellseig carefully guiding Cyril down to Haul. It was difficult to do it with one claw, as the sergeant’s other arm was little more than a ragged stump now. But they finally got out Duskwing, one wing now messily hacked off at the wrist and now a horrific mass of bleeding flesh. Hellseig gripped his delirious gunner tightly at the claw.
“It’s down to you now, son. You have to go on. Do great things.”
“Sarge…” Cyril fumbled, eyes half open, on the verge of passing out once more. “What...you…”
“Don’t worry about me,” the veteran replied, gesturing to his missing arm. “Twenty years and this was the best the enemies of the Empire could do? At this point, nothing can kill me!”
Bullets smacked off the hull of the wreck, and Hellseig winced, ducking by reflex. The minotaurs had realized the crew had survived. That devilish M11 had moved off in search of more prey, but the infantry advancing behind it were the real threat now. They would swarm them in an instant, and judging from the combat earlier, there would be no prisoners taken here. But he was already committed to this course of action. The realization did not change his decision. Only solidified it.
“Get them out of here!” he shouted down to Haul, glancing over to where Spotsley was hauling Eihol, draped over her shoulders as she huffed, trying to hustle across the killing grounds with shotgun in paw. “Keep them safe!”
The stallion, understanding, merely nodded, shouldering Duskwing across his back. The Earth pony started away, then took a second to look up at Hellseig, trying to come up with the words. But they never came, and the loader instead nodded before he trotted off, trying to catch up to Spotsley, both of them doing their best to keep their precious cargo from being jostled too badly.
Sergeant Hellseig felt tired. Now his crew were away, he was suddenly aware of just how difficult it was to move. He fumbled against the turret, huffing as he tried to blink and get his head together. Tracers chopped past, a few bursts from a minotaur MG. He had to get up there. Protect his crew.
“Adelaide…” he muttered, claw fumbling for a handle. “I’m sorry.”
With that, he finally found some purchase, hauling himself up onto the top of the turret, rolling over and into the hatch again. Sabine was fully aflame now, but he barely felt the heat. It seemed fitting that both of them die here, to buy time for the others.
“Had a good run, didn’t we girl?” he grunted, working the charging handle on the top-mounted MG. Still half a belt left. Good. He didn’t exactly have the ability to reload anymore. But he squeezed the trigger, sending back a response burst. The Asterion troopers immediately refocused fire on him, leaving the battered, retreating crew alone. He couldn’t even see them through the smoke and flames. Just fired in the direction the bullets were coming from.
“Auf der Heide blüht ein kleines Blümelein!” he called out as he fired, remembering the song from the taverns and bars across the Empire. It was a popular song with soldiers at war, who wanted to finally go home. “Und das heißt: Erika!”
He chattered off another burst. Not much left in the belt now. But he was beyond caring. He’d done his duty, gone beyond. Fought for the Kaiser in war after war. Now, he was here at the end, he found his regrets heavy in his feathered breast. But they were surmountable. His missing arm hurt. But not as much as he thought. That was a bad sign. He’d likely slip into shock soon. He couldn’t feel the heat from the flames. Also a bad sign.
He didn’t care.
Overhead, he heard the screaming of engines. And then the rattle of machine guns and the whistle of falling bombs. A massive detonation erupted behind him, a fireball he could perceive even in the smoke. The M11 had indeed come back for the kill. He hoped the blast was the fighter-bombers taking care of it.
July 11th, 1011 0015 hours CNS Chrysalis Briefing Room 1st Queen’s Guard Squadron Near Queen’s Island, Changeling Queendom
“Close the hatch.”
The order was obeyed by the Guardsling, sealing it and standing by with the glowing M39/2 Gewehr cradled in his hooves. With the briefing room now finally secure, Hivemarschall Trimmel Eugen Heydrich Zu Gardis allowed himself to relax at last. He was not technically their commander, though his position as Marschall of the Heer left him in charge of all military assets. He’d used it better than any other before too, as previous generals had been so limited in scope as to owe their loyalty to a single hive. Trimmel had moved past such pleasantries and seized the power Queen Chrysalis had granted him, with the vision of an operational doctrine unparalleled by any, having demonstrated its superiority and efficiency during the invasion of Olenia. Before, it had merely been thought and theory. Now, they called the Olenian Campaign the “Lightning War.”
The Briefing Room was set just as he had prepared for the queen and her other top-ranking commanders - to gather one last time to review the invasion plans. It shouldn’t be long now before the queen herself would arrive, and the final order would be set in motion. Trimmel could not help but be excited at the prospect of, at last, executing the schemes so meticulously designed by his more conniving brothers in arms.
These consisted of Vaspier, The Great Imperial Nobody, leader of the VOPS and almost his direct counterpart was Hermis Thysbe, the tactical genius. Constantly engaged in their bid to impress their queen would often put them at odds with each other, despite being ordered to work past their differences and obedient as any of her most favoured officers, the combination of their mastery in tactics and strategies led to brilliant results which were also observed in the invasion of Olenia. Trimmel was almost envious of their skill but he was already the Queen’s favourite, and he knew it. He just needed to continue achieving victories, and his position at her right hoof was assured, both figuratively and literally.
As he slid into his seat at the side of his Queen’s own, barely suppressing a smirk, the leader of her protection detachment Lacin Cardo himself took his seat as well, followed by Opteris, his closest confidant. Having been summoned by the other commanders to convene on the Flagship, by far out of all his brothers and sisters in arms the only one Trimmel actually feared due to his silent and imposing demeanour, a changeling of few words and decisive action. The perfect individual to lead the bodyguards of Her Royal Majesty.
As if acknowledging his arrival, the Hive Marshal nodded to the Leader of the Queen’s guard who responded in kind. The two had a tense if amiable working relationship, as their duties had intertwined in the last few years. Technically, Trimmel outranked Cardo, but in practice the Captain of the Queen’s Guard was as much political as military, and there Trimmel dared not try his luck. The Queen’s Guard had been granted a massive expansion in terms of their ranks and equipment, such as their own fleet, armored battalions and air wings. They were, in essence, an army inside an army. The Will of Queen Chrysalis herself. The fact that Cardo even agreed to Trimmel’s suggestions meant he was interested in at least preserving the peace. Opposing each other would only lead to massive bloodshed on both sides.
In short succession the rest of the summoned commanders moved to the table, taking their seats quickly as the low buzz of conversation began to taper off. Vaspier in his humble uniform, a stark contrast to Thysbe’s flamboyant garments and flashy monocle, an odd atmosphere of envy, respect and competition thickening the air between them, the two eyeing one another as if scouting for weaknesses to be exploited. Trimmel snorted wordlessly, and the two commanders glanced his way, seeing the evident displeasure on his face. If there was ever a time they could not be weakened by infighting, it was now.
Also seated here was Pharynx, the prodigy that had worked with Trimmel on armored and motorized formation warfare. It had been his suggestion to group panzers into dedicated panzer companies like hunting parties, rather than spread them out to support infantry formations. Ever since, Pharynx had attended every exercise he could, watching with rapt attention as they worked through their experiments and trials, until he was almost as capable as Trimmel himself. With him was the stoic and soft-spoken Lactro Mactans, commander of the elite Jaeger battalions, sharpshooters and urban assault specialists. Loyal to Trimmel, he and Pharynx were the counterpoint to Cardo and Opteris. At the far end of the table, not given to the factionalism on show, was Actis Pagala, responsible for training and soldier curriculum. She wanted nothing to do with the contest between the Heer and the Queen’s Guard, and had made it a point of stating so. On either side of her was Field Marshal Sinovial and General Thranx, returned from the attaché overseas testing panzer technology and tactics in the Empire. Their time in Griffonia had separated them from the politics in the Queen’s inner circle, and while Sinovial sat back and plotted as he would, Thranx simply looked like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Two commanders exemplified the most contentious part of this scheming; General Epargy Clarus and his immediate second, newly promoted General Caroline Phymata. A genius combined arms and fire support, it had been Clarus’ idea to break from the old and well established doctrine from the airship age, spiting both Griffonian theory of strategic destruction and Equestrion ideals of tactical bombings and aerial groups, instead advising Trimmel to shift priority to better support his combined arms warfare. The implementation of forward radiolings was Clarus’ masterpiece, providing such accurate and quick coordinates to nearby aircraft to bring such swift and overwhelming support to changeling tanks during the Olenia campaign that soldiers could almost radio the planes onto bunkers and trenchlines just ahead of them, equally as responsible for Trimmel’s revolutionary strategic overhaul of the changeling military as the fast attack tank groups Pharynx had formulated. This experience noted a complete shift in Luftwaffe tactics and training. From the new crop of potentials, Clarus had his pick for immediate successor; Phymata had been a promising motorized commander who had shown great promise over the Olenia campaign, granting her a quick promotion to general and at Clarus’ side. But these two were fickle, easily willing to back Trimmel as they were to side with Cardo and Vaspier.
The Luftwaffe were contentious observers. By far the newest of the three branches, for a long time they had been part of each hive’s army forces. But Hippogriffia’s disruption of established doctrine in 1005 had put the airship out of relevance. Sure, they were useful for securing hives, but a Veppelin was easy pickings for today’s aircraft. After Chrysalis had ordered the wholescale adoption of Imperial Herzland concepts and terminology, this had all changed. The three changelings sitting in a small cluster in different uniforms were an odd bunch. Not quite the warrior type, they had all come from backgrounds in flight, aircraft or meteorology. General Apantesis was the most military of the three, having actually come from the old Lyctida airship corps as a commander. Mantis had worked as a pilot for Fargus Vraksis Aeronatics, and it was thanks to him and his expertise in aircraft technology and corporate structure that they had managed to avoid a long and painful process to get the advanced and modern Luftwaffe they had now, avoiding corporate pitfalls and redundant testing. But Luftmarschall Ceryonis, commander of the Luftwaffe, for all his aggressive bluster and rank, had been a weather scout before, a changeling who flew into storms in enchanted armor to gather information and make predictions. While he was the most aggressive, he was technically an intellectual amongst intellectuals, as many Luftwaffe pilots were. Instead of looking for aggression and skill at arms, Mantis’ suggestion of panning university students and technical experts had paid dividends in the end, resulting in a technologically advanced air arm. The only issue Trimmel had with the Luftwaffe was that as loyal as he knew them to be to the Heer and the Queen, their association with the military-industrial complex and the Queen’s Guard controlled scientists meant he didn’t trust them. Trimmel couldn’t prove it, and he’d be damned if he’d go to Vaspier to investigate, but he knew the Luftwaffe was playing favorites with Vespidae, United Wing Association and Svarm Aircraft. That made them susceptible, and he knew Cardo didn’t count on the Luftwaffe for anything either.
Present but not quite observed were Admirals Lysander and Mimic. The Armada occupied an interesting place in the Imperial military; while every unit in the Heer could trace itself back to one hive or another, the Armada was specifically the domain of Ditrysium hive. Such regionalism as gripped the Heer had no place in a navy, but this left the traditional Lysander and the eclectic Mimic as outsiders in a room full of scheming associates. For the most part, the admirals were just fine with that, refusing to play politics outside of honoring the queen. The only reason they were part of this inner circle was because of the vital necessity of their stations.
“She is here,” the Guardsling at the hatch states plainly. His words were not yelled, but even at their soft level it put a hush to any further quiet bickering or conversation, all eyes turned towards the hatch expectantly, waiting with equal parts eagerness, trepidation and fear. Some had more parts than others.
Finally, after what felt like an interminably long time, a dull thump sounded against the hatch, followed by two more. The Guardsling pushed forward, unsealing the hatch and standing aside, coming to the stiffest attention and hollering “Her Royal Highness; High Queen Chrysalis!”
All hives possessed a queen, a female leader who grew larger and far more powerful than the other members of the hive, who had an innate magnetism to them that other changelings instinctively responded to and superior shapeshifting powers. But even among the queens, High Queen Chrysalis was among the tallest ever hatched. She was dressed in a white dress uniform lined with gold and sporting black crowns at her lapels, a stark and regal contrast to the other changelings who wore grey, black or blue. She dominated the room with her very presence, both thanks to her natural magnetism and her station, head held high as she examined the chamber with sea green eyes. The closest comparison to her shape and status would be an alicorn, though she was of course above those feeble princesses. Her blue mane, once ratty and unkept, was now lustrous and styled, falling in gentle waves around her face, her carapace shining in the low light of the chamber. And she was smiling. Pleased. A good sign.
The assembled commanders immediately stood, bowing low to the carpet, their horns all an inch away from connecting with the deck. They held this pose until Chrysalis crossed, unhurried, to her highbacked chair, inspecting it briefly before taking her seat, resplendent as she sat up, examining the generals kowtowing before her. Her bodyguards, members of the Queen’s Guard wearing their pitch black uniforms, gas masks and goggles, took up position on either side, the protection detail of a dozen more storming in, checking the corners and sweeping for bugs and observers, gossamer wings twitching in agitation, M39/2s raised and at the ready. Finally, they stood to ready positions around the chamber, weapons held across the chest, prepared to act in an instant. One of her Guardslings leaned in and whispered something to the queen, who nodded.
“You may rise,” she finally declared, and as one her inner circle did just that, returning to their seats in absolute silence. She waited for them to take their seats, the faintest hint of a barely concealed smirk present on her lips. Yes, she was in a very good mood tonight.
“So, we are here,” she said after the commanders had all sat. “Alicorn Sunset. Years of planning, preparation and buildup. What a marvelous time. Much of our future hangs in the balance of this plan. So let us review our status before we proceed.”
This was the most important moment in these briefings with the queen. Whoever spoke first would get her undivided attention. Then, as so often happened in military briefings that dragged on, she tended to become less interested in the minute details. Trimmel normally stepped in to handle those, but he knew that getting the highlights out first would be crucial. But they couldn’t be seen to have rushed to speak. That would make them look desperate.
So, Trimmel stayed silent as Vaspier stood, giving a short bow before proceeding.
“VOPS operatives embedded in crucial places will begin their strikes in the next two hours unless we send the termination signal, Your Highness. We have targeted mustering points and airbases in Canterlot, Phillydelphia, Manehattan, Mariposa, Vanhoover, Baltimare, Crystal City and a few others besides.”
“Not Acornage itself?” Chrysalis asked airily, as if she hadn’t been briefed on this operation by Trimmel personally, listening to changes and giving her input and orders from on high.
“No, Your Highness. The Equestrian defense line is incomplete and poorly manned. From what we can tell, most of the garrison are National Guard and Reservist units, with some air wings in support. The core of the professional forces are held further East, closer to Ponyville and Canterlot. Royal Guard units are exclusively stationed in key major cities like Canterlot, Los Pegasus, Ponyville, Manehattan and Crystal City. We want to keep them there as long as possible, so we have avoided stirring up trouble in the west.”
Chrysalis nodded in approval, gesturing for Vaspier to continue, which he eagerly did with aplomb, shooting a smug look at a very annoyed Thysbe.
“King Sombra has worked his way north with his infiltration company. Jaegers are standing by to sabotage communications on the Sneig Line. The confusion will make it easier for him to work. We’ll be hearing more from them at a later time.”
“What are our chances of catching the Prince-Consort?” Chrysalis queried, intently focusing on Vaspier’s face, her eyes emitting a short glow. The VOPS commander grimaced before swallowing and schooling his features. Thysbe smirked in revenge, knowing Vaspier would see how the tables had turned for his rival.
“Very small, Your Highness. Prince-Consort Shining Armor is constantly surrounded by his Royal Guard. Hoofpicked bodyguards, associates he knows personally. He won’t fall for our usual embedding tactics.”
“I see…” Chrysalis drawled, clearly disappointed. “Another time, then.”
Vaspier, clearly glad to be finished, hurriedly bowed and retook his seat, his previous confidence erased. Trimmel decided this would be the time to save him, and nodded at Pharynx, who stood and bowed.
“Your Highness, we have seventy divisions in position to storm the border, with a hundred more at secondary staging points. The attack will stretch from the Crystal Empire to Seaddle.”
Pharynx’s voice was gruff, to the point. He’d never liked debating small issues, much like Chrysalis herself. This endeared the young commander to the queen, and with her favor and Trimmel’s tutelage combined with a natural aptitude for combat and a powerful shapeshifting ability, he had risen swiftly up the ranks. But his impatience was a flaw Trimmel had tried to temper out, to little avail thus far. Given his seniority, Thysbe should rightfully have been the one to define the operation, as he was not only higher ranking than the younger Pharynx, but he had also worked with Trimmel extensively on its planning and execution. But Thysbe understood that right now, Pharynx was the rising star. It was time to show off their protege, their newest little brother.
“Sixteen of those are dedicated armored divisions, stationed in key areas to affect maximum breakthrough. Once through enemy fortifications, they’ll sweep around to eliminate crucial areas such as supply yards, communications, command posts, repair yards, airfields and so on. We have them placed so that if any of the infantry or motorized divisions meets heavy resistance, at least two armored units can be routed to pincer the target at any time. Our goal is to outmass and outnumber Equestrian armor by a factor of three-to-one in the majority of engagements. Reserve divisions are waiting for the initial breach and the line extending to move into positions. We’ve received a good amount of reinforcements from the Olenian Protectorate...less from the Northern one.”
“What is our first target, General?” Chrysalis purred, clearly favoring Pharynx’s commentary. As if reading it straight off a piece of paper, he immediately began rattling off “Acornage must fall first. It is a place of hardened resistance where the border force will focus on using. The structures can be turned into bunkers and the layout gives them roads to bring in reinforcements and supplies. Once Acornage falls, we can turn the city to our own use, and Jagers can use it to secure the countryside.”
Trimmel glanced to Mactans, who nodded back coolly, his own expression sculpted from marble. Ever the consummate professional, Mactans would turn Acornage into his forward base of operations for his troops, sweeping the countryside to link with the embedded infiltrators.
“After that, Vanhoover. The garrison there is deployed to the fringes of the city. If we can overtake them there, we can sweep the urban areas in less than a week. We move on from there to Tall Tale and Mariposa. Those will have to be taken before Luna can dispatch troops to hold their fallback fortifications. If we can seize those quickly, we can build a firm position on the northwest. Our estimates predict Sombra will likely have picked up enough turncoat divisions to take over the front in the Crystal Empire, but we’ll have to wait and see.”
Trimmel smirked to himself. Pharynx had come a long way under his tutelage. Now with both he and Trimmel himself gaining the queen’s favor, they just had to focus on the war.
And so the meeting went on. For the next half hour, Alicorn Sunset was carefully laid out. Trimmel was surprised by how long the queen retained her focus, latching on to each commander in sequence and asking follow up questions. Even if she knew the answers already, her goal was clearly to test her generals, make sure they were ready. Cercyonis’ air groups were coordinated, ensuring swift aerial superiority, the Armada would strike from Hjortland and engage the Lunar Fleet while Mimic’s cruiser subs delayed the Celestial Fleet and sunk shipping. Olenian volunteers were being gathered to storm the fortifications, and polar bear shock battalions dispatched to the Crystal Empire. This operation clearly was critical to Chrysalis, and the longer the briefing went on, the more intense the glow in her eyes.
Finally, Chrysalis held up a hoof, halting Sinovial in the middle of a talk about what he had learned from the Reichsarmee and how it could be applied to the campaign. Some eyes had begun to wander as the meeting had lengthened, but in the sudden silence all attention was fixed back on the queen. The battleship’s ambient noise was deafening as everyling held their breaths.
“We are prepared,” Chrysalis announced, glancing over her shoulder at the chamber’s clock. “In a short time, we will be at war. I want you all to issue what orders you need to start over radio as soon as you leave this room. Then board planes and return to your posts as soon as creaturely possible.” She slowly scanned the room, looking each commander in the eye, holding their gaze one after another. “We have the best trained, best equipped and most numerous army in Equus.” Here, she looked to Actis, who both blushed and nodded firmly in affirmation, clearly taken by the brief attention her queen showed. Chrysalis smiled back before she returned to her oratory. “Our theories and designs are proven by experienced advisors. We have the initiative, and we have the motivation. Today will be the day history records as the day we stepped forward into revenge.” She raised a hoof, declaring “I hereby proclaim the Age of Pax Chrysalia! Let us sound a war that will not end until our glory stretches across the continent! We will forge an empire to last an eternity, and it will start in Canterlot’s ashes!”
So taken by her sudden speech, the other commanders, Trimmel included, threw their own hooves in the air, proclaiming “PAX CHRYSALIA!”
From their tone, Trimmel could tell their eagerness was honest. His certainly was.
“You have your orders!” his queen declared, standing as her Guardsmen quickly formed up around her. “Do NOT fail me. Now go! And we do not stop until we reach the Celestial Sea!”
0207 hours Wild Lands, northwest of Acornage 8th Motor-Infanterie Divisione Plan “Alicorn Sunset”
The time had come. And he was afraid.
According to international law and the stipulations of the Treaty of Canterlot, they weren’t supposed to be this close to Equestria. The Wild Lands garrison had strict limits placed on its size and allotted equipment, which had been subtly defied for the past few years. But all subtlety had gone out the door when they had moved a massive amount of divisions to the borderlands. While the ponies themselves were stupid, their precious Princess Luna was not. The forces assembled before them were lacking in terms of training and equipment, not even full-time professionals from the briefings they had received. But they did still oppose them.
Lars Zarek held his weapon close, clutching the rifle for dear life as the Open Blitz truck rumbled and shook. They had marshalled from their staging ground swiftly, told they were going to make history by their captain. Then they had piled into their vehicles, escorted by armored cars and backed by panzers. A short race across the countryside and here they were. And he shook, not just from the bucking of the truck over the rough dirt road, but from the fear in his carapace. But Queen Chrysalis’ speeches had always said this was not a time for fear. This was a time for action, and revenge. He loved listening to her speeches on the radio. She had been what gave him comfort after he received his conscription notice, leaving his construction job to take up arms for the Queendom. So he swallowed his fear as best he could, going through the steps as his gossamer wings fluttered in the wind pelting them. He checked his Gewehr 7, made sure it was loaded. He touched the bayonet at his belt, found his ammunition pouch full of reloads, his canteen. All present. Just for good luck, he touched his helmet. Across the truck from him, Private Nera, a squadmate rifleling of his, smiled in assurance, knowing better than to try and talk while all this noise was happening. But everyling’s nerves were hot right now. They dealt with it in different ways, whether through prayer, checking equipment as Zarek had done or working themselves into a fury. But this first action would see some of them dead, and they knew it.
He could hear the artillery already. Guns in the distance thundered, shells whistling overhead before detonating on the far side of the river, a constant drumroll that seemed to have no pause. Nebelwerfers screamed, rockets streaming by and lighting up the sky. He couldn’t see the tactical bombers in the cloudy night sky, but the terrifying screech of the Vs.87 Stukas diving on their targets, cannons thumping before dropping their bombs with frightening accuracy, could all be heard over the din. Return fire arced in, far less frequently but with startling accuracy. The truck swerved around the wreck of a Panzer II, alight and burning, it's crew bailing out. Ahead, a pair of Wespe gun carriages fired on targets across the River too distant for Zarek to see, already surrounded by a small mountain of spent shells. Anti-aircraft fire poured out of Acornage, filling the sky with flak tracers. Now, with the light from explosions, he -could- see the bombers, at least a dozen and probably more raining bombs down on the city.
The Blitz swerved to a halt, just short of the river. Behind and around them, more trucks pulled away from the road, slewing to stop and offload their precious cargo. Some, like Zarek’s were open-topped to let the troops shoot back (as if they’d hit anything) whilst others had their canvas flaps thrown back. A stream of changelings in grey uniforms poured out, weapons held close as they moved forward. Shots popped and chattered from a multi-story brick building across the river, slapping down several black carapaced soldiers. A changeling with an MG42 deployed her bipod, the loader immediately picking up the belt as she sent a stream of return fire at the building, sounding more like someone ripping canvas in quick succession than individual gunshots. Mortars began popping nearby, and in the city more explosions thumped dully.
“Soldiers of the Queendom!” called out Zarek’s lieutenant, addressing the platoon sheltering behind the trucks. “You have the honor to execute your queen’s will! First squad, advance on the bridge and provide supporting fire from the head! Second squad, prepare to advance over to the other bank behind the armor! Third and fourth squads, I need you to fly over and assault that structure!” The lieutenant waved as the sergeants immediately began bellowing orders, giving assignments to individual soldiers. “Forwards! The history books will write about this day!”
Zarek gulped nervously. He was in fourth squad, and now he’d just been handed the most dangerous assignment there was for a changeling soldier; exposing oneself by flying in the open while automatic weapons fired around you. No matter how fast a changeling, pony or griffon was, a bullet was always faster. The only virtue would be they’d be moving so fast, they’d be difficult targets. Hopefully.
They hunkered down, watching as the first elements rolled in. Panzer IIIs took lead, machine gun rounds raining onto their armored hides and whining away, mortars popping dully on their plates as the tanks moved over the bridge. One fired its cannon, and a cloud of debris appeared on an apartment building. Behind them came the halftracks, their armored walls sheltering the infantry huddling inside. Behind -them- went second squad, almost hugging the ground as they advanced, weapons slung at the flank-ready so they could move on all fours.
“First squad, open fire!” came a shout, and from around the friendly bridgehead changelings rose and leveled their weapons, Gewehrs popping as fast as their users could crank the bolt, MP10s chattering in bursts. Another MG42 position, properly deployed now, added the blistering tearing noise of its fire, green tracers sending a shower of rounds towards the same apartment building.
“Fourth squad!” yelled Sergeant Rakowitz, waving a hoof as he held his MP10 at the ready. “Up and over!”
As one, the ten members of fourth squad rose and, after a short sprint to clear of any obstacles, stretched their wings and took off, wings buzzing. Behind them, third squad followed into their chaos above their heads. As they rose, Zarek could see the levels of the apartment building on the far side both getting closer and falling away under him. Below, the bridge was still taking fire as the Queendom’s forces pushed into the opposite beachhead. One of the Panzers was abruptly speared by a shell, detonating spectacularly in a fireball as the ammunition and fuel went up, fiery shrapnel raining against the hull of the halftrack behind it as the soldiers dismounted. Now he was above, Zarek spotted an Equestrian machine gunner huddling behind a wall of sandbags on a third floor balcony gawking as he paused, the words he muttered in exclamation lost to the noise and distance. Others, however, were not so slow on the take. As the squads rose above the roofline, Zarek’s heart chilled in his thorax. Mounted on top of the apartment building, firing on the passing Stukas, was a 40mm AA mount, surrounded by sandbags and ammo cans. Pony loaders were slamming a new cylinder in place as the spotter immediately brought down her binoculars, hollering a command at the gunnery crew and pointing frantically at the oncoming changeling fliers. Immediately, they cranked the gun around to line up on the incoming infantrylings, and the gun thundered, deafeningly loud as each shell roared past. The ones that missed still resulted in clouds of flak detonating behind them as the timers ran out, flashing and blinding the changelings. The ones that hit, however, left little to nothing but ragged chunks of meat, scraps of uniform and metal shrapnel. Fortunately, the gunners only had seconds before the lings were over, fifteen soldiers quickly and brutally slamming into the ponies on the roof. Zarek leveled his rifle as soon as he landed, putting a round into the forehead of the spotter as she scrambled for her rifle. Korporal Malkarion fired his MP10 at a unicorn, but a purple bubble abruptly popped into existence, deflecting the barrage. It wasn’t as effective against Private Anchetta who fitted her bayonet and speared the unicorn in the ribs. After a moment of violence, the rooftop was cleared, and Zarek snapped his rifle around as the lack of hostiles perplexed him a moment, though he still felt the shudder of fear in his wings.
“Secure the area!” Sergeant Rakowitz called, glancing around. The gunnery crew hadn’t put up much fight on the actual roof, but two changelings still lay dead, not to mention the five or six the gun had burst in midair on the way over. One of them was Sergeant Tetch, leader of third squad. In this small bubble amidst the storm, as artillery pounded the city and the changeling advance pressed the bridgehead, Zarek had a moment to check his surroundings. They had the gun, and the only way off this roof (structurally, at least) was a hatch door in the roof leading down a flight of stairs. He could see his squadmates, his friends, still alive as well. Nera, Anchetta, Malkarion, Vorle and Malket. But aside from him and Rakowitz, that meant they had lost three. His heart sunk in his shell as he realized Goran, Vess and Xander must have been some of the victims of the 40mm, obliterated without trace. He didn’t know any of third squad by heart, though he must have heard their names at least a few dozen times.
Rakowitz appeared to come to some decisions, gesturing towards the gun. “Third squad, secure this rooftop. Get on that gun, burn through the pony ammo. Get some support out there. Janar, Yan, you’re coming with us.”
The two other soldiers Rakowitz pointed out stepped over immediately, and fourth squad moved to the staircase. As they did so, Zarek heard the cranking of the gun assembly, and he looked back. The remnants of third squad had figured the crank wheels easily enough, and were wheeling the 40mm gun down, targeting another building nearby. This one looked like a shop turned into a bunker, several machine gun nests in windows and infantry hunkering behind sandbags as they fired on more changelings attempting to cross another bridge further downriver. Zarek could only watch, following the muzzle of the cannon as it let out a sharp crack, much louder than when they’d been facing it. A shell streaked out, smashing into the adjacent store-bunker, blowing out the facade and rending whoever was sheltering there in flames. The gunners didn’t let up, firing the gun on full auto and raking the shop back and forth.
“Clear this apartment out, room by room!” Sergeant Rakowitz shouted, urging his soldiers on, calling Zarek back to the fight. Fourth squad streamed down the stairs, doors kicked down and weapons chattering. Caught by surprise from a direction they weren’t expecting, the Royal Army troopers were cut down as the changeling soldiers took revenge for their squadmates. It was a butchery. Though they were outnumbered, the din and chaos of battle covered their movements for two whole floors, and they caught the Equestrians by surprise. Zarek found himself almost losing his sense to the downright repetitive nature of the action. Open door, kill ponies inside, move on. They only found soldiers. Intel had told them the city was previously evacuated, so they instead killed infantrymares, machine gunners, a few officers once in a while, a radio room at one point. There must have been a whole platoon holed up here.
About the third floor was when the Equestrians caught on that something was wrong.
Zarek shouldered open a door, finding himself face to face with a whole rifle section leveling their Lavender rifles, a Nickers MG turned and facing the door. Zarek felt time slow down as he tried to reverse, feeling Anchetta run into his backside, knowing at least three soldiers were behind them.
Abruptly, the connecting door also flew open, and Privates Vorle and Malket burst in from an adjoining room. For a split second, the whole room was caught in a freezeframe before the two newcomers leveled the MG42 they had been hauling and cut the Equestrians down where they stood. The machine gun spit a curtain of brass to the side as the apartment was drowned in blood, bullet holes and tatters of green uniforms. Zarek, to his credit, had dove to the side, and now was just trying to hunker down and not get hit by friendly fire.
In the aftermath, the silence was deafening. His ears were ringing as he tried to get his bearings back to himself, tasting the gunpowder and copper of the blood in the air. Ahead, he could see the lifeless corpses of the ponies, piled over on one another, their uniforms stitched across with ugly, red bullet holes. At point blank range like this, the machine gun rounds had blown out ugly exit wounds the size of a hoof, and the ones who had been shot in the head or face had been mutilated almost beyond recognition. Zarek’s breath hitched, and he felt himself wheezing as he stared down at a red Earth pony whose wide, lifeless eyes stared back, wide and surprised at the suddenness of his fate.
After what felt an eternity, he felt someling shaking him, calling his name.
“Zarek? Hey, Zarek! C’mon, snap out of it!” He managed to pull himself back enough to recognize the voice; Nera, crouched over him and shaking his shoulder, calling his name. The others must have assumed him dead. She pushed him again, and he finally came back to the present.
“Huh? What?” he finally asked dumbly.
“C’mon! We still have the other floors to clear!” She turned, having snapped her squadmate back before glancing back from the doorframe, frowning. “You wounded?”
Zarek dumbly patted himself down, looking for green ichor. For the time being, nothing appeared to be leaking out of himself, and the only injury he had appeared to sustain was his ringing ears and some bruising to his carapace when he’d thrown himself down. Dazed, he shook his head.
“Then let’s go!” Nera yelled. “There’s still a whole city left to take!”
She left, and Zarek was alone with the dead. He turned, trying to ignore the corpses, and looked out the window behind the Nickers gun. Out in the street intersection, Acornage was on fire. Every building appeared to have sustained damage from the bombardment overhead, from afar and now in the streets, parked cars crushed, turned over or on fire. He could see bodies from here. Some wore uniforms, some didn’t. He tried not to let that stick in his mind. An Equestrian tank clattered into view, one of their newer ones if he remembered from the briefing. A Timberwolf?
It didn’t get far. As it took up position to cover the Royal Army ponies behind, a Panzer III also came into view from the direction of the bridgehead the changelings had crossed over. Much more quickly, the turret swivelled around, and its cannon boomed. The Timberwolf rocked, then detonated in a massive fireball, killing many of the ponies nearby and setting several on fire. Halftracks, trucks and changelings on hoof rolled past the Panzer, machine guns blasting as they took on building after building. Further down, an Equestrian barricade began spitting machine gun and rifle rounds at the oncoming horde. Mortar fire began falling on the intersection. Changeling artillery boomed in the background as Nebelwerfer rockets screamed by. Someling was -actually- screaming nearby. The ground cracked and rumbled before a massive shape broke through the intersection, the form of a tunneling wormlike creature erupting from the asphalt. A battleshifter, in the form of a massive Thrax worm. The ling was an exceptionally powerful one, as whoever they were turned, their armored face swinging down to examine the panicking pony soldiers below. A Humber armored car clumsily tried to reverse, the gunner firing up at the shifter despite the rounds visibly bouncing off the chitin plating. With almost contemptible ease, the shifter put a huge, armored mandible through the top of the car, spearing it through like paper.
Zarek reached down, grabbing up his Gewehr and scrambling after his squad.
It took a few more nightmarish hours, and the leveling of half the city, but Acornage finally fell. Dawn arose on a shattered landscape and a changeling army triumphant.
The Royal Army had put up much stiffer resistance than expected. While Acornage had fallen in the end, the cost was high. Fourth squad were assigned to mop up detail, moving through the streets to be taken the last few shreds of resistance down or in. They’d come away with plenty of POWs, headed back into the Changeling Lands for detainment.
Zarek glanced at the houses they passed, rifle slung over his flank. Many of their fronts had been shattered by cannon fire or flattened by shells, rockets and bombs. The ones still standing were pockmarked by bullet holes, their windows shattered and doors splintered down. One had the wreck of an Equestrian Muletilda tank that had driven through the living room before it had been destroyed. The nature of these homes perplexed Zarek. In hives, residences were built into huge blocks, where hundreds of rooms could be packed in, housing thousands of changelings. But these homes looked like they could hold, maybe, a dozen ponies each. Some were larger, two story affairs. Confusingly, the number of bedrooms per home that he had seen told that the average pony home usually held two to four ponies, a rare few holding more. This seeming waste of space was alien to him, the fact that a city could cover so much ground and yet they seemed to purposefully limit themselves in how many could be in it. Zarek knew he was trying to distract himself from the Royal Army pony and Queendom changeling corpses they passed in masses, some in piles as POW work crews and changeling engineers labored to clear the city. He also knew it wasn’t working.
Hauptman Nihilith had joined them on this sweep. It was the task of officers to learn from their ranks as much as from the lowers to seek their officers’ leadership, after all. He had taken the head of the file with Radowitz, their heads leaned in close as they conversed quietly. They hadn’t run into any more active combatants quite yet, mostly a few soldierponies that had surrendered when faced with a dozen changeling gunbarrels. The squad was uneasy, but at least they weren’t being shot at.
Zarek leaned over to Nera, glancing around at the silent neighborhood before he quietly said “I guess that could have gone worse.”
In all honesty, he was just trying to make conversation, but Nera didn’t seem too interested in engaging, just nodded as she followed along, occasionally scanning her surroundings. Zarek wasn’t sure how to react to that, as he himself was unsure of how to process their surroundings either. They turned another corner, two lines down the middle of the street. Ahead was what he assumed to be a public park of some kind, where a statue bust of Princess Celestia topped a fountain, surrounded by colder friendly shrubbery and benches. Whatever kind of idyllic scene it was supposed to paint was spoiled by one house having been smashed by a Queendom Stuka, its bent and beaten tail fins poking out of the wreckage, as well as most of the few civilian cars having been smashed aside or crushed by passing tanks. A few Equestrian battalions had managed to escape from the city, and in their rush they had clearly left with little regard to what was in their way.
A handful of Queen’s Guard were clustered around the fountain, inspecting the bust statue. With little warning, one of them disappeared in a flash of green, and the massive Thrax worm emerged instead, its tail knocking aside another car. With a swing of a huge mandible, the statue disappeared in a cloud of debris, sending chunks raining down around the fountain. Without fanfare, the Queen’s Guardlings inspected the chunks, making sure there was nothing left to recognize. Upon confirming the statue’s destruction, they unceremoniously loaded into the back of a nearby idling halftrack, the battleshifter retaking his previous form.
Hauptman Nihilith moved to the front of the squad, calling them close.
“This is necessary,” the captain declared, gesturing to the destroyed statue as he tugged irritatingly at a gauge bandage covering his neck, from under which a small leak of green ichor could still be seen. “For this war, destroying the enemy’s material and killing their soldiers will not be enough. To defeat them, we must crush their fighting spirit, and any symbols they rally around.” He gestured to the cityscape in the distance, the columns of smoke and the changeling aircraft still flying overhead. “Our brave comrades gave a heavy toll for this place. It is the first step. The most difficult. But more important than the first is making sure we fight just as hard for the second. And the next. And the next. Look to your fellows. Your platoonmates went above and beyond sustaining such losses and taking up the enemy gun. They’ll be decorated for such bravery. Many of you can earn such awards. Thousands of changelings were killed, wounded or disappeared this day. So now, you have your own, personal reasons for revenge. To match that of our nation, and our queen. Do NOT let them die in vain.”
With that, the Hauptman turned away, and the squad resumed their sweep for stragglers. Zarek supposed they had little time for ceremony.
July 13th, 1011 1643 hours Great Temple of Boreas Imperial District, Griffenheim
Most of the rest of the day, the Great Temple was packed to bursting with worshippers. Those who had assembled for morning mass and pilgrims who had made the journey from all over to visit the holy site. Griffenheim was one of three of the most visited places in Griffonia, next to the city of Romau and the almost ruined city of Griffonstone. Thanks to its center on the Griffking River and the connection to Feathisian ports, worshippers of Boreas, Arcturius and Eyr came the world over from even as far as distant Zebrica. Boer griffs and Imperial zebras who traveled this far would be greeted to the massive holy structure alongside the more mundane crowds who flocked from the surrounding countryside, such as Strawberry, Feathisia, Katerin, Bronzehill and Yale. Even those territories newly restored in the Grenzwald Frontier such as Lushi, Hellquill and Brodfeld were returning in massive numbers now the Imperial garrisons and newly restored roads assured safe travel. They flew, they drove, they walked, by wing, machine or leg. Still, they came.
Now, this late in the day, the Temple was much more empty. Most of the crowd thinned out by noontime, and then the afternoon worshippers came in for a short while. But on this lazy day, the Archon had already retired home, and the priests remaining were mostly content with their duties and taking care of the few worshippers who came in. As such, when the massive, open double doors were graced by two more figures, not many raised their eyes. It was almost evening, after all. They’d come in small pockets, but never more than a clawful.
Margot Duskwing swallowed, glancing around as she tugged at her collar, smoothing the pleats in her dress. Clad in her finest clothes for worship, (admittedly still rather plain) she had come here with a purpose in mind. While the district of Industrie had its own temple to Arcturius, the prayer she was going to ask felt much, much heavier with recent events. And she felt it only fitting to finally come to the grandest place of worship in the Imperial City. She hadn’t been here since she was a chick, so many years ago. She had married Stefan in Strawberry, at his father’s vineyard. And her entire life, she had been content with the local temple, as had her own parents. But now, her only son was so often at risk, and lost in his own soul and misery. No, if anything, this felt long overdue.
Sophie was quiet at her side as the two paced into the depths of the temple. Dressed in her own temple clothes, her wings twitched in agitation, mirroring her mother. She understood why they were here. Margot felt it only appropriate to explain to her before they arrived, so they spoke as few words as needed in the presence of the gods. They approached the front, where the three great altars stood. While the Great Temple was proclaimed in Boreas’ name, king of the gods and greatest of the three, as the Empire had grown it had taken altars of the other gods, and now stood as a united place of the three Archons of the Gods. Only two other places in the Empire were more holy; the temple city of Romau and the holy land of Griffonstone, now unfortunately left to decay and ruin. Blessings for the nation were proclaimed here, Emperors crowned, crusades declared. She felt almost like an intruder, treading where she was unwelcome. The long, empty pews almost echoed, the shadows almost hiding them. The Great Temple had electric lights, but the pews themselves were lit by candles from massive chandeliers overhead. This late in the day, with such sluggish activity, the very back pews hadn’t been lit by the acolytes for some time, though they would be reignited for evening worship. The few creatures here, at present, were closer up.
Sophie looked up, and up, and up high above her head. Above the altars was the Great Seal of Boreas, an ancient stained glass window centuries old, through which the dying light gently filtered in, orange, red, blue and green. This was possibly the largest structure she’d ever been inside in her life. It could fit their apartment, her school, her temple and the corner shop she liked to frequent with her friends all at once inside its cavernous depths. To the eleven year old formel, it was both awe-inspiring and rather terrifying. She moved closer to her mother unconsciously, her wings almost extending fully as she beheld how high up the ceiling was, stretching away on massive pillars. Above them, empty for now, were the elevated pews for the nobility, where aristocrats could worship on their own level, literally looking down on the commoner crowd. At the moment, acolytes quietly cleaned the noble seats, preparing for tonight’s prayers. Something appeared to stir in the shadows behind one of the columns, and her feathers bristled, eyes wide as she swore she spotted a figure, black on black moving in the gloom. She blinked, trying to focus, but whatever it had been, whoever it had been, was gone.
“Sophie,” Margot quietly chided, but the rebuke had no heat, and Sophie quietly folded her wings back up again without a word, the shadow forgotten.
The other worshippers were a motley collection. Maybe a dozen or so, scattered through the pews. A dog, a soldier by the look of his uniform, sat quietly off to the side, muttering litanies under his breath as he held his cap in his lap. Two griffs on the other side quietly held a photograph, the female silently sobbing. Margot had seen enough grieving parents to recognize the sight. At the front, a priest quietly talked with a young couple, explaining that no, they couldn’t arrange their wedding here at the Great Temple as aristocrats had reserved the rest of the open time between worship and holidays for the next five years. While the formel seemed disappointed but accepting, the drake was extremely unpleasant, almost as if he would start fuming in the next second. But before he could, an imposing shape stepped out of the shadows behind the priest, saying nothing but quietly conveying his presence. Clad in ornate, gold-trimmed black plate armor, the Temple Guard silently said the message; if you cause a disturbance, you will be thrown out. The drake wilted upon seeing the blank and emotionless visor, quietly saying something to his fiancee and both turning and leaving as fast as politeness would allow. Sophie glanced back in time to see both griffons take wing and fly away as soon as they were out the double doors.
The priest turned back, looking tired and exasperated. He glanced Margot and Sophie up and down, appearing to consider something before he held up a claw, gesturing them forward. Almost embarrassed after seeing that display, the two females approached.
“You remind me of somegriff, Frau. Have we met before?”
“Er, no Pfaffer,” Margot admitted. “I only came here once about thirty years ago.”
“Ah,” the priest replied, realizing his mistake. “My apologies. I see so many in a day, I mix up beaks and crests.” He smiled over at Sophie before returning his attention to her mother. “So, is there anything I can do for you today then, mein kinde?”
“Well, Pfaffer…” Margot paused, suddenly feeling rather foolish and having to resist the urge to simply walk out of this great, grand holy place with her issue, but she forged on. “My son is in the 41st Panzergrenadier. He came back after the end of the Herzland War a bit, well...broken. He was drinking, brawling, arguing. He seemed lost in his life, and miserable. And then he was activated over the New Year to go east with the Grenzwald Expeditionary Force. He writes to me all the time, but I can’t help to worry. I lost his father when he was but a youth and Sophie just a hatchling. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost my son too.”
“I’m so sorry,” the priest responded almost instantly, and unlike other platitudes she had heard, Margot could see the honesty behind his eyes. “I was with the 41st myself. I was supposed to shepherd the souls of the soldiers in Griefenmarsch. But when the Herzland War happened I…” He paused, considering. How much had the son told the mother? And the child there too? But after a moment, he pressed on. “The things I saw on campaign...I followed behind the troops of course. But the devastation left in their wake. And the things I heard in confession and in the aide stations. Believe me, I completely understand your worry. But Boreas watches over all his children. If he has decided it is not yet your son’s time, Boreas will not let Maar take him.”
“I understand, Pfaffer. But I didn’t come all this way to hear that again. Please, can you...can you give my son a blessing? To watch over him?”
The priest looked taken aback, glancing between mother and daughter. Margot Duskclaw looked, if not desperate, certainly very agitated, wings twitching and her expression both determined and strained. Sophie reached out, gently setting her own claw on her mother’s shoulder, a gesture she was clearly used to carrying out. Remarkable, for a formel so young. She was, perhaps, eleven years old? In any case, she was far too young to be the supporting one in the family.
“Well...I understand your need to keep your son safe, mein kinde. But I cannot bless him if he is not here.” He paused, a realization coming to his mind. No, a revelation. “What is your son’s name, exactly?”
The mother slowly blinked, as if the thought had never occurred to tell the priest. As if working through the reasons she shouldn’t she seemed to slowly come around to accepting the fact that, no she hadn’t said it and yes she probably should. He could see the resolve in her eyes. She hadn’t come all the way to the holiest place in Griffenheim just to admit defeat and leave.
“Vise-Korporal Cyril Duskwing, Pfaffer.”
At that moment, Andreas Bronzeclaw realized this was no simple coincidence to bring her here to his temple, at this time and place. This kind of meeting could only have been steered by the gods themselves.
“Frau Duskwing...I think I -can- do something after all.”
It took a few minutes and the coordination of two other priests there with him, but Andreas grouped all the current worshippers into the same two pews. For a moment, Margot Duskclaw and her daughter were confused, even a little embarrassed. But only a few introductions cleared things up.
Sergeant Dober had returned from the Northern Front short of several squadmates. After a term in hospital and a nervous breakdown, he was attempting to find his confidence through faith before he rotated back to the Legion.
The Greyfeathers had lost both daughter and son during the Herzland War.
Anna Dawntalon was praying for her husband, newly wed only for him to ship out with the Gebirgsjager to the Grenzwald. He and several squadmates had gone missing two weeks ago.
Helga Grimwing, a Vollstrecker returned from the east, had come to confess her burdens and alleviate her worries. It was the only way she could continue to carry out her duty with a clear conscience.
Three more griffs and a pony were Kaiserliche Marine sailors, those who had taken the time on shore leave to journey this far, fearing for the war all in the west could see coming on the horizon, especially for the naval forces.
A few assorted civilians, not associated with the military but still sympathetic to the griffs in arms, clustered in as well. And with the first two pews full around Margot and Sophie, they all bowed their heads as Andreas stood at the front, claws in the air.
“Gods above, we beg your ear this day.”
“Respice in servos tuos nos orare,” the two other priests with him and the assorted worshippers muttered, claws and paws clasped in front of their chests. “Boreas alium, hoc oro maiestatem tuam.”
“We gather to ask for your grace, might and benevolence as we pray on behalf of our brothers, sisters, sons, daughters and friends in danger. We who are unworthy of your favor, yet you grant it to us anyway.”
“Respice in servos tuos nos orare,” the group repeated. “Arcturius nos obsecro te sapientiam.”
“We pray for Kalvin Hund, Hans Dawntalon, Gunter and Idris Greyfeather, Cyril Duskwing and so many more taken up arms to keep up safe and spread your glory. For the ones who have been lost to Maar, we ask your protection for their souls. For those only missing from our sight, we ask your deliverance to safety. And for those still doing their duty, in danger or about to be, we beg thee to extend your wings and shield them from misfortune. Spare them their suffering and end, they who shelter us here at home. And bring them home to us, so they may join us in praising your glory.”
“Respice in servos tuos nos orare,” the group said one last time. “Eyr, et postulantes gratiam tui.”
Andreas brought his claws down, making the sign across his chest of the almighty Boreas, then Arcturus, then Eyr, his movements mirrored by the priests. A silent minute followed, in which the assorted prayed for their loved ones lost, still in the field or even their own souls. A prayer for the lost, for them to finally be found.
Finally, Andreas Bronzeclaw raised his head, quietly addressing his assembly.
“Respice in servos tuos nos orare. Te rogamus audi nos hodie nobis de fide tres orationes nostrae. So say we all.”
She went off by herself, afterwards. The rest of the worshippers talked amongst themselves after the prayer. But in her case, it was time to go. She took her greatcoat from the rack by the door, tugging it on over shoulders and wings. The Great Temple would likely be filled with worshippers for evening service soon, singing hymns and muttering litanies. But she wasn’t one for the large services, preferring to get her business with the gods done quickly and alone, more personally. She didn’t need priests shouting blessings, choirs in the wings and an organ. Better to make it a one on one conversation, in her opinion.
Griffenheim was quiet beyond the temple fence. Even here, early evening meant griffs were about to get off work in the factories and offices, go home to eat dinner, and plenty would come here after. The scene along the boulevards was gentle right now, strange in this city. Shop windows spilling the glow from their inner lights onto the avenues outside. Traffic on the street was sparse, the occasional automobile passing by the Temple gates. Some of the vehicles were trucks, carrying cargo towards Industrie or away from it to the rest of the city, and even beyond. Occasionally, one of the more elaborate and expensive models passed, all shiny metals and bright filigree with tinted glass displaying status to all around that an aristocrat or Industrierat business griff sat inside. Sometimes, it was a staff car belonging to an officer in the Imperial Guard or the Reichswehr. Airplanes, both commercial and military flew above the laborious cargo airships along the skyline, interspersed by small clusters of flying creatures. In the distance, she could hear one of the great trains leaving Industrie, to begin the laborious process of taking cargo across the Empire from one of the largest trainyards in Griffonia. The Imperial City’s heartbeat, forever clanking and clattering at the heart of the glorious Kaiserreich, fuelled by its Marches and vassals, and oiled by the blood and sweat of its citizens.
She plucked a cigarette from her coat as soon as she was clear of the temple, about to flick open the lighter and enjoy the nicotine before she flew back to the barracks, when a voice, slick as oil and quiet as a whisper, sounded directly behind her. Saying she expected him was a stretch, but she certainly wasn’t surprised he was there.
“Fraulein Grimwing. How was the service?”
She turned back to find none other than the Grand Inquisitor himself had seemingly materialized from the shadows, red eyes focused on her, black uniform perfectly adorned, high-peaked cap pulled down tight on his white feathered head. The officers’ hat was smaller than her own, but her own Vollstrecker uniform was meant to be visible, with scarlet sash, gold embroidery, the symbol of her office around her neck and her gleaming enchanted breastplate with the heraldry of the Empire across her chest. Compared to her, his uniform was both subdued and sinister, meant for one in the shadows rather than visible in battle, blacks and silvers betraying the slightest whisper of his knowledge. By being the leader of the Geheimstaat, Erlinger was just as much her superior as her mother was, his presence and undivided attention a clear sign of something important in the making that involved herself. As a Vollstrecker Helga could only wonder at his intentions.
“Herr Erlinger,” she greeted, plucking her cigarette and tucking it away. Looks like she wouldn’t be enjoying it for a few minutes.
“I thought the service rather nice,” Erlinger continued, glancing back at the Great Temple. “Though mass was never to my taste. Too large and conspicuous. I thought you were the same, but you joined in with no hesitation.”
Figures he’d been inside, watching her. Probably keeping to the shadows. Plenty of them in a giant half-lit stone structure. This was certainly not a conversation she wanted to have. Helga tugged the cigarette out again, deciding to have it after all.
“It was small enough to be comfortable,” she replied, taking a pause to strike the flint, allowing the tiny flame to light the end and purposefully stretching out the time before she replied. “And besides, they were praying for soldiers of the Reich. Killed, missing or still out there. How could a decorated Vollstrecker in regalia ignore that?”
“You sound a lot like your mother,” Erlinger replied, smiling mirthlessly. It wasn’t that he was being particularly cruel, Helga simply doubted he knew how to put warmth into his face. “She gets passionate when she talks as well.”
“What are you, her liebhaber?” Helga scoffed, taking another drag and blowing it out to the side. While she took issue with the wingless griffon, she wasn’t petty enough to blow literal smoke at him. Besides, insulting the Grand Inquisitor was a bad idea. She resigned in her attitude with a second drag. “What business can I do for you tonight, Herr Inquisitor?”
“You know your mother would love for you to come work with us,” was Erlinger’s reply, to which Helga was unsurprised. “You’ve done remarkable things as a Vollstrecker. You’re a brilliant investigator. A wonderful...combatant.”
“You mean executioner?” she retorted, though her tone was light. She was in no mood to tempt fate. “I’m happy to enforce the law of the Kaiser on His Majesty’s soldiers. It’s an honor. But I’m no spy. And I’d rather not work for an organization that doesn’t let their citizens learn about the outside world.”
“We still do,” Erlinger corrected her. “But it is our duty to ensure slander and propaganda do not enter their minds. We cannot have ideas like communism or republicanism take root in any self respecting citizens of the Reich. We suffered one revolution already.”
He tugged his own smoke out, this one fatter than her own cigarette. From the smell, she could tell it was cannabis. More popular in the Frontier than the Herzland, it was said to possess properties to calm the mind. Everygriff she knew smoked cigarettes of tobacco and nicotine. To Helga personally, the smell was strange. Out of habit, she pulled her lighter out, striking a flame for him, to which he nodded and lit his own stogie, taking a puff or two, blowing out acrid air.
“Don’t tell me that justifies making griffs disappear because they read the wrong pamphlet.”
Erlinger raised an eyebrow as he blew another cloud of smoke out, a pulse of purple energy around his eyes giving Helga the idea that she needed to stop skirting the line.
“What do you think your mother and the MfÖS do to revolutionary agents? Terrorists? We are not the Pentarchy. We do not sweep up a town because it suits or entertains us. Our process has turned out a superior society. Happiness. Loyalty. One of the most skilled fighting forces on Griffonia.”
“At the cost of what? Thought control? State intimidation?”
“I could have sworn I heard a few -small- inaccuracies on the radio this morning. You cannot pretend the Empire does not lie to its citizens to manipulate them through a narrative.” Erlinger examined Helga closely, inspecting her face. “Independent thought is permissible. It allows growth. But the mind is like a plant. It must be fed correctly. Or it will start to turn...sickening.”
Helga, done with her cigarette, tucked the butt away in a pocket, determined not to let it fall on hallowed ground.
“I’m happy with my work, Herr Inquisitor.”
“Grand Inquisitor,” Erlinger replied airily. “And if you recall, your work would not exist if not for the Geheimstaat.”
“Is -that- why no Hellsword unit has a Vollstrecker attachment?”
“Be careful who you accuse, Helga,” Erlinger’s tone had hardened, like steel on the rasp. “I thought it was because formations with the Black Knights were far more disciplined than Reichsarmee conscripts. I might have to start rethinking how I judge my peers.”
Helga felt the retort in her beak, but bit it back. She had already skirted the line enough. As Vollstrecker, it was her job to enforce discipline. Her time in the Sturmtruppen had tempered her aggression, but from the stint she worked as a drill instructor in Krona she knew her self-control required work. Erlinger puffed out again, apparently considering his words carefully. That struck her as strange. He hadn’t hesitated in his answers since he had shown up.
“We have work for you.”
“Work?” she raised an eyebrow, unsure of the term. It was unfamiliar, shorthand. Erlinger was a master dissembler, able to read and manipulate his targets with ease. A shift in personality was not only something her mother had told her to expect, it was purposeful. What was his goal here? “Why not just issue me an assignment?”
“Because of who might see it before it passes through your claws,” Erlinger shot back, reaching under his coat and returning with a plain manila envelope, which he held out to her. “You are in the unique position of being one of the few we can trust above all others, even other Vollstrecker. But officers, handlers, support staff we are less sure of.”
She took the envelope, opening it to pull out a few papers. They were profiles of various noble families, well known aristocrats and business griffs who had made their fortunes with the rise of the Industrierat. House Goldfeather, House Schwarzplume, House Stahlkralle, and many others. She raised an eyebrow at the names, lists of business assets and photographs.
“What am I looking at?”
“Those nobles who have taken advantage of the Grand Duke and Duchess Regents’ economic reforms and our recent military successes to skirt the law, and more importantly grow rich off it. The Grenzwald coming back into the fold has opened up a gold mine for merchants and businesses seeking to strike a fortune off the bounty of resources and griffpower. Steel, chromium, precious metals, crystal, factories, agriculture, the list goes on and is ultimately unimportant. But I am not speaking of the activities of Morgend Longpaw or the Kompanie. Nor of the legitimate businessgriffs who have the approval of both the Reformisten and the Imperial Industrierat. These are exploiters, who cheat at labor laws, taxes, bribery, sabotage, extortion, other despicable means. In years past, they got away with it because of their family ties and wealth. But today, the MfÖS and Geheimstaat fight back. Already, we have brought down many of the corruptive worms who seek to escape one jurisdiction or another, fleeing from one corner of the Empire to seek shelter on the other side. Your mother has been ingenious in orchestrating that plan. But Operation Nachtungnebel is multi-headed, like a hydra. We stamp out corruption in the aristocracy in the way only we can, and we dig out the wretches of the terrible enemy underneath it all.”
“The Republic?” she asked. It would make sense. Some nobles who had sided with the Revolution in its early days had managed to avoid the axe through one loophole or another. A few were probably still acting as informants and suppliers, despite Kemerskai’s promise to bring down the nobility. Likely they were hoping to buy their way into a good position after the second rising everygriff knew was coming, sooner or later.
But Erlinger shook his head. “They are but a symptom of the cancer that grips Griffonia. It is not safe to speak of them out loud in public like we are. But suffice to say that this organization has managed to successfully subvert both myself and Ela. They have agents and informants everywhere this side of the world and will stop at nothing to gain their goal. They brought down the Empire once already with the Revolution, their agents guiding Kemerskai and his turncoats. Now, with the continent so divided, it is the perfect time to try again. They guided Beakolini to overtake Falcor and Sicameon, to reengage in colonialism in Abyssinia. They planted the means for Verany to overthrow the king in Aquileia. And even now, they work to weaken the Herzland with insider agents, sabotage and, as you shall soon see, war.”
Helga glanced up, frowning at the implication. The idea that the Empire’s demise was being plotted by some shadowy organization capable of besting both her mother and the most sinister, intimidating drake she knew was beyond her own scope of comprehension. Two of the most powerful spy organizations in the Empire and beyond, and they were unable to fight this menace.
“So why me?” she asked, holding up the folder. “I get busting corrupt aristocracy. But fighting some shadow war? What can I do that you can’t?”
“Your mother admires your directness,” Erlinger said, stubbing out his stogie and also tucking the stub away. “But I admire your visibility. You have the unique ability to both be informed of this operation, and not incur any suspicion by carrying it out. Nogriff would think twice about you investigating targets, and your reliability is above doubt. If you smash down a warehouse door, there will be no questions asked. If you execute deserting soldiers or renegade mercenaries, there will be no secondary operations at risk. You are not an agent, or an informant. You are Vollstrecker. And that means you can operate without our enemy knowing what you are doing. Because it will just be your job. And by the time he realizes what you -are- doing...it will be too late for him to do anything about it.”
The Grand Inquisitor had something Helga hadn’t seen before; a gleam of excitement in his red eye. That purple aura pulsed again, and she realized he was ecstatic, his normal mask cracking on accident. She waited for him to continue, but he seemed finished.
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Deadly.”
“But, my duties to my unit-”
“Will of course continue. No sense having you out visibly doing your job if you are no longer carrying out normal functions. But unit transfers are a thing, of course.”
“I suppose that makes sense...you’ve gone to a lot of trouble to prepare this for me.”
Erlinger chuckled, and this time he actually seemed amused.
“Not just me. Your mother truly wants this to be important to you too. We may have stumbled on a lead that says your father’s own gruesome and dishonorable end might have been their work. Has their claw marks all over it.”
She felt a chill roll down her spine, to be replaced by the boiling of hot metal anger. In all her time as a Stormtrooper, instructor and now Vollstrecker, she had never hoped or thought to try and find her father’s murderer, knifed brutally practically in public on the steps of the Krona Akadamie and left with hardly any identifying features. Anygriff that could get away with assassinating a high ranking military officer and then disappearing would simply vanish from existence. But with this new information, she suddenly had a new interest in this affair.
“Are they now?”
“If you do not trust my word, inspect your mother’s notes. Ela was thorough in her research.”
“So you literally want me on because I’m so talented at breaking down doors?”
“The best there is, really.”
Helga smirked, closing up the current profile and tucking it away, shaking her head as she considered what she was about to do. Finally, she folded the envelope up and tucked it under her coat.
“I like the way you think, Herr Inquisitor.”
This time, Erlinger did not correct her.
“Most creatures do. Those who do not tend not to live for long.”
“When do I start?”
“At your own leisure. Skeiron Goldfeather is one of the few to completely outfox us...for now. Moving his operations to Nova Griffonia was a stroke of brilliance. But an investigation of his practices here will give our enemies the same impression you first had; that we are merely cleaning house. When you begin, we can get the wheels moving.”
“And I start kicking down doors?” Helga grinned again, rummaging for another cigarette.
“Might makes right, Fraulein Grimwing. You are Vollstrecker. Authorized to do anything that is required to accomplish your mission.”
Finally working the cigarette out, she clamped her beak around it, fidgeting with her lighter as she glanced up at the albino griff, striking the flint a few times.
“If we can’t talk about them directly, can you at least give me a name? Other than ‘the enemy’?”
After a pause, during which she finally lit the flame, he answered in a careful, quiet whisper which, under any other circumstance would seem melodramatic “They call themselves the Black Claw.”
When she looked up, he was gone.
The flight back home was silent.
Margot hadn’t realized a blessing couldn’t be done without the object or individual in person. Or, at least, it had slipped her mind. She had found her attention slipping quite a bit lately, between trying to look out for Sophie, keeping the apartment clean and working her job. She’d been stretched all over the place, and relying more and more on her daughter to keep her grounded and help shoulder the burden. It wasn’t right to ask the eleven year old, of course. But Margot had no choice. Still, the service the priest Bronzeclaw had put on her son had been amazing, far beyond what she herself would have been comfortable asking. When Cyril had left for the Herzland War, she had become a nervous wreck. When he’d returned, she found all she had for him was scolding and sternness. Now he was gone again, she was back to her neurotic self. She hadn’t remembered worrying this much back when Stefan would deploy to various corners of the Empire. But then, she hadn’t lost any family yet back then.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, the shadows below extended across the city, from the high towers and the narrow street. Even with daylight left, half of Griffenheim was already doused in darkness, electric and oil streetlamps replacing the sun. Ponies, griffons, dogs and changelings went about their business in the city streets, newly expanded, rebuilt and modernized to accommodate the new flows of automobile traffic, the canals of the Griffking humming with barges and motorboats. Plenty of griffs and the occasional pegasi flew through the sky, flitting past the high smokestacks of factories and the high roofs of apartments and office buildings. Griffenheim was changing, and Margot wondered if it would be recognizable in another decade. She glanced in the direction of the Imperial Palace, and found her thoughts wondering what the Imperial family was doing. Grover VI was so young, too young. Eight wasn’t nearly old enough to govern an empire, but it was difficult to imagine the Kaiser as ‘just’ a child. The position was supposed to demand respect and obedience. It was a good thing, then, that the Grand Duke and Duchess-Regent were heading the Regency Council. She’d heard of the attempted coup, everygriff had. Things were changing in government, and the fact the attempt had only slightly halted Imperial functions said that the change was impossible to stop.
Her thoughts turned back to Cyril as they flew in over Industrie. His letters were constant, coming to her every other week or so. They tended to ramble a bit, between small hints of what he was doing in the field, conversations with his fellow truppen, his letters with Paige, his own thoughts. When she’d last seen him in person, Cyril had been disappearing into his cups nightly, miserable and barely able to function. The strange, magical apparition of Paige had done much to lift his spirits, but before she even could take the time to enjoy his better mood, he was gone just after Mondstille, off to conquer some corner of Griffonia for the Empire. But this prayer, this service she had just witnessed, lifted her spirits as they coasted towards their apartment. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad. Cyril was a panzertrupper. The southeast was notorious for its lack of developed industry. What were the odds that something could damage his steel beast?
Of course, this positivity only lasted until she landed, checking Sophie had set down with her, before she glanced up at the awkward visage of a Reichsarmee leutnant, sitting on her front porch, clearly waiting for her return. She took him in, noticing the downcast, braced expression on his beak, the tensing of claws on the stone step. The fact he had waited for her to return, clad in dress greys with medals and pins.
She took this all in. Just a moment was all she needed.
And then, overcome with a wave of grief and panic, Margot Duskwing sat down on the cobblestone of the sidewalk, placed one claw over her face and lost the rest of her strength and composure as she wept. She did not hear Sophie trying to speak to her. Nor did she see the leutnant slowly approaching her down the stairs. She was blind, and deaf, to the world as she spiralled down.
August 13, 1011 “Welcome back listeners, to ‘Der Reichswehr Rundfunk Herzland!’ Your armed forces radio service, reaching out across the Kaiserreich!”
-Across the Kaiserreich!-
*a few bars from Herzland Gloria plays*
“I’m your host, Vizefeldwebel Hans Whiteclaw! Out there with all those soldaten, grenadiers, panzertruppen, Vollstrecker, flieger, seeleute and of course the MfÖS agents certainly listening in!
Before we get into the music, some news. Word out of the east says that the Brodfeld campaign has been an overwhelming success, and High Kommand is willing to put Operation Tartarus on the shelf as ‘mission accomplished’. Of special note, the 41st Panzergrenadiers received large honors for providing assistance to Reformisten troops, and I’m allowed to tell you they’re being rotated back home now their task is done. From here on, the Black Knights and the Gryps-Süd GmbH Landschnekte have the job well in claw!
The Grand Duke and Duchess Regent today gaves honors to the Bronzehill Legion for steadfastly taking the fight to the Sunstriker heretics in the north. We all salute the valiant Bronzedogs who are the best suited of the Kaiser’s vast forces to engage these traitors on their own turf! Victories have been reported from Arrowpeaks and Silkhorn, and the final advance on Dimpeak is already underway to snuff out these Whitetail cultists once and for all!
To all of you servicegriffs coming home, you may be hearing the narrative from the fiendish Aquileians to the south on their ‘public’ radio. As we have seen, public just means you are free to spread misinformation. Their propaganda machine spins the ludicrous story of our so-called ‘aggression’ against Skyfall last week. I say, if a destroyer does not count as fair revenge for a radio station, somegriff has some terrible arithmetic!
High Kommand has today released word on a new system called the half track! Already in testing with certain panzergruppe, it’s authorization for mass production and full adoption means you’ll see more of these vehicles all over the Empire very soon! Every year, Imperial science takes our already superior Reichswehr and makes it even more unbeatable! Truly, the best in the world!
In other news, foreign thrills! Across the sea, Equestria, that so-called bright and shining beacon of harmony, is not doing so well. Changeling forces are reported to have overrun the entire northwest and the Crystal Empire, and it's anygriff’s guess as to where they’ll stop. We’re already receiving reports of shells falling on Quebuck and Mariposa. Rumors are present that contact with Prince-Consort Shining Armor has been lost, and talks between Princess Celestia and General Secretary Wheatin of the Stalliongradian Socialist Republic are ongoing. The situation must be desperate if the Harmonists are reaching out to communists. Let that be a lesson in political folly, Landsers!
The Riverlands continue to fall apart, even as we speak. Today, the unstable River Republic issued another ultimatum to the East Griffonian Co-Prosperity Sphere, demanding they stand down their aggression. No word yet on Jezerograd’s response, if any. Riots, protests and socialist uprisings continue to plague all members of the Coalition as governmental reprisals worsen.
And that’s all we’ve got today, truppen! News as it breaks, but for now, enjoy the music as we play through your day, whether you’re in the mountains to the north, the Grenzwald to the east or the Herzland itself! Remember; the Kaiser is counting on you. Boreas bless, and here’s Der Ebonsterne with their record breaking hit, ‘Vielleicht’, still the most requested across the Kaiserreich for almost three months straight!”
Silvertalon Memorial Military Hospital Visaginas, Hellsword
“Stretch out now, Vise-Korporal. That’s it, far as you can!”
Morgend Longpaw was the type of businessgriff the old Empire (ironic to call it old when it was only four years since the Grand Duke and Duchess had started to reform things) made sure to let flourish. An industrialist, he had holdings in mining, military manufacture, automobiles and more. While certainly not the richest or most infamous, he had one thing many other businessgriffs lacked that gave him a definite edge; an ability to adapt to the times. When the worker reforms had come down, Morgen had swiftly changed his practices while other nobles were busy complaining, embraced the Industrierat and reaped the benefits early. And when Großtatze Industrie had run into pressure and competition in the Herzland, he had simply taken his business to the one place those old robber barons couldn’t touch him; Hellquill. It was here that his work had gained the attention he needed, and with Reformisten backing his business struggle in the Herzland, he had finally pulled a win when nogriff else wanted to risk the public backlash of working with the former zealots. Which was why we was here, of all places.
Cyril grunted, stretching the stump of his wing out, looking upon the ruined flesh for what felt like the ten-thousandth time. After being evacuated to a field hospital, and then again even further north to a surgical station, the doctors had been forced to take off even more. Haul’s strokes had been strong, but a bit all over the place, resulting in deep cuts and additional damage that required the mangled limb to be cut down to heal properly. By now, the stump had long stopped bleeding, but not only did the pain remain, Cyril kept feeling the twinges of phantom limb syndrome as well. His balance was off when he walked, and if he flared his wings (well, wing) he immediately felt the awkward tilt on his back. It was not a pleasant feeling, in fact it was downright disturbing at times. A griffon losing a wing was nothing new, but it wasn’t an easy thing to fix. Removing the obvious lack of flight, the resultant depression and an inability to adjust meant that many simply took their own life afterwards. Some adjusted by rigging prosthetics, though they weren’t perfect and still couldn’t let them fly. Others never really settled because of it, feeling themselves to be only half a griff. Society for centuries had pitied these mained griffons, drakes and formels both, and simply quietly accepted the result.
But here in the modern age, a solution finally existed, in the form of Longpaw’s Steel Wing Program. His work with the military and Reformisten on magical crystals and automobiles meant he had the background necessary to understand both compact arcane power sources and metalworking. The chance to test his prototypes on wounded veterans had brought him here, as the owner and CEO of a large company normally did not work with product development personally. But Morgend Longpaw was here, scribbling measurements onto a notepad as Cyril wore a light, bare aluminum frame. The actual prototype wasn’t ready yet, of course. Each prosthetic had to be specially designed to fit each veteran perfectly, and the technology was just barely out of the concept test phase. But, as the industrialist kept insisting, it was only a matter of time.
“Splendid lad! Keep it like that…” Longpaw made another minute measurement, grunting to himself before scribbling again. “Three millimeters...interesting.”
“What difference can three millimeters make?” Cyril grumbled, already tired of this latest set of measurements. He shifted on the hospital bed, feeling the pajamas itch him in places he’d rather not think of right now. Morgend didn’t pause in his measures, taking another with the tape as he replied “Tell me, Vise-Korporal. If your shell is three millimeters off target when you fire your kanone, would that matter?”
Deciding to concede the point, Cyril remained silent, merely grunting in protest as he stared at the opposite wall.
Longpaw continued on without prompting. “Prosthetic limbs are normally built out of a framework or wood. A single piece you measure twice, cut once and wear for years. But if lost or the measurements change for some reason, it can always be replaced. What I’m building here will have to last just as long the first time it is crafted. I can only afford to build one of them right now.”
Cyril only grunted a second time, looking across to the other occupant of the room. He hadn’t had many visitors in the past month. His crew, the doctors and nurses, his uncle and now Morgend Longpaw and whatever secretaries and engineers he brought in and chattered at. It all felt like a blur at times, like they were just on the periphery of his existence. But today, he perceived this drake just fine.
One didn’t forget the Black King Wingfried of Hellsword, after all.
An hour ago, Wingfried had stepped into the hospital room. From the clattering out in the hallway, whatever aides and bodyguards he had with him had taken up position out there as well. Doctor Mercury had barely managed to squeeze her way in, a clipboard hovering in front of her horn. Her usual snappish care and clinical nature had seemingly vanished in front of the Black King, the doctor instead quietly taking her departure after getting a few readings from her patient that any nurse could have obtained, hurriedly saluting on the way out with barely a word to Cyril today.
There was another twenty minutes of quiet staring. Before, he had been unable to stay awake half the day, but so far through his recovery he was able to affix the king with a quiet scrutiny. He received the same speculation in return.
Finally, Wingfried spoke first. His voice was much lighter than Cyril had expected. Softer. No menace in his tone, nor really any emotion at all.
“I hear you performed heroically out there, Vise-Korporal.”
The Black King had no idea how much those few words would bring back. In an instant, Cyril’s mind was drowned out by smoke, clattering metal on metal, the dull thudding of the cannon. Then fire, and agonizing pain. One strike, two strike, three, flesh and bone splitting under the assault-
He took a breath to steady himself. On the outside only a split second had passed. He cleared his throat.
“I only did my duty, Your…” he wracked his brain for the honorific. Not many kings in the Empire, after all. “Highness. Anygriff else would have done the same.”
“They did not,” Wingfried retorted coolly, his expression unchanged. “They pulled back. Granted, they followed orders and left an obvious death trap. And you could have as well.” The first sign of movement from Wingfried, a slight shifting moving his cap from under one arm to the other. “But you went in with your panzer. Took a butcher’s bill from the enemy. Bought time for the rest of your comrades. No one would blame you for falling back as well.”
You have to go on. Do great things. Screams. Gunfire. Explosions.
He swallowed again, trying to school his breathing. If Wingfried noticed this time, he gave no sign aside from a small twitch in the eyes. Cyril inhaled.
“I had orders, Sir.”
Now Wingfried’s face did move. A small twitch around the edges of his beak. An eyebrow raised half a centimetre.
“I think we can agree, these were very unusual orders. For very unusual circumstances.”
Wingfried glanced to Morgend, who had finished whatever notes and equations he’d been working on in the corner, watching the exchange with rapt attention, like a spectator at a tennis court, eyes switching back and forth with barely contained, feverish energy. The industrialist was the antithesis of Wingfried; barely bottled excitement compared to the carved stone visage of the latter.
“Do you have your measurements, Herr Longpaw?” Wingfried inquired, drawing Morgend’s attention. The griff checked his notepad, evidently running down some kind of list as he considered the data. Cyril got a look at the pages as they passed and to his surprise the notes and measurements seemed jumbled, scribbled at all angles with little statements in the margins. From Paige’s description of the drake, he had expected a well-organized genius.
“Ja wohl, your Highness,” Longpaw finally concluded with a shine to his eyes. “For now.”
Wingfried’s response was merely to tilt his head towards the door. Luckily, Longpaw caught the hint swiftly, reaching up to take the bare frame down from Cyril’s stump, patting the panzertruppe on the shoulder.
“Cheer up, Duskwing. Edelstahlflugel is right over the horizon. We are going to do great things together, you and I.”
Great things…
”It’s down to you now, son.”
Cyril nodded, not replying as he pushed the memory away again. Seemingly nonplussed, Morgend simply smiled, nodding back before he strode off, whistling cheerily as he left, closing the door behind him.
Finally alone, Wingfried glanced back at Cyril. The silence between king and crewgriff was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife.
“I wish I had more like you,” Wingfried finally said. He stepped away from the door, gently setting the cap down on a nearby cabinet. Cyril shifted on his bed uneasily. “Tell me Vise-Korporal; do you know why I founded the Reformisten?”
Taken aback, Cyril gave the Black King a skeptical look. “To fight the Riverlands, sire.” It was, after all, why the Order of Hellquill had set up fortifications in the Hellsword Territory, even if the Crusade to follow had failed. Wingfried’s expression did not change.
“That was one of the reasons yes. But the primary means was an ideology for reformation in the Empire.” True, the name ‘Reformisten’ literally translated to ‘Ones Who Change Things.’
“I admit the past few years have been a stain on our institution’s reputation. But I assure you those were the acts of traitors and conspirators. I have loyal soldiers, champion knights that much like me would happily sacrifice ourselves for Reich und Kaiser. It was through their dedication and my leadership that we are standing here as loyal defenders of our nation, because we dared fight against those who would see us fall and the Empire itself.” He fell silent, staring at some invisible spot on the floor, brow knitted, lost in thought. Then, he shook himself out of it. “I had a line of advisors and officers who would have happily shot me for my actions a few years back, because they disagreed in my belief that our way of life could be extended to anyone and everyone. They were weak and as a result of that weakness they have perished where they stood. Now you Vise-Korporal like all of those who had supported me and the Empire at large are mighty. And we know what is necessary as warriors of das Reich; but alas perception is truth, our image is shaped by the world we live in, is it not? We cannot escape it, anymore than we can hold a wave and turn it back, but do understand one thing; nothing is as black and white as others would have you believe. The world is a collection of shades of grey.”
Cyril felt his heart hammering in his chest, uncomfortable with where this conversation had turned to. This was above any discussion a monarch should have with a mere subject, and about something as deeply personal and divisive as ideology. Was Wingfried trying to convert him? Convince him? Maybe the Black King was caught in his own dialogue. He felt his wing flutter, the other stump twitching as it tried to copy the motion of anxiety. Without urging, his eyes flicked down to Wingfried’s holster.
The moment of tense silence passed with difficulty.
“I understand the Empire needing to stand against the threats at home,” Wingfried continued, one claw coming up to rummage around in his coat as he too felt the need to change the topic. “And the 41st belongs in the open field, not hunting through forests and mountains. We have moved from the plains to the forests and hills. I don’t plan to stop until I reach Cyanolisia either. For that, I need soldiers with spine. Grit. soldiers who can stare despair in the face and fight through the valley of death. Not because they do not fear death. But because they have something to fight their way home for. Good soldiers follow orders Herr Duskwing, but only warriors fight for what is truly right.”
After a moment, Wingfried, of all people, looked flustered. He dug in his coat one more time before he let out an aggravated sigh, scratching at his brow in thought before a bolt of comprehension flashed across his visage.
“Erich!” he called. Not a yell. But firm, with just a slight increase of volume.
The result was immediate. The door to the room opened, admitting a single equine figure,a stallion with a coat black as his clothing, dressed in the uniform of a Reformisten officer. To Cyril’s surprise, the infamous Prince Erich, of the kind of fame spoken of like Imperial aristocracy, was a unicorn. With but a tilt of the head from the Black King, Erich stepped towards the wounded panzergriff, his magic surrounding a small black box and lifting it into view, the lid popping with a small click over the ambient noise of a magic aura, rather unsettling and out of place here to Cyril’s ears. But the commendation that lifted out of the box was, to his surprise, nothing less than a Knight’s Iron Cross, resplendent with engraved oak leaves and a pair of crossed knightly swords underneath, strung on a ribbon to be worn around the neck. Almost a perfect replica for a Herzland Knight’s Cross, save the ribbon’s coloration being blue, white and black as opposed to the Imperial orange and yellow. The blue aura gently lifted the decoration out, pulling the ribbon out to its proper length, gently draping over a stunned Cyril’s head and sliding down his neck.
A Knight’s Cross. It was more than just a piece of tin or brass on a ribbon, like many other medals. The panzergriff’s attitude on such decorations was not fond, given the blood he had seen shed for them. But this medallion, the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, was tantamount to a full knighthood. Had he wanted to apply to one of the Orders, Cyril would undoubtedly have been granted entry with this. Though he had no intent to, the fact it was now a possibility for a griff as lowborn as him suddenly made the prospect much more attractive.
“Vise-Korporal Cyril Duskwing,” Erich addressed him, in a crisp, clear parade ground speechmaking voice, “For behaviour above and beyond the call of duty, in light of grievous injury and noble bearing, the Order of the Black Knights hereby awards you the Knight’s Cross of the Iron Cross, with oak leaves and noble swords. For your bravery and dedication to honor and Empire, should you wish to enter our brotherhood, we will gladly take you with open arms.”
And with that, Erich stepped back, his back ramrod straight, as both the Black Prince and the Black King saluted Cyril smartly, an action which the stunned soldier returned out of reflex. After a moment, they both dropped the salute, and Erich stepped forward, smiling as he held his hoof out, shaking Cyril’s claw.
“We both know your dedication to the Reichsarmee. But should you wish to come stand in our Order, the gates are always open to you.”
Wingfried stepped forward now, reaching out to do the same as his adopted son.
“I see great potential in you, Duskwing. You and others like you. A force of great change in our Kaiserreich. The future rests in your claws.”
Cyril blinked, as with that profound and rather obscure statement the rest of his conversation with the king came rushing back, and he cleared his throat, only able to nod as the blue monarch finally stepped away, looking as if he was making to go. Finally, however, he found his voice.
“With your permission, sir?”
Wingfried glanced back, surprised. But after a moment, he nodded, gesturing.
“You are as a knight now, Herr Duskwing. Never be afraid to ask.”
“Why are you telling me all this, Your Highness?”
Wingfried paused, his wings twitching. Erich glanced back and forth between the two, his expression blank but his form just as tense. After a moment of thought, the Black King refocused on Cyril, a smirk on his face that lacked warmth but to the younger drake still held enough mirth.
“The world is...complicated, Vise-Korporal. I suppose, in the end, I am a king of a realm he expects to be absorbed by another, who once led a movement he himself dismantled. Larger minds than mine can find a lesson about the state of the world in that, but I digress. Join our ranks or not, the Kaiserreich needs you. You and others like you who see the truth of the world. One day soon, the Reich will need to change to survive. It has almost fallen twice in the past few decades.”
He reached out, squeezing Cyril’s shoulder reassuringly.
“I have been telling you all this because the Old must be eclipsed by the new. My beliefs were challenged, and I adapted. I already told you; you are someone who can bring that attitude to the old order. I have taken the time to speak to you, though you are a single drake, because that is how one finds those who are worthy to build a better Reich alongside our young Kaiser. One at a time.”
Wingfried’s talon let go of Cyril, instead falling to the Knight’s Cross the young tanker held, tapping it gently.
“Know this, Duskwing. This makes you a knight in our eyes, whatever banner you march under. And it will be those like you who will change the world.”
With that, the infamous Black King, founder and scourge of the Reformisten, lord of Hellsword and conqueror of the Grenzwald, stepped out of the room with nary a backwards glance at the young griff he’d just decorated. Erich smiled and nodded, levitating his peaked cap up from the chair where he’d set it and stepping out, the door magically shutting behind him.
And just like that, Cyril was left with his medal and his thoughts.
The next day, August Duskwing came to visit. He’d stopped by a clawful of other times, normally only for a few hours before the pressures of command forced him to return. This time would be the last for both of them. Cyril and his crew had recovered, and would be discharged soon, to go and crew another panzer. August’s command had completely withdrawn from the Grenzwald, leaving behind several regiments of Landwehr and Imperial Jager detachments. Wingfried had been correct that this was no longer a panzer war, and as such the machine heavy 41st and their supporting elements were long gone.
Today, as the door opened, August glanced up before blinking in surprise, slowly closing the door behind him. Standing in the center of the room was Cyril, dressed in his grey Reichsarmee uniform, ribbons and pins all carefully placed and adjusted just right with all the spare time Cyril had at his disposal. The left wingsleeve was pinned over the stump, which almost disappeared against Cyril’s back. Along his breast were pinned the Medallion Crimson, the Black Wound Token badge, Ribbon Intrinsic, and of course the Knight’s Cross around his neck. Raising an eyebrow, August noticed the Medal of Arcturus, Cyril’s decoration for valiant service in the Herzland War, was missing. Idly, he wondered if anygriff would figure out it was halfway across the world.
“You look ready to go,” August noted, crossing to the room’s table and flopping into the seat, dropping his general’s cap on the surface. From the sound of it, he’d been traveling all night. He glanced down, casting a quick eye over the papers Cyril had accumulated during his stay here. At the top, there was one bearing an address he recognized, in writing familiar to him, already opened. “Letter from Paige?”
Cyril nodded. “Just came in today. The mail system had a hard time finding me. Not hard to guess why.”
With Equestria at War and Cyril’s own rather remote location, August considered it a wonder the drake’s mail got out here at all, even late.
“How is she?”
“I don’t know,” the young panzertruppe admitted, a frown crossing his brow. “She sent it before the attack. If she got mine, she either hasn’t written a response or…” He paused, considering carefully before he quietly changed the subject. “We’re being released.”
“Any idea where you’re going?”
“No...for some reason, none of us got orders yet.”
Cyril had a sinking suspicion that he knew why, and General August Duskwing, Hero of the Kaiserreich, showing up out of the blue couldn’t be a coincidence. Spotsley was only missing an eye, Eihol had a series of scars marring his previously handsome face and half the feathers on his head wouldn’t grow back as a result. Haul had gotten away with only a single bullet wound from a stray round. None of their injuries should have stopped them from rotating back into another regiment. The crew had broken him out for his birthday a few days ago, just a few wounded veterans out on the town. But during the drinking, the trash talk, tomfoolery and all the other things soldiers got up to to distract from their memories, they had all agreed that getting this close to a posted medical release without orders was unheard of. Something was afoot, ahoof and aclaw.
August nodded, humming in agreement as he conceded the unspoken point. Cyril was far smarter than he gave himself credit.
“There’s a reason for that. We’ve been trying to decide what to do with you.” He waved a claw at his nephew’s concerned expression. “Relax, not like that. You performed admirably in Brodfeld. Given the circumstances and that we didn’t know the minotaurs were advancing, nogriff could have asked for more. But then there’s that wing.” He pointed towards Cyril’s empty wingsleeve, his face hard. August had picked up a head injury during his time in the trenches so many years ago. As a result, one of his eyes had changed from gold to a pale green, a condition called heterochromia the doctors assured him would not harm his vision. The effect, he’d been told, was unnerving to those he spoke with as the differing colors and the scars on his face gave him an intimidating appearance. “Kommand hasn’t been sure what to do about it and your career.”
“Last I checked, Herr General,” Cyril replied cautiously but with a obstinate visage, looking his uncle straight in the eye. “A panzertruppe doesn’t fly much.”
The elder Duskwing watched the younger carefully, inspecting his face. Cyril was defiant, hard, determined. He clearly was unwilling to back down, but August needed to make sure it was honest. The Imperial Akadamie had been going through several sweeping reforms lately. The quality of Imperial soldiers in the Reichsarmee had always varied depending on the Duchy or province that put together and trained the regiment. Bronzehill had only recently shrugged off its pacifism to defend the Empire. The newly retaken Herzland territories, underdeveloped and formerly treasonous, had questions of loyalty and quality there too. Angriver and Katerin recruits were aggressive, but untrained and untrustworthy. Now, with the Grenzwald reintegrated, the problem was compounded even further, as soldiers from Lushi or the Host who had likely never even seen a panzer before were to be integrated in combined arms warfare. Some didn’t even speak Herzlandisch, and the Host was still a stew of violence not yet stabilized into a border march by the Black Knights and Landwehr garrisons. Out of all of this melting pot of ethnicities and non standardized armed forces with varying effectiveness, the Black Knights of Hellquill proved to be the most suited military formation outside the greater Reichsarmee itself due to the Orders’ belligerent roots and martial prowess, well led and well disciplined a shining example of what the Imperial forces should emulate, albeit only so motivated by brainwashed fanaticism and suffering from an almost chronic lack of materials that the Empire proper had to compensate for. The Empire’s officer korps was even worse, composed primarily of the sons and daughters of aristocratic families, many of whom had used their family’s wealth or influence to land positions of prestige where they might not have been so capable. With the Herzland Wars and the Grenzwald Campaign, this practice was slowly being worked towards one of a more honest and meritocratic nature, following the same framework that the Reformisten had proven in the field alongside their Herzland brethren, a consequence of their reintegration into the Empire proper, and as a result even commoners were being allowed to become junior officers in the Reichsarmee. August hadn’t been immune to the issues, using his own influence and protection to watch over Cyril, a flagrant case of nepotism. Which contributed on top of the army reforms to bringing him here.
August sighed, knowing the issue was settled in his nephew’s mind. So much for his promise to watch over Cyril. Margot had torn strips off him over the telephone once she had heard the news. Apparently, her first thought upon receiving the message that Cyril had been killed. Fortunately, the truth had been swift in coming, but that had not tempered her rage towards her brother. August had let it come. In his attempt to get Cyril back to working order, he had pushed his nephew right into the fire, unintentionally of course, but it had still happened.
With little more delay (gods knew all this inner reflection had contributed to the setbacks Kommand had made), August sighed, reaching under his coat and extracting a large, thick envelope, held together with string and a wax seal bearing the emblem of Reichsarmee High Kommando. He tossed it onto the table with the other papers, where the thick packet audibly impacted. Cyril’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.
“Orders,” August grumbled as he fished a cigar out, clamping down on the stogie but not lighting it. Hospital rules were against smoking in the rooms, and he had a lot to say without risking getting thrown out. “In a few days, you’ll be boarding a train to Zeltstadt with your crew. There, you’ll be retraining while attending to your commission as a kadet at the Jungeschulen, pending an entry exam. It would be preferable to take you west, of course. But right now the Imperial Akadamie at Osnabeak is working overtime, as are the Krona training grounds. So we’ll be sending you in for on-post training. It wasn’t easy, but I convinced enough talking heads and beaks that this would be the best way to handle the situation.”
Cyril finally seemed to break out of his stupor, staring at his uncle in absolute confusion.
“I’m...sorry, what? First you come in here asking me if I’m certain I want to continue serving, as if you’re about to talk me out of it, then you throw a commission into my lap?”
“You’re still addressing a general nephew,” warned, though the threat had no heat to it. Fortunately, it had the desired effect of cutting off Cyril’s rant before it built up steam, and the injured panzertruppe spun down, more carefully considering his words now his temper had been released.
“I just...I don’t understand,” he finally continued, far less heated than before. “You left me here in the dark, and then just hand me this. You had to have known.”
August nodded again, his weariness feeling far more physical now.
“I did. And they were going to discharge you.” He paused, considering his words. “To Kommand, a griffon serving without a wing is...unnatural. It's unprecedented. The power of flight is essential to Imperial warfare. But panzers are so recent and new, you’re probably one of a clawful of panzertruppe to lose a wing. I know you ARE the only one to not immediately ask to go home. The same case was made that you brought up; panzers cannot fly, and their crews are unlikely to need to. Your case was hotly debated for at least a week. I was brought in to make the final decision. And then, word came down that Wingfried intended to decorate you and your crewmates. As such, everything changed.”
“Why?”
“You don’t just send a holder of the Knight’s Cross home, Cyril. It’s a fighting drake’s award. It’s what you pin on heroes and generals and those that one of the Orders wants to induct. Wingfried coming to give you that around your neck,” and here August even stabbed through the air towards Cyril’s Knight’s Cross with his cigar “changed everything. We had only a few days to figure out an answer. Luckily, it presented itself.”
“By making me an officer?”
“It only works because of your profession. The panzerwaffe may be young, but they have accrued quite a number of veteran crews and commanders already. Kommand plans to take advantage of that, and now you’re part of the solution. Your whole crew’s been decorated, and they’ve all seen action from Herzland to Temsoar. But you’re about to join the ranks of an elite group, where Kommand can group the deadliest panzer crews in the Kaiserreich.”
August paused, glancing down at the packet of orders on the table. Cyril did as well, both of them regarding the envelope like it was an unwelcome guest sitting in the corner, staring them both down silently.
“It’s a big step,” August concluded, carefully nibbling at the end of the cigar thoughtfully. Cyril nodded, slowly stepping over to the table, reaching out and taking the orders gingerly, staring down at the wax seal.
“I kind of need a new panzer, don’t I?”
August nodded, suddenly back to energy as if the question had jolted him. “Not to worry. Your term as a kadet gives us a perfect opportunity. Have you ever heard of a Gryta?”
Cyril cocked his head to the side, feathered brow furrowed in thought as he ran through the news, rumors and scuttlebutt he’d been hearing both in the field and here in hospital, claws idly playing with the string around the envelope.. Finally, he shook his head.
“No. Should I have?”
“I doubt it. So far it's a prototype only in the claws of a few of the knightly orders, mostly the Order of the Tower and Sword and the Order of the Fiery Heart. But I managed to swing a few test models for the 205th Heavy Panzer Battalion. Didn’t take much to convince Grand Master Konrada of the Rosewood Spears to get a few models to train with them too. If all goes well with this last batch of trials, they’ll be approved for mass production next year. And if the information I’m getting is correct, we’ll definitely need them.”
With that, August held the cigar out to Cyril, digging another out of his jacket. His nephew paused, claw extended, feeling the ache of his severed wing and the echo of unpleasant memories in his head. Was he truly ready for this? In two days, a lot of pressures had been heaped onto his head. Now he had to figure out how to carry them through.
But after a moment, he took the cigar from his uncle, inspecting it thoughtfully as August dug out a lighter.
“So...when do I get started?”
August 15, 1011 1320 hours Skies over Tall Tale No. 1 Air Group, No. 11 Squadron
There were very few new aircraft around them. It turned out, Mariposa had not been the only airfield struck by changeling sabotage, and they had most targeted the newer pieces of inventory. Over the past year, the Equestrian RAF had replaced the Hurricane in their active air wings with the Spitfire, proud of their ingenuity in the air. But the sluggish production meant few replacements and spare parts were available once losses started mounting. As a result, the sky was full of Hurricanes, Wellingtons and Blenheims, replacements for the lost Spitfires, Beauforts and Beaufighters that had been destroyed in the past month by combat, sabotage and abandoning stockpiles in the face of the enemy advance. It was no secret that the entire RAF had become a chaotic mix of regulars and reservists, those who had been activated for the bogus wargames being thrown in to fill holes left behind while hurried wartime recruitment and training caught up. Now, their air inventory matched their personnel.
Below the Blenheim No. 83, the massive skywhale shape of a Halifax bomber rumbled by, and Paige couldn’t help but marvel at it, old memories resurfacing in her mind from the Crystal War. While a bit older, they were still massive engines of war, modern airships carrying enough munitions to flatten a city block. The behemoths of No. 35 Squadron had been through some of the worst punishment of the whole RAF, and she could see rough patches in the plane’s fuselage where mechanics had hurriedly gotten the heavy bomber back into working order in a hurry. Bomber casualties were worse than their fighter escorts, as Queendom Sv.109s hunted them like sharks. And yet, No. 35 Squadron was back in the air again with nary a complaint, just a few replacements and they were gone again.
Paige glanced up from the bombsight (a generous term for a few pieces of tape and a cluster of numbers and lines she had applied with chalk) and consulted her chart, examining the topographical map to ensure they were on the correct approach. Every plane had a navigator of course, but the more ponies corroborating information, the less likely the air group would be pulled off course. The fact this still happened stupidly often implied how essential the practice was.
”Sword Leader, this is Hammer Leader. We’re coming in on final approach, over.”
The radio chattered in Paige’s ears, laden with static from the clouds, distance, interference and the rushing of air past all of their crafts. The various squadron commanders were coordinating for the attack on the changeling forces assaulting Tall Tale. Their air group was one of a hoof-full still keeping up the pressure on the northern juggernaut, rather than simply reacting to stem the tide. Many commanders were nervous to commit their wings in case of yet another withdrawal, another retreat. If an attack was underway, they couldn’t leave until those planes had returned for vital fuel and medical assistance, not to mention providing air cover for the evacuations.
Tall Tale was under pressure from two panzerdivisions moving south from Vanhoover, bombers flying across the Luna Gulf and another assault by an Olenian brigade moving east from their landing at Seaward Shoals. The defenders were hard pressed, barely holding on as they were battered from land and air. That’s why it was up to their air group to come in and hopefully deal enough damage to the changelings to disrupt their momentum, buy time for the Royal Guard defenders to hold on for the armored regiment currently tearing up the road to reinforce them.
It had been a hard month.
Reflexively, Paige’s head came up from her map, scanning the skies out the cockpit for the telltale flash of silver that told of incoming fighters. Given that said planes would be flying towards their own, all the Equestrians would get for warning was that glimmer and a streak, and then bombers would start falling. In the pilot’s seat, Lieutenant Solar Ace leaned down, watching Paige for a moment before he straightened up.
“Ease up, Turner. We’re ready this time,” he said, in that same neutral, confident tone he used when he was trying to keep his crew going. Ace was well aware of their odds and the grim reality of war in the air.
“I know I am, sir,” came Static’s reply from her turret, watching the skies behind two .303 machine guns. “I grabbed the parachute this time.”
The three had a brief chuckle, before they returned to their business. No. 83 didn’t have much payload. As a light bomber smaller than even a Wellington, she possessed a brace of four 250 lb. bombs, a piddling comparison to dedicated bomber craft. Which was why they needed to drop their payload as fast as possible and rejoin the fight with their own brace of machine guns in the wings. Many other Blenheims had figured out this gave them the best chance for survival, rather than just acting like a dedicated bombing craft.
”Sword Leader to all Sword elements,” came the call of their squadron leader. ”We’re coming up on the target. Hammer’s going to hit the Bug positions with overwhelming force. It’s our job to cover them and lay down some hurt on the advancing columns. Bombers, stay in formation on approach. Fighters, get ready for some chop. Goddess speed to you all, over and out!”
As No. 83 began drifting lower in the formation, the entire air group finally crested over the forested hills, exposing the city of Tall Tale below. Even from here, Paige could see the battle was not going in the Royal Guards’ favor. Smoke plumes erupted from across the entire city, and to the north the land seemed to seethe with black shapes as the changeling advance seemed to worm its way in, infecting the buildings while also stretching out to surround it. Detonations could be seen from here as structures collapsed, and anti-aircraft fire lit up the sky. It was an awe-inspiring, terrible sight.
Abruptly, several black clouds appeared in the air group’s midst, followed a split second later by booms and pops, dozens more following as the sky seemed to disappear into these sudden clouds.
”Flak screen!” came the shout over the radio.
”Stay in formation! Keep speed, ponies!”
No. 83 abruptly bucked as a shell detonated far too close for comfort, the sound of shrapnel rattling off her belly as a grim reminder of how close and how sudden death would be for them. Up ahead, a Wellington suddenly took a shell straight in her number one engine, which began to spew smoke and flames, oil and debris streaming off as the propeller sluggishly halted on the ruined apparatus. The bomber began to list, dropping with increasing speed before she turned over, her wing breaking off and spiralling away. The bomber dropped from view. No parachutes were visible.
Another Blenheim took a shell directly in her fuselage, detonating spectacularly as the cockpit blew outwards, folding in on itself and spiralling around in mid-air.
”Holy-dead bird! Break, break!”
“It’s coming at me-” the rest of the message abruptly devolved into a high-pitched scream that was just as quickly cut short as the Blenheim turned over bodily and smashed into a Halifax below and behind it, crushing the cockpit as the two craft twisted into one piece of wreckage, tumbling to the ground below.
”Bugs!”
And with the silver flash Paige was already accustomed to, the sharks were among them. Sv.109s tore through the air group, guns blazing and engines roaring as the dove in. Machine gun turrets on bombers chattered, filling the sky with tracers as they chased after the much faster fighters. Everypony knew that their actual chance of hitting a fighter was extremely low, and the gun mounts counted for little more than keeping the fighters from getting too close. But if enough fire filled the sky, they could get lucky, as had happened several times before. At the back of No. 83, Static’s turret swivelled around, guns hammering at the blurred shapes in the sky. Spitfires and Hurricanes twisted around the air group, chasing after the predators. But the truth was they were merely reacting, and several Halifaxes and Wellingtons were already dipping away, even more still limping along in the group with fire spouting from damaged engines and bullet holes in the fuselage.
“Here we go, on target!” Ace finally yelled, and Paige immediately braced herself as the Blenheim dipped, her world swirling until blue was replaced by green, the ground rushing up to meet them. Trees whipped by at what seemed light speed, and Paige’s view was filled and occupied by a massive black smudge that she recognized as a formation of changeling panzers, trucks, halftracks and infantry pushing in towards the city, details blurry in the rush at this distance. “Get ready, Turner!”
It was up to her, now. She leaned forward, fighting the gut-wrenching effects of vertigo as her whole world continued into freefall, her wings twitching as they naturally wanted to catch her from her descent. The measurements she’d drawn on the glass were a best guess from practice, a far sight from the actual sights she’d used on Sombra’s troops. But experience had come back to her, and she knew exactly when she needed to let go. Her hoof hovered over the release button, watching the ground come up closer, closer, closer…
Now!
“Bombs away!”
She smashed the release, holding it down. With several thumps that felt like being kicked as No. 83 suddenly dropped a half-ton of weight. Ace instinctively hauled the stick back, the herculean task of defying high-speed gravity and yanking No. 83’s nose out of her dive. The lift they received from dropping the bombs coupled with their reduced weight helped recover, and No. 83 was soaring up and away again even before the bombs impacted.
“Here we go!” Ace whooped, twisting the craft around in a tight aileron as fire from the ground chased after them, pulling into a loop to twist back towards where the air battle was still happening. Now devoid of her primary job, Paige glued herself to the glass, watching out for incoming threats and targets. But the sky had turned into a twisting, seething mass of confusion, fighters dancing and chasing each other around, bombers on approach or turning back towards home, wrecks tumbling out of the air aflame, flak shells detonating in what seemed every open inch.
No. 83 continued to climb, slipping in nicely behind an Sv.109 that was chasing an already harried and alight Halifax. Her quartet of .303s hammered abruptly, shuddering through the entire frame as bullets filled the air. The majority of them missed, but the burst had still caught the fighter’s wing, and a stream of smoke wafted behind him as the changeling aircraft sloppily turned over, diving for safety. Paige punched the glass and cheered. Not a kill, but even better; a comrade saved.
”Hammer-9, many thanks! Almost bought the farm on that one, over! See you at home!”
The bomber peeled away, making towards the east with all speed left in her engines.
“Hammer-9, this is Sword-4. Take care of yourself, we can’t always be there to save you, out,” Static’s voice radioed back over the line.
Paige laughed, the exhilaration flowing through her body. Even if the odds were stacked against them, as desperate as they were, she was glad to see Equestria was throwing everything it had into the fight. They might suffer for a while, but they’d certainly bloody the bugs’ nose in the process.
”This is Sword Leader, all fighters form up on Hammer and the bombers! We need to take the pressure off to get them home!”
“All Sword elements, this is Wonderbolt Leader.”
Paige’s head shot up, and she leaned over, practically glueing her face to the glass, desperately searching for anything to tell her of the new arrivals. There, streaking across the sky! She couldn’t quite make it out, but if she squinted she almost thought she could spy the blue and yellow stormcloud of the infamous Wonderbolt Squadron, three Spitfires arcing in. Within seconds of their arrival, one dusted an Sv.109, another chased a changeling off a wounded Wellington and the third soared past No. 83, guns chattering as it went for some target Paige couldn’t see.
”Sorry for the late arrival. Head on home. We’ve got your backs, over.”
“Sword Leader to Wonderbolt Leader, many thanks! But what took you so bucking long, over?”
“Yeah, we ran into some trouble over Mead Lake, over. Good to see we came in for the save, so we can show you how it's done.”
“Keep at it, Wonderbolts. You might just inspire us to turn around and stay, over.”
“Not a chance, Sword. Take your ponies and head home before some bug gets lucky and slips past us, out.”
No. 83 formed up, joining the retreating flock of aircraft and taking her place in the fighter screen now she was light and fast enough to act as escort instead of fighter-bomber. The air group was now noticeably much smaller, and many of the survivors had taken serious damage. Paige leaned back, the adrenaline having left her body as she had to become accustomed to the relative silence again, the chaos of combat replaced with the simple droning of engines and whistling of air-
She blinked, realizing a new sound had joined the engines. Where was it? She turned, looking for the offending object before looking back towards Ace. That’s when she noticed the line of bullet holes, about six in all, that had punched through No. 83’s skin just above her head. She felt the same chill of cheated death pour down her spine as she tried to steady her breathing, staring at the tears in the aluminum skin. A few inches down, and the ground crew would've been hosing her brains out of her station.
“You alright, Turner?” Ace asked, not taking his eyes off his instruments and the view ahead. Consummate professional that he was, he seemed to have been barely affected by the entire exchange, though admittedly the frantic battle must have only taken ten minutes. “I didn’t think you’d been hit-”
“Turner’s hit?” came Static’s sharp voice over the line, and Paige could see the unicorn leaning down from the turret, trying to get a better view of her longtime friend. Paige held up a hoof, waving at her from her seat.
“No, I’m fine, dragi. Just had a close call.”
”Uh, Hammer-4, Sword-2. You got a pretty bad leak on your number two. It’s spurting like crazy, over.”
“Many thanks, Sword-2. Pedals are a little shaky, but we should be okay until-MERCIFUL LUNA!”
The call from the Halifax pilot suddenly devolved into a scream as, with no warning at all, the stricken bomber detonated into an uncontrolled fireball, the fuel leak spreading back to the tanks and the entire plane going up, gliding along as it turned into a ghastly apparition before almost comically slowly dipping down and crashing into the trees down below, turning into a small flash. Paige and Ace had front row seats to the entire show, and the event killed any further conversation as the tension which had so rapidly bled out had slammed back full force.
The rest of the flight was silent the whole way back to the airfield.
Longbottom Royal Airbase Near Shire, Twisted Tail Valley
Unfortunately, no sooner had No. 83 set down on the tarmac, her crew dismounted and prepared to leave her to the mechanics for a well-earned bite and sack time, then they were immediately ordered to take off again.
“Sir, all due respect!” Lieutenant Ace protested to Wing Commander Smoky Chaser, the stern-faced pegasus who led No. 11 Squadron and the rest of the wing they flew with. “I’ve got holes in my cockpit, the whole air group’s been shot to pieces and we’ve been in the air more than we have on the ground today!”
“Lieutenant, I recommend you check your tone,” Chaser replied coolly, to which Ace immediately clammed up, shaking with frustration. For Paige, who was only used to seeing the level-headed and professional pilot, it was a stark change in attitude. “I understand your grievances, Ace. But this isn’t my choice. Tall Tale’s fallen to the Hegemony.”
Paige felt the chill creep down her neck, eyes wide. Her wings half-spread, she leapt down from the ladder where she’d been helping Static offload their gear from.
“But sir!” she said, fully aware she could be badly reprimanded for butting into a conversation between officers. “What about the tanks?”
“Never got there,” Chaser replied somberly. “The regiment got bogged down by Jaegers in the forests. Then they were called back. The Royal Guard Grenadiers were overwhelmed in Tall Tale an hour ago.”
The crew were stunned silent, absorbing that small fact. That meant that, short of whatever changeling casualties they’d managed to inflict, the entire aerial attack had been, in a word, pointless.
“Called back?” Ace asked, his fury abated. “Why?”
Chaser sighed, shaking his head. “Because Los Pegasus was taken by changeling marines and Olenian landing troops. The Lunar Fleet is wiped out. So we’re falling back to Bales. You’ve got an hour.”
With that, Commander Chaser turned, trotting over towards the next air crew. Watching him go, Paige realized that as the Wing Commander, he didn’t have to notify each and every plane. But clearly, he felt the need to do so personally. The situation was definitely getting dire on all fronts. If this was the state of Equestria’s defense after just a month, when would they finally hold back the changelings? Could they?
Static poked her head out, red aura of magic picking up the bags Paige had dropped and pulling them back into No. 83.
“Guess we’re moving again, huh?”
Ace nodded slowly, watching the airbase as injured were hauled to the base hospital, only to be loaded onto trucks to be taken away, supplies were hurriedly being inventoried and loaded up, bombers being taxied back out onto the runway having just barely fuelled up enough to make the journey. Some of them were still sporting battlefield damage and smoking engines, given just enough work to get them flying again. The base could still be used by fighters covering the army retreat, but even they would have to fall back as well once the lines got too close. And with word of Mariposa under threat by artillery shells and panzer assault, it wouldn’t be long.
Paige cursed in Rijekan, the language barrier allowing her to get away with the short, vicious cuss. She desperately hoped they didn’t have to fall back again. They wouldn’t have room to keep going much further. Because Bales was just north of Canterlot. And if Canterlot fell...then they had but a narrow strip of land until they hit the Celestial Sea.
And at this rate, they’d be -in- the Sea by Year’s End.
He pinned her against the wall, beak snipping lightly as he traced through her mane, finally reaching her ear and nibbling, lightly. She had to bite her lip, but only after the startled beginning of a breathy moan had escaped. She could feel him grinning and resisted the urge to punch him in his smarmy beak.
“Jebati!” she hissed, the word slipping out as she felt a claw digging into her haunch, her hooves at last leaving the ground. His waist was too large to wrap her legs around him, but she found purchase against his hips, hiking her body up the wall to finally put her on level with her lover. He pulled back, looking her evenly in the eyes, his own hazel ones overflowing with lust and desire. He opened his smirking beak, and said-
“Up and at ‘em, sunshine! C’mon!”
September 7th, 1011 Whitemane RAF Airbase Bales, Equestria
“Hey, c’mon!” Static repeated, telekinetically tossing a book at Paige’s head. “We’ve got a mission outside Snowbury! Ace wants you out there now!
“Jebi!” Paige hissed in frustration, rubbing her head as both it and something else throbbed. “How long did I sleep?”
“About three hours,” Static replied, already dressed in her flight gear as she rummaged in the desk on her side of the room for something in a drawer.
“Sounds about right…” Paige grunted as her head flopped back down to the pillow, feeling her desire from the wet dream slowly ebb away, but remaining persistent in the background like an annoying friend with personal space issues. “That was a damn good dream, too…”
“What do you mean ‘again?’” Paige snapped as she immediately took up a pillow, tossing it after her red flightmate, who ducked behind the standing locker as the fluffy projectile bounced harmlessly off the metal door, followed by a stream of Rijekan cursing.
“Outside, ten minutes!”
The winter wind cut through her as she stepped outside the flight barracks, even past her wool and leather coat and her own pegasi natural resistance to cold temperatures. Snow had yet to start falling, but the autumn tones on the trees and Bales’ holding of the Running of the Leaves were clear indicators that it was not far off. While Whitemane had been of a good size before the invasion, it hadn’t been near large enough to hold all the aircraft that had been frantically shunted here. As a result, both aircraft and aircrews were housed in quick built structures, whether it was ramshackle hangers or military field barracks set up outside the base proper. Planes from all over had been housed here, those not attending to keeping the changelings held back over Canterlot, the Crystal City or further west containing Las Pegasus. Paige hurried over to where No. 83 had been set up, in the middle of the yard with enchanted netting tossed over it. Underneath, Static was already going over a clipboard with a groundpony, checking off a list for parts and maintenance while munching on a bagel levitating near her face, coming close so she could take a bite occasionally. Upon Paige’s appearance, she nodded to a nearby platter on a stack of crates, piled high with other such breakfast delights such as the aforementioned bagels, prepackaged alfalfa pancakes, a few carrots that had clearly come out of a can and some applesauce and red apples dull from being in storage. Without a word, Paige immediately put together a wartime breakfast as she moved to look under, nodding to herself as she spied the empty bomb rack. Ever since they had arrived, Bomber Command had stripped Blenheims of their pitiful bomb load, repurposing them into heavy fighters to escort the much more efficient and powerful bomber flights, a job they found they excelled at.
“Mail call!” shouted a RAF corporal, a member of the groundcrew for Whitemane and another pegasus, this one of spotted grey coloration and a blonde mane, sorting through the mail as he went. They were familiar with this stallion, by the name of Dunky Dee, as he had been the clerk and operations junior NCO who often relayed orders from the base commander to their squadron, one of dozens of dedicated messengers who lightened the load of controlling massive numbers of aircraft on base at once. “Let’s see...Static! Static! Lilac! Static! Ace! Marbles! Another one for Static! Turner! And Static again!”
“Ah, my adoring fans!” Static quipped, waving a hoof to Dee before her red magical aura captured the proffered letters, drifting over towards her. “I don’t know how they figure out where I am so fast. These are the only poor bastards who have the military mail system beat!” She sniffed the letters from several of her radio fans back down south once more. “Sweet, sweet outrage and opinion leaking from every page. Hey Turner, d’ya think if I can get enough of them to sign a petition they can get me out of this lousy war?”
“I’d hope not,” Paige said back, heading to Dee for her mail. “I’d have no reason to stick around.”
Corporal Dee seemed to hesitate as she approached, the groundcrew who had also received mail having already grabbed their letters and scampered off to read what little bit of contact with their families, friends and civilization they had. But Paige knew exactly what the stallion’s furtive, nervous glance was about. News traveled quickly in military units, and the fact she had kept up a romantic correspondence with none other than an Imperialist griffon had become an open secret. With the grapevine in full swing, she’d gotten a lot of dirty looks upon arriving. After a moment, Dee released the envelope from between his teeth, as well as Ace’s so she could take it to him.
“Nah, you’d stay,” Static retorted, already ripping open one of her letters as she took another bite of her levitating bagel. “Where else would you go?”
“Griffonia,” Paige retorted almost instantly as she moved to 83’s hatch. “You’d have to ship my dust after, I’d be so fast.”
“Pillow,” Static teased after her, smirking as she turned back to her fanmail.
Inside the Blenheim, Ace sat at his pilot’s seat, silent as he went down a clipboard list of his own, checking instruments and watching the fuel gauge fill slowly. Paige moved up next to him, gently tapping his shoulder to get her lieutenant’s attention, holding the letter out to him. He raised his head in obvious surprise that she was suddenly there, but his reaction otherwise was muted.
“Turner,” he muttered in acknowledgement as he glanced down at the envelope, clearly crestfallen at the address. “Sorry to wake you so early. They’re scrambling us fast. Olenians and Umbrals attacking Snowbury, command wants us to plaster them before bug panzers back them up.”
“Forget it, sir,” Paige replied, moving towards her navigator’s station. Now she was no longer a bombardier, her natural inclination for weather patterns as a pegasus made her duties in charting even more important. Lucky her, she’d have a few minutes before she really needed to get to her job, so with the little time she had left before they took off, she quietly accumulated her breakfast of coffee so strong it could power a car, pancakes chewy enough to pass as dumplings and an apple or two, spread over her navigator’s table as she tore open the envelope, just happy to see something from her long silent beau.
Her eyes skimmed across the paper as she took a sip, wincing at the bracing taste of the coffee...
Sent August 16, 1011
Dear Paige,
Happy Birthday. I’m hoping I get this in before it's belated, but regardless. I got you something from a local shop with the time I’ve had, but you’ll have to excuse the size. I didn’t have much time to get it or a wide selection (or envelope). Lucky me, I remembered purple.
I know it’s been forever since you heard from me. It took a long time to get your letter. I’m sorry. I was wounded again, this time a lot worse than before. They sent me to a field hospital, then on to a surgical station, then to Visaginas for recovery. By the time you caught up to me, I was mostly on the mend. Another week and I would have missed you again.
I’m so sorry to hear about the invasion. I know Equestria is like a second home to you. From the news reports we’re being told, it's not good. If half of what they’re reporting is true, the ‘lings are giving you a real fight. If more, then I shudder at the thought. I’ve seen the results of such a war myself. Looks like our suspicions were right. For what it's worth.
I’m honestly unsure of where to start. A lot has happened, to both of us. So I’ll start with your last letter and work my way up.
I’ve seen some changeling hardware. A lot of it was developed next to ours. Damned good guns, well made panzers. Aside from that, I’ll have to rely on you for descriptions. Mine are at least two years out of date. But given what I remember of that and the Equestria briefings, I know there’s a real gap in the technology.
I’m going to move on.
We lost Sabine. Turns out Wingbardy decided to give panzers and weapons to Asterion, so the bulls snuck a brigade over the Creeper Mountains somehow. After weeks of hunting partisans, we weren’t prepared for a full attack. Somegriff had to hold the line for the rest of the kompanie to disengage. Sergeant Hellseig’s gone too. Held out long enough for the rest of us to escape.
(A few lines are scribbled out)
And I've lost a wing. No, you’re not reading that wrong. My left wing got trapped in the wreckage. Haul had to literally hack the wing off to get me out, or I'd have burned with Sabine. It's hard to talk about. Or write about. This time, it's not just some shrapnel taken from under my skin. It's a whole part of me gone. I can’t fly anymore, and when I walk I’m off-balance most of the time unless they hang a weight on me. Sometimes, I forget it's gone and flare up my wings out of habit. Then I start tipping and see that little stub and it all comes crashing back. I still feel it sometimes too, and that doesn't help. Phantom-Extremitäten-Syndrom they call it. According to both the physician and psychiatrist, there's a chance it’ll never go away. I can feel everybody staring. It’s not natural, and I can tell only the dogs and wingless ponies don’t pity me. I try not to go out if I can help it.
Mother paid for a long distance phone call to me. Apparently it took twenty-three minutes and five operators patching her through. She kept going from crying frantically to hollering at me back and forth for about an hour before she hung up. I barely got a dozen words in. You know how she gets. She calmed down in her letter though.
I’m getting fitted for some new prototype prosthetic, one that is made of metal, can move like a normal wing and is powered by a small crystal. Normally it would cost a small fortune. But the Reichsarmee is covering it as part of the development, with me as the ‘volunteer’. Also, surprise, it's being made by your second favorite griff, Morgend Longpaw himself. He won’t leave me alone, keeps coming in at all hours to try frames on me, take measurements, other stuff I don’t know how to describe. I think, to him, I'm another test subject, part of the experiment, not so much a patient or customer. I think I see what you were talking about with his oddities when you described him.
I’ve been decorated with a Knight’s Cross, and offered a commission. Uncle August came in and told me they want me for some kind of propaganda program called the ‘Panzer Elite’. The Empire’s gathering all these high performing ‘ace’ crews from the past few years of fighting and are putting us up on a pedestal. National heroes, they call us. I wouldn’t have taken it, but the position offered an officer candidacy, and I know I'll never afford the tuition for university on my own. And, it came from Uncle. You know it’s a serious deal when he lifts me out of trouble. Eihol, Spotsley and Haul are coming with me to test some new systems. Need a new gunner to take my place. Uncle says that my Kadet-Offizier training will finish at the same time as the testing, so I'll be a Panzer-Leutnant by New Year’s. But after the orders came down, I had to write you before I moved on and things got even more jumbled up. You’ll find the Jungeschule’s address in the envelope, so we can avoid the confusion at my end. It’s so odd, starting at nothing and now soaring to such heights in only a few years (figuratively, at least. There I go, already joking about being flightless). So much has changed, it’s had to read back on the old letters I was able to save. We’re both such different people now.
It’s very strange, being the one at peace while you’re off at war. And what a war I’ve read. The press is going giddy, watching Equestria taken down a peg or two. For years, the Empire has had to endure scorn and political ridicule from across the sea, as the Sick Bird of Griffonia. Now the Empire’s on the rise and Equestria is looking to fall. The pundits and politicos out here are full of themselves. But I’m not celebrating. I’m right there praying Equestria pulls out of this war. You have faith, and you’re putting everything you have into this fight. I know it, or you would have grabbed the first boat East. So, I have faith in Equestria because I have faith in you.
Don’t worry about me anymore. I’m safe again, and you need to worry about yourself as much as you can. Keep safe, my love. Things are changing. And this war, however terrible, can’t last forever. We -will- be together one day. All the trouble we’ve been through can’t have just built us up to this if the gods didn’t have a plan for us in the end. And you still have my medal.
I eagerly await your next letter, and when I next write you, it will be from the akadamie as I take my first steps towards being an officer.
Yours always.
Love,
Cyril
(Inside the envelope is a photograph of Cyril standing in his dress uniform, wingsleeve pinned back, as he stands in front of a hospital’s flower garden. With the photo is a dried out but still beautiful lilac, the same as in the hospital photo. Another note reads ‘These are rare in the Herzland, but grow like crazy here, so I bought one from a slower stand. It’s not much, but I hope it’s enough. Happy Birthday ~Cyril’)
“Turner!”
She snapped her head up, jolting in surprise, coffee slightly splashing onto her front as she cursed in Rijekan. Ace waited patiently before he tossed a clipboard to her, clattering on her map table.
“Need you to run your checks, chart us a course to Snowbury with these coordinate checkpoints and help with the systems test before we take off. Rest of the squadron’s queuing up, let’s go!”
With a sigh, Paige carefully tucked the letter away, mildly resenting Ace’s ability to still function even after such a personal blow as he’d taken. Regardless, they had a job to do, and lives to save on the ground. But before she got into it, she gently took a small sniff of the rather unfortunate lilac that had been pressed flat in the envelope. In Rijekograd, her mother had grown lilacs in that same flowerbed that they were surely about to abandon.
A stew of emotions churned in her gut. She desperately missed Cyril and her parents, it had been years since she’d been home and now like Equestria it too was falling to chaos. Her regret and resentment warred in her head a moment longer, battling over the sense of depressed dread she had felt everyday that past few months.
Then, after letting herself slip off the deep end a moment, she simply shook her head, sighed again, and tucked away the lilac to get started on her list. There was a war to fight.
She was so tired.
On August 25, 1011 ALB (After Luna Banishment), citing months if not years of bad relations and numerous provocations, the Griffonian Kaiserreich invaded their much smaller neighbor, the Skyfall Trade Federation. The stated war goal was to reclaim the prosperous port city of Skyfall itself and capture its fleet, which had once made up the old Kaiserliche Marine before the Republican Revolution of 978 saw the city split away.
While brave in standing their ground and professionally trained, the Federation’s defense forces were no match for the much larger and more heavily armed and now veteran Reichsarmee. Within three weeks, the countryside was completely under Imperial control and the city of Skyfall put under siege. But Skyfall was well fortified, and drew their fleet in to dissuade the Kaiserliche Marine.
In response, one Imperial commander, General Celia Marshtail, in a stunning show of ruthless cunning, bribed the mercenaries employed by Skyfall’s trade barons. The gates were thrown open and the mercenaries, bored and frustrated with being trapped in a siege by their employers, began looting the entire city, starting with the treasury. When Reichsarmee troops entered the city almost unopposed, many joined in the Sack of Skyfall.
It took an entire day before the Vollstrecker managed to regain control of the situation. In that time, almost all of the mercenaries were arrested, 600 Reichsarmee soldiers were summarily executed on the spot and 25,000 civilians were killed or wounded in the crossfire.
Relieved that the chaos was over, the city garrison, who had worked with the Reichsarmee to tame the storm, surrendered with no further resistance. The Federation government fled to the nearby Haukland Isles, attempting to rally political favor from the Griffonian Revolutionary Republic and the Federated Republic of Aquileia. By September 13th, both the city and the fleet were secured by the Empire, and the territory declared reclaimed.
President Verany of Aquileia insisted the Empire had gone too far, as while annexing the Grenzwald was seen as acceptable, this was seen as warmongering. Duchess Regent Gabriela pointed out the hypocrisy of that accusation, considering Aquileia had used the excuse of ‘unity’ to ‘liberate’ every single small republic and duchy, formerly part of the old kingdom, between the borders of Aquileia and the Empire.
No official response was sent.
The two nations now prepare, on the brink of war.
October 7th.
After weeks of quiet, careful negotiation, the Federated Republic of Aquileia, the Griffonian Revolutionary Republic, the Skyfall Trade Federation and the Knightly Kingdom of Vedina sign the Republican Entente.
October 9th.
Vedinian and Revolutionary troops cross the northern border from Cloudbury to the duchies of Feathisia, Strawberry and the newly conquered Whitetail Territory. To the south, from former Griefwald, Aquileian tanks surprise Reichsarmee troops, bombers soaring overhead. At sea, what’s left of the Federation’s naval forces join those of the other three powers to trap the Kaiserliche Marine in Skyfall and Rottendedam.
Imperial forces at the borders are caught in a state of surprise. The attack was only expected from one direction. While all Imperial branches scramble to respond, losses are already mounting.
The Great struggle for Griffonia has begun.
October 15, 1011 Grenzwald Offizier-Jungeschule Zeldstadt, Hellsword
“Extra, extra! Read all about it! Empire under attack! Entente forces pinch from both sides! Duchess Regent calls for volunteers to stand against the Republican menace! Extra!”
The newsfoal standing on the street corner kept crowing as he held up the latest issue of Der Rechte Flügel, the stream of passing offizier-kadets occasionally tossing him a few idols for a copy. Cyril, for his part, kept on, pressing for the dormitories, not eager to dawdle. The kadet fatigues mercifully helped blend him in like camouflage in the brush, reducing the discomfort of his empty wingsleeve. But his was a matter of time constraint, not personal space. Flying over campus was off limits to all kadets (not that much of a bother to non pegasus ponies and dogs from the Bund), leaving the air open for instructors, staff and VIPs like visiting knights and inspecting officers. He couldn’t stand the stares that persisted, the whispers that he could barely hear in quiet lecture halls when the instructors had left them to their assignments or quizzes. He’d been warned to expect distaste, and got it. But there was an equal amount of awe from the younger, less hardened kadets. Much like the rest of the Empire, battle scars were a mark of honor, in the Grenzwald more than any elsewhere. But the same unnatural sense of missing a wing persisted, and the stares that came with it, from the Grenzwald kadets, Herzland kadets and even other combat vets like him. Those who would take interest in the young drake never took long to come face to face with him, and were all too eager to ask him about his experience, ponies and griffons alike, further dragging up unwanted memories. The only people he was friends with these days were his crew, barracked off campus at the proving grounds and a few of the other vets who managed to get past their own prejudice.
As if his unwanted celebrity wasn’t already rather uncomfortable, the classes were killing him. Normally, a kadet candidate would take at least two years of education in the Empire to earn a commission from the Osnabeak Akadamie. The knight-run learning institutes in Hellquill, Swordsson and Zeltdstadt were even harsher, taking up to three years according to what he had heard. But for a combat veteran like Cyril, who had already passed basic training nearly half a decade ago and acquired more combat experience than most of the frontier kadets here, there was a fast track option available, his training being focused on more intellectually demanding undertakings. Imperial and Reformisten officers, NCO’s and instructors alike shared these halls, the Herzland specialists imparting their expertise until the Grenzwald campus was fully caught up on modern panzer warfare, which only a few Black Knights had grips with. But from all sides, he received no quarters. Upon waking up, it was physical conditioning, with extra physical therapy for Cyril himself instead of flying. Then, after breakfast it was a full barrage of classes for eight hours in subjects like mathematics, combatives, foreign briefings, etiquette, political science, tactical lessons and for him particularly mechanical engineering.
Ironically, the subject Cyril suffered in the worst of all, worse even than mathematics, the physical training or etiquette was tactics class, by far the most essential. In all his time, Cyril had only ever had to worry about staring down a gunsight, predicting what the other side was about to do. Now, he’d be in charge of not only his own whole panzer, but three more on top of that. And so far, his idea of reasonable tactics had only been met with lukewarm success. Hauptmann Zettler had highlighted this with a simple exercise; with a theoretical four panzer force, assault an enemy bunker on a hill dug in with an anti-Panzer gun. Cyril’s answer had been to split the force and pincer from both sides, but Zettler had pointed out that it exposed all four panzers’ flanks. Much as Cyril had wanted to protect his drakes, the captain had informed him, he had risked even more injury by letting the enemy take a pick of such juicy targets. The correct answer, Zettler had said, was to square off with two of the panzers as a gun line with their thick frontal plates, while the other two were to pinch from the flanks. It sat badly in Cyril’s beak, knowing from firstclaw experience that such a move would cost at least one panzer. But according to the instructors, his own tactic would result in two, possibly three panzers down with flank shots. It had been embarrassing. Despite this display, Oberstmeister Heimclar, watching nearby, reiterated that the suggestion of the aspiring kadet was not entirely without merit, mentioning how his logic of trying to prevent casualties was admirable. The execution, Heimclar has reasoned, required refinement. The real exercise, for example, would have far more clear conditions than a stock sample tactics board.
After all this, Cyril had just enough time to rush to his dorm, change out of his kadet uniform into his newly issued panzerwaffen blacks, grab a bite to go and get out of town to the proving grounds. Luckily, Zeltstadt’s train station wasn’t far from the campus, and once he was aboard it was smooth sailing, assuming he caught the 4:35. So it was he flung open the door to his dorm, glancing around the room. His roommate appeared to be otherwise engaged, the blue blood lout. Cyril sighed, changing out of his kadet uniform and into his Reichsarmee panzerwaffe uniform as quick as he could, already trying to remember what they had tested yesterday on the Gryta and what the engineers claimed they’d be testing while he was gone. He’d have to review the notes once he got there, assuming they didn’t move to gunnery without-
Something on the bed caught his eye, and he paused. A few envelopes. His mother hadn’t stopped writing, since the telephone she used had been down at the local pub (they were too poor to afford their own set), but her last letter came in two days ago, after she’d already come to visit him. He moved quickly, flipping them over to inspect. A letter from the Reichsarmee, which he would save for later. Another one from Griffenheim made him pause as he recognized the name of Father Andreas Bronzeclaw, the priest from Greifenmarsch and the Herzland Wars who’d returned to the Great Temple afterwards. That could be interesting.
The last letter, however, made his breath hitch and his body freeze up.
A letter from Paige.
For one long, agonizing minute, he stared at the letter. That was her writing, she always addressed it in cursive, and the stamps were indeed Equestrian, the spires of Canterlot on the small tabs. He almost didn’t know what to do, having been so long without her.
Then a train whistle blew in the distance, and he snapped back to reality, quickly tossing the letter in his pack and finishing his preparations to leave.
Ten minutes later, Cyril squeezed between two tired looking pony laborers, finding an open space on the passenger car to let him slip in and sit down next to the Bronze Dog slumbering near the end of the car. The window captured the setting sun perfectly, and he set his travel bag down as the letter once more materialized. Another minute of indecision, and he sliced the top open with a claw.
As the train steamed off into the Longswordian countryside, Cyril finally unfolded it and began to read Paige’s words once again...
Sent September 9th, 1011
Dear Cyril,
It’s so good to finally hear from you. I was worried something had gone wrong. In a way, from your description, it did. I am so sorry. I have no words to express my sorrow and sympathy. Pegasi feel the loss of another creature’s wing much like death. It’s our greatest fear. Not even magic can properly heal it sometimes. The thought of having to live without it makes me feel ghastly ill for lack of a stronger term. And you’re working with Morgend Longpaw! What I wouldn’t give to be with you, for multiple reasons. Try to work through your troubles with him for me, he’s possibly the most brilliant drake you’ll ever meet (though I wouldn’t say he’s my second favorite).
Your news about the Panzer Elite promotion makes me happy. Congratulations on making the cut. Now you’ll be getting an education too. Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. You’re a hard worker. I know you can be a good student at this, army life is everything to you. You earned this, and you’re finally getting recognized for what I’ve always known you could do.
I’ve been so scared the past few months. This war has only gotten started, and for a while it seemed like you were gone. Or at least just not there. But now you’re safe again, and I can look forward to your letters once more.
We’ve been pulled back again. Tall Tale and Las Pegasus fell to the assault, so our flight has been taken to Bales. Canterlot is practically within short flight range now. But it’s changed. The mountains and forests here are now working to our advantage, funneling the changelings into killzones. I hear there’s still fighting in Mariposa and Raspberry Grove. Word is the Royal Army finally got solid defense lines around Marechester and Ponderosa. Rockville is supposed to get reinforcements, but that’s so far away I can’t say for certain. There’s no way the south will let the bugs roll through. But. We may have finally slowed them down. Maybe even stopped them. I haven’t been anywhere but the airbase and Bales. Well, and up in No. 83, shooting at the bugs. They stopped fitting her with bombs. Seems we’re a bomber escort now, which makes me just a navigator. We go up almost every day, it seems. Never at night. It’s practically suicide against the enemy. Changeling fighters, it turns out, are not so impossible to kill by Spitfires, but we’ve got less and less of those every day, and the bug pilots spent a hell of a lot longer training for this job. Some of their aces are almost magical in the air. There’s two we’re always concerned with; Verkut and Kalart. We know their names because changeling propaganda leaflets keep turning up bragging about them. Both are able to slip right past a bomber wing’s fighter escort and gut the wing with little effort, kill an escort or two and get away scot free. I hear Verkut even shot down a Wonderbolt, but nopony official’s talking about it.
The rest of the base always seems to be in some grim spiral, only broken up by radio speeches from the Princesses and large doses of cider, the “old medicine” as we call it. But we keep going up. We get shot down or full of holes, and we grab replacement planes, replacement crew, patch up the damage and go again. And again. It almost seems endless. All the ordnance we’re dropping has to be doing something. RAF High Command ordered the cessation of strategic bombers on our cities. Apparently, there’s too much collateral damage and the Princesses don’t wish to cause anymore civilian deaths. Good and bad with that decision. But still.
Sombra’s back. It’s official. I don’t know if your newspapers are reporting on that. He was never confirmed destroyed in the Crystal War. Now he’s back and converting Crystal ponies to his Thrall Legions, working with the changelings. This war is like something out of a nightmare. It just keeps getting worse for us when we think we’ve seen it through to the worst. No word on what Royal Command is doing about it. I just hope they act fast before the Crystal Empire falls, and then we have one more frontline and one less ally.
We’ve been told to expect some company. Apparently, a treaty was signed with (the word has been clipped by a censor), so we can expect to see more backup any day now. Any port in a storm, I guess. Commonwealth fighters touched down, talking about Expeditionary battalions landing in (the word has been clipped by a censor) to come help us. About time, but I’m betting nopony is going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Bit of an odd bunch, kind of treating this war as an exciting getaway. They keep going on about ‘saving our flanks a second time’. I remember flying with them in the Crystal War. Seems a lifetime ago, not just a few years. We’re just fighting and surviving as best we can out here, but it’s hard. Static covers it up with sarcasm and humor, but I can tell she’s scared to death. The more she laughs it off, the more frightened she is. We also found out that Tall Tale was Ace’s hometown. He doesn’t even know if his wife and foals got out. No wonder he’s been out of sorts. We let him be after that. I think he needs to work out a few things before we can help him. He always seems to be on the verge of cracking. I just hope that if he does, it’s not while he’s at the stick.
Looks like the Empire decided not to sit back and wait. The newspapers are going crazy about Imperial panzers blitzing the border, like it's somehow right up there with the changeling tanks bearing down on us even now. I know how loyal you are, but I’m going to say this right now, and you’ll likely disagree, but here it goes; invading Skyfall is a mistake. I don’t doubt the Empire can win in Skyfall and the Haukland Isles. But you may have to watch for a bigger war yourself. Aquileia and the Republic both were trying to get on the Federation’s good side. You’re so worried about me, now I’m getting worried about you all over again in the course of a letter on top of the news of your wing, now what the papers are telling us from across the sea.
In these times, I find myself turned to poetry and sayings. Pieces of home I’ve come to treasure the longer I am away from it, and the worse I hear things are getting. Father finally admits it is probably for the best to leave now. They’re talking about trying to apply for entry to Gryphia, as much as he hates it. Mother keeps reminding him they have no choice. Almost all sea traffic is blockaded right now, and the only choice aside from fleeing to the Hillfolk League through Diamond Mountain is trying to push through Barrad to Kása. Brook fell off the scene again. Probably left the Friestaat to escape before the Reformisten advance. There’s nothing I can do to help any of them, and what’s worse is that the letter took two months to reach me here. They’ve likely left by now. I don’t even know where they decided to go. I don’t know if I’ll ever hear from any of them again. They may as well be one of my squadron, shot dead out of the sky. It feels the same.
I’m going to miss my mother’s garden.
The whole world seems to be falling apart. Sometimes it feels all I have left is my flight and you.
Stay in touch. I can’t lose you again.
Ostani na sigurnom i živi dobro, draga moja.
Gives you a reason to learn Rijekan.
Love,
Paige
P.S: the lilac was perfect. They grew all over the hills around Rijekograd. I remember a corner of my mother's garden had a huge lilac bush, too thick to play in but beautiful to look at. It’s likely gone now, but your gift will always remind me of it. Thank you.
“Next stop! Korinna Proving Grounds!”
Cyril’s head snapped up from the letter, which he’d fortunately only just finished. Time to think about it later. There was a lot to unpack in this.
The crowd on the station was not thick, and Cyril had no luggage. He flowed through the station like water, trying not to look up at the winged forms flying overhead, either chatting in the station rafters or leaving through the open ends of the station. But he couldn’t help glancing up at the Pegasi and griffons above him, a twinge of jealousy in his gut.
“Oops!”
Something small and solid impacted his waist, and Cyril glanced down to apologize to the small figure when his voice caught in his throat. He had assumed them to be a chick or a foal, but upon first glance he had no clue what to think. He was the right size, and possessed a muzzle and front hooves, but his head and chest were covered in white feathers, and his lower half was a sky blue that reached to paws and a leonine tail. He was dressed like many other lower class worker children in the Grenzwald, though this being Hellsword the style closely resembled Herzlander clothes.
And, strangest of all, the child had purple eyes and no wings.
“Sorry, sir!” the chick, foal, whatever this child was snapped a clumsy salute at the sight of Cyril’s uniform. “Wasn’t watching where I was going!”
“It’s alright,” Cyril found himself automatically replying.
With that, the child beamed up at him before galloping off, moving through the sparse crowd towards a female griffon, who smiled down at the child warmly. She must have been his mother, but how? Adopted, surely.
The formel and strange child turned to the train, where an Earth pony stallion, one of the bigger breeds, was exiting a passenger car. Like the formel and child, he was dressed basically, like a low class worker, his saddlebags bulging with what looked like tools. The griffon and child embraced him, and he back to them, talking and smiling like a family recently reunited.
Because they were.
“Huh,” Cyril remarked quietly to himself, watching the scene until the family made to move towards the entrance. In a flash, he was gone, though not without a pit in his gut...alongside a warm glow of some kind of positive emotion he could no longer name.
He was met at the station entrance today by Gefreiter Sabrina Eisenwing, his new gunner, lounging in the staff car, paging through a magazine with a bored expression. While the Panzer Elite has done their best to keep veteran crews together, Cyril now had need of two new crew members, with him being promoted and Haul seemingly having vanished. As a result, he’d been given fresh graduates, replacements in the barest of terms. At least Eisenwing has come highly recommended, and if he was being frank she was fairly attractive, a nice change from the rough and scarred faces he’d served with the past few years. She glanced up as he approached, then immediately stood, stepping out to open the rear door for him and saluting sharply.
“Afternoon sir,” she greeted, back ramrod stiff, wings frozen in place.
“At ease,” Cyril replied, saluting in return. After so long as one of the griffs below in the enlisted, being greeted as a ‘sir’ was still strange to him. “Were you waiting long?”
“No sir. Pulled in thirty minutes ago.” She shut the door behind him, taking her own seat and starting the staff car. “You lucked out, sir. They’re currently fixing a problem with our engine, so we’ve got time to get back and get you up to speed.”
“That -is- good news,” Cyril acknowledged, watching the train station pull away and the Korinna grounds roll up instead, his mind elsewhere as he moved on into the second phase of his training. Right now, his mind was on the slip of paper tucked away in his coat pocket. And it would stay there the rest of the day.
November 20th, 1011 Whitemane RAF Airbase Bales, Equestria
Paige spat as she threw her flying cap to the tarmac, cursing to herself. Another flight, another bitter disappointment. Gods, they had -won- this one. So why didn’t it feel like a victory? She looked back over No. 83 and the sheer number of bullet holes in her side brought back to mind the wind whistling past her mane, hearing the shriek of the air as they had dove and banked through the sky. Contesting the air above the Crystal Empire against the Thrall pilots had been assigned to the Reds, leaving the Royal Air Force to focus on protecting what was even now being referred to as the Blueblood Line. While the situation up north was still in turmoil as the Crystal and socialist ponies kept being pushed further and further back by an almost unending tide of Sombra’s Thrall Legions backed by changeling panzers, umbral monsters, Olenian skirmishers and now polar bear shock troops, the focus of holding Equestria was seen as the more vital point. Mariposa had finally fallen, but Paige had been there to witness the almost flawless execution of the fallback to Marechester. From what the squadron had been told, command had been expecting Mariposa to be taken, and played it to their advantage, evacuating the civilians, booby-trapping the buildings and streets after and then falling back to stronger, more prepared fortifications in Marechester. The bugs’ attempts to use Mariposa’s military structure would receive a nasty surprise in the form of several thousand timed explosives hidden in hangars, radio stations, munitions bunkers and under roads, bridges and runways.
Since No. 83 no longer carried bombs, another Nickers machine gun had been installed in the nose for Paige, a role she took to eagerly, ready to fight back when she had previously been little more than a passenger at the mercy of Ace’s flying. The operation had gone off without a hitch...for the army. While Equestrian troops and tanks had moved into trenches and behind artillery pits in Marechester, the Queendom had plastered the RAF with an enormous air fleet, including the two aces Verkut and Kalart, vicious air killers both.
The result was half the squadron being shot to pieces, unable to handle the massive swarm they suddenly faced. Even the pegasi fliers had been ambushed by changelings, and the uncomfortable realization that battleshifters could fly still, and were capable of literally ripping apart tactical bombers in midair only worsened the situation. The only reason the rest had escaped was thanks to Marechester’s AA defenses and intervention by fighters from Commonwealth No. 3 Squadron. Ironically, the Mustang and Bucksbane fighters used by the Commonwealth aviators were more modern than the Hurricanes most Equestrian fighter wings were still forced to use.
The victory was soured for many surviving ponies as well as Paige herself as she sighed, looking around at the other planes coming down to the tarmac. Most were as beaten as No. 83. Some were worse off, spewing smoke and flames and just barely getting down so the fire crews and on hoof unicorns could halt the fires, some crashing and wrecking on the runway. Pilots and crew were being rushed to the healers, and even from here Paige could see the lines forming up outside the medical station, medics and healer unicorns rushing from patient to patient, trying to stabilize them long enough to get them to a hospital. Many had white sheets pulled over their forms, but no time or hooves to move the corpses away from the living.
“Y’know,” came Static’s drawl as she also emerged from the plane, muzzle streaked with sweat and soot around where her goggles had been. “I could have sworn to the Princesses we won that one. They told us we won, right?”
“Army won,” Paige replies quietly, an edge of bitterness to her tone. “That’s the difference.”
“Well at least somepony on our side is,” Static shot back, stretching out as her magic also tugged the flight gear from her head. “I don’t know about you, but I’m gonna grab some coffee and about twelve hours of sleep. Let me know when they need us, should be about three hours.”
“You realize you’re getting coffee -before- you go to sleep?” Paige replied, raising an eyebrow at her crew mate. Static thought about that for a moment before simply shrugging.
“Yeah. But I need the coffee to make it to my cot. Guarantee I’ll still knock out before you.”
And with that, the red unicorn took off at a wearied, tired trot towards the mess hall.
For her part, Paige endured the poking and prodding by a unicorn healer before she was finally allowed to leave herself, exhausted and almost dragging herself back to the flight barracks, where many other crew ponies were staggering towards as well. Her wings ached from lack of use, and she smelled like gunpowder, grease, sweat and exhaust. But the showers would all be occupied by now. She would have to wait her turn, which she was currently more than happy to do. She made it to the room she and Static shared, tossing her flight jacket unceremoniously onto the ground, stretching as wide as she could.
All her exhaustion disappeared, however, with the sight of an envelope on her bunk. Glancing over at Static’s, she saw the customary small stack from the radiomare’s fans. Corporal Dee must have delivered their mail while they were in the air. Eagerly, she swept over, only giving the address a cursory glance before ripping it open, eyes eagerly scanning the paper inside as she laid back on her bunk, feeling her aches and worries temporarily fade into the background...
Sent October 17, 1011
Dear Paige,
I’m sorry to hear I made you so worried, but I suppose it couldn’t be helped. While I’m grateful you can sympathize with me so much, I find I don’t want to talk about my missing wing anymore either. I’m having a strange experience here. The other kadets all seem to react to it, one way or another. Those from the Herzlands who came East because Osnabeak and Vinnin were overcrowded look at me with shock and sometimes a bit of revulsion. To be fair, I kind of know how unnatural I must seem to them. Then the Reformisten kadets are fascinated by it, and keep coming up to ask me how I lost it. They want me to relive that night, over and over again. So no, I’d rather stop talking about it, honestly.
Longpaw is...interesting. He is certainly different from the scientists back at Krallestein, my only other basis of comparison. Disconnected from the world around him for sure, but he truly does seem to care. It is never just a science thing with him. He speaks as if we were changing the world with all of this. Were I a bit more optimistic, the words might be touching. What is more strange is that he doesn’t strike me as someone who would become a part of such a fanatical organization as the Reformisten. He doesn’t spout ideology and he certainly doesn’t seem to be aligned with them by common thought. I suppose even the most idealistic need to be pragmatic at times. He came in with the first prototype the other day, a big bulky thing that he called the ‘concept piece’. It fit my back and the stump, but it was so heavy it tipped me back the other way. I never even got to try and flap it. For a moment I could see a disappointed look on his face, a strange sight for one so mysteriously jolly, but in less than a second his attitude shifted back to his energetic usual self. And he was off again saying how he would come with a better design soon. It is a strange feeling to be a part of something that will change society so drastically, the way he speaks of how his invention will help those like me who either cannot fly because of a lost wing or of those without wings strong enough to achieve flight, it seems as though Doctor Morgend truly means well, an unusual sight in this bleak world. I hope he is right.
The crew has been alright. Spotsley and Eihol came out okay, just with some injuries. Eihol lost most of the feathers on his face and the hearing in one ear, but he’s very popular with the formels here out East. Spotsley lost an eye, but she’s not letting that slow her down at all, certainly not when she lectures us. They both got promotions to sergeant, and they damned well deserve them. I haven’t seen Haul since the hospital. He just seemed to have disappeared. If I were to guess I would say he has been transferred because the replacements also included a loader for our crew. I may not have trusted him much, but not getting the chance to say goodbye stung a bit. We were never even told he was leaving.
Back to the replacements. Sabrina Eisenwing is just a Gefreiter, but she apparently scored top of her class on the gunnery range back in Vinnin, and we need good shooters. She’s new, but so far she’s proving her scores with the Gryta cannon. Our new loader is Lukas Brightclaw, also a fresh rookie, but he apparently comes from a noble family in Yale, so he was talked on. He does a decent job as a loader, he’s a big griff. But he’s also pretty temple-headed. Apparently his father’s actually a bishop or something, I don’t remember. He’s always quoting scripture and saying prayers aloud, singing hymns as he works. Now, I’m a devoted follower myself. But there’s only so many times you can hear “Praise to the God King!” when you call for a reload before it just gets to you. He’s not bad, but he’s also kind of disappointed that nogriff else is as onto them as he is.
I can’t tell you about the panzer, which is really frustrating because it’s the more enjoyable part of my day. But it’s considered top secret information, so anything I write will just get clipped. I’d rather save the time and ink and just write you things.
I can tell you about the akadamie, however. This place was built out of an older one meant for the Longsword military, but that changed after the civil war. They only just got the new curriculum up and running two years ago, and now it’s seeing more students from the west. It’s not a bad place, but the sheer amount I have to go through is staggering. I won’t bore you with the details, but let’s just say there’s far more to being an officer than you or I ever realized. I have to learn mathematics, for example. Some of these concepts I’ve never even heard of before now. Etiquette is another one, where I learn just how to speak with other officers, nobles, knights, royalty, on and on, given the Grenzwalders’ mindset picking up on these habits should not be so difficult but it appears that relearning my manners for the Imperial elite could cover a whole semester alone. It also turns out that being a good shot doesn’t translate to tactics well. I do well on the range, but that’s only for certification and then we’re done. Now, I have to learn how to manage several panzers at once and place the good of the mission above those under my command. It’s not a mentality I’m comfortable with. The physical conditioning is hard, too. I’m excused from the flying exercises, but they find other things for me, like sprints with the ponies, climbing up obstacles, things like that. The instructors seem to love singling me out.
The topic of Skyfall being a mistake is too high above my head to debate with you. Invade as many lands as I have and they all start to look the same through a gunsight. You should know. But I’m not a politician. I’m learning about history and military structure, but the reasons for us being in this war are beyond me, and I know better than to trust the newsrags to tell me the whole truth. Whatever else, we’re at war. This time, we’re on the defensive. Propaganda on the approved radio nets spins it like we’re mounting a heroic defense to throw the invaders back any day now. But then they said that when the enemy was (this section is clipped out by a censor), and when (so is this section) was invaded, and now that Rottendedam’s under siege and our forces are (this section too) to Skyfall while bombers fly over the Herzland. Strangely, the fact I’m now on the other side of the Empire from the war makes me all the more nervous. I don’t know if word’s gotten back to you yet, but with Cyanolisia’s liberation, the war in the east is looking close to closing. They’re saying Asterion will be taken by Mondstille. So all the real battle is in the west. We’re all ready to get into the fight, but told we must stay. How strange. When I was at war, I wanted to be anywhere else. Now I’m in safety, enforced safety, and I can’t wait to go back. I don’t know what to make of that.
Mother and Sophie visited over the weekend. There was a lot of crying and cursing from my mother. Then she straightened out and told me how proud she is of me. I can’t tell you how happy that all made me. She gave me some chocolates she made to send out to you, hoping it would reach you before the holidays. Some timing on that formel. Sophie is growing up everytime I look away from her. I can hardly believe it. I’m gone only a year and she shoots up like a weed. An eleven year old weed. And I’m not there.
We went out on the town over the weekend, had lunch at a cafe. First time I’ve seen my mother and sister since I shipped out to the east. The stories they share about the air battles over Griffenheim make me more concerned than ever. They take shelter in the cellar while the Luftstreitkräfte fights Aquileian bombers back, listening to the ordnance pounding the Imperial City, while flak guns rattle away. To hear them tell it, the bombardments go on forever, and I can see the same darkness in their faces that many say I have in mine. Mother joined a volunteer group, some sort of Eimerbrigade. She goes out after the bombs stop falling and digs through wreckage for anygriff trapped beneath, then helps the fire service to put out fires. In the mornings, she helps pick through wreckage for bodies and precious remnants of lives shattered by the bombers, then joins the repair parties to fix the damage. She should not have to be the one to step into this role. I am now torn between wanting to be by your side, wanting to join the struggle out in Feathisia and being back home so I may protect my family. Sadly, it seems, I can have none of them. Mother and Sophie departed on the train for home after that. We have no family anywhere safer right now, but I have heard rumors of a chick’s evacuation to the east. I pray it does not come to that.
I’ve been hearing news about the Riverlands. Concerning news that I’m not sure you know. Before the Entente invasion, the Reformisten were mostly concerned with restarting the crusade that was supposed to crush the east. Plenty of the instructors here speak of striking while the Coalition is tearing itself apart. But it appears that decision is no longer in their claws. Your parents will be fine, Paige. If they got out early enough, they can find safety in a number of places. And they’re smart enough to leave before things got too out of claw. After all, they were smart enough to raise you right.
We get flyovers from the Luftstreitkräfte from time to time. Everytime they do, I always look up and think of you, even when I’m in class. It must be hell up there, from what little I know of aerial combat and what you’ve told me. If it's anything like panzer warfare, cooped up in a can while your fate is in the claws of others, then I at least have a shred of knowledge. Everyday the miles separating us seem to grow ever wider. We now have two enormous wars in our way, and I don’t know when the fighting will end this time. It seems endless, this gulf. The drumming never seems to cease, beating its chant into time as we try to march to its tune. It seems less land and sea striving to keep us apart and more a river of soldiers, walls of steel armor and an ocean of blood. The very force of war itself seems dedicated to our separation.
You’re not the only one turning to poetry lately.
Love,
Cyril
And that was it. No positive message at the end, no PS, no mention of how much he missed her. It didn’t seem so much a response to her last letter, and more Cyril getting a lot of baggage off his chest. While she felt for her beau, the letter left Paige a bit down, unsure of how to react to the words. War had come to Griffonia as well, and the news reports she trusted showed it to be just as bad as this one. By Cyril’s words, the distance between them now seemed as wide as going from the ground to the moon. Armies and fleets separated them now, not just land and an ocean.
She was staring at the letter, trying to read deeper into it or at least gain some shred of the joy she used to have when she read Cyril’s words, when Static came back in, looking about as worn out as she felt. She glanced over at Paige with a small smile on her face.
“Ace just got word. His family got out before Tall Tale was cut off.”
“Oh. Yeah, that’s great,” Paige replied, not quite distracted but also not really able to muster up the energy for the relieved and active response she knew positive words like this deserved. True to form, Static raised an eyebrow as she eyed up the letter Paige had before her.
“You okay? That a letter from Cyril?”
“Yeah.”
“Uh...how is he?”
“Not good,” Paige said back, turning to the paper and scanning it for the fifth time. “He’s having a hard time at officer candidate school. Plus losing a wing. Griffenheim’s getting the crap bombed out of it, and his family’s right in the firing line.”
“Damn war,” Static grumbled as she tugged her jacket off. “Both of them. What in Tartarus happened to the world? Four years ago, war was a memory as distant as Nightmare Moon. Now we’ve had civil wars, revolutions, coups, an evil resurrection and now we’re sitting in the middle of two firestorms threatening to burn down both continents. It’s insane.”
“Yeah,” Paige mustered up, glancing over at her side table, where she’d cautiously set up the last photo she’d taken with her family, a week before she left for university, an eternity and a lifetime ago. “Maybe the world’s always been broken. We just covered it up so we could pretend everything was fine and carry on like it was all just one big, magical adventure.”
To this, Static sighed as she collapsed onto her bunk, the fanmail shoved off the side to think about later.
“Well, that’s certainly what Equestria’s been doing. Can’t really go back, can we?”
And with that, the unicorn gave an enormous yawn, curled up with her pillow under the covers, and nodded off in minutes.
The Rijekan Pegasus sighed, reading the letter once more. It would be hard to write back, she knew. But she had to. He was her only connection left. Maybe later, when she wasn’t so tired. But as she collected up the envelope to store the letter so she too could get some sleep, another slip of paper caught her eye. There, in the envelope as well. She’d missed it when she had opened it up. Curious, she reached in and gently extracted the much smaller piece. It had one line of text printed on it, in neat letters she thought she might recognize.
Your family has passed through the Host. They are secured.
And underneath, all there was for a signature was a drawing of an eye. Some kind of symbol? What did it all mean?
Paige glanced up at the window, still holding Cyril’s letter as she watched the activity of the base outside and, more importantly, the sky.
The front in Equestria has finally stabilized. After months of defeat after harsh defeat, the Equestrian Royal Army finally slows and then halts the changeling juggernaut. Defense lines are hardened. While the entire northwest has been lost, resulting in more than a quarter of the country under occupation in just six months, things are no longer so clear cut.
Help has arrived. Colonial reinforcements from the Commonwealth of New Mareland have landed on their mother shore, bringing valuable troops, tanks, ships and planes. Commonwealth aviators immediately prove their skill in several engagements, while their Diggers stubbornly hold their ground, mostly in holding the south. The Royal New Mareland Squadron takes the place of the Lunar Fleet, holding the southern passage next to the battered and hard pressed Celestial Fleet. Though still neutral for now as they are bogged down by issues in Zebrica, weapons and supplies from the United Kingdom of Aris continue to flow into Equestrian ports.
In the Crystal Empire, things are less hopeful. The arrival of mighty tanks and planes from socialist Stalliongrad has come just in time, supporting those hard-pressed ponies able to resist Sombra’s influence, but the winter ravages tear across the plains with such ferocity, no pony can withstand it. Not crystal, communist or changeling. Fighting slows to a crawl. But the war carries on.
In Griffonia, the war is only starting. Having overwhelmed Imperial defenses on the borders, Entente forces march towards the Herzland from both north and south, making advances on the port cities of Skyfall and Rottendedam while also peeling East. Their eye is on the Imperial City. But the Kaiserreich is recovering, fast. Mighty panzerdivisions are summoned, beginning their clattering grind west next to endless formations of Imperial grenadiers and plate clad knights.
The Riverlands continues it’s descent into chaos. As the East Griffonian Co-prosperity Sphere builds its strength, the River Coalition buckles from within. Bakaran socialist leader Bray Foam urges an end to the violent protesting and clashes tearing the River Republic apart, but the Red March is unstoppable. The other members of the Coalition are torn between intervening in the anarchy and focusing on the border with the Lake City Principality or even on the vicious and tyrannical Barrad Magocracy.
One thing is for sure; the world is at war. And it does not seem to be anywhere close to finished.
South of Allwerder, Central Plain, Feathisia 17e Régiment d'Infanterie de Marine, 3e Brigade d'Infanterie de Marine, 1ére “Circle Rouge” Marine Div.
The hills were on fire.
All around, the snowfall that had dropped in the months previous had resulted in dry foliage, normally green and lucious with tall pines and thick underbrush. It was a beautiful landscape, where a pleasant flight overhead had inspired poetry and songs about the rolling Feathisian countryside.
Now, however, that countryside was ablaze, the dry brush easy kindling as the howitzer, rocket and mortar fire lit up the skyline.
“ARTILLERY! Hit the dirt!”
The rolling barrage fell once again on the hill, obliterating bunkers and carving out craters. Screams of anguish were cut off, feathers, blood and tatters of dark blue uniforms sent flying. There was no snow here, just dirt and ash and debris now, black scars tearing across the land while fire raged upon the wood remaining. Up and down the line, the same scene of tragedy played out, artillery from either side pummeling the other while griffs and ponies in rough, hastily dug trenches desperately tried to hold their ground, occasionally sallying out to attack the other alongside tanks and armored cars. For miles and miles this was the scene, with both armies funneling troops and vehicles into the press, trying to shift the other, force them back. For the Republique, if they stopped here it would mean lives and time lost as they tried to regain the initiative, holed up as they were in forests and around the small towns they had captured. For the Imperials, failure here would mean another retreat to another battle line where they would have to try and hold again.
Overhead, the silver shapes of aircraft tore through the sky, Imperial Adlers dueling Faucon fighters, Epaulards fighter bombers and E-143 bombers raining firepower down on the formations below, as AA guns stitched tracers across the bloody rose sky. Occasionally, Aquileaian pegasi and the odd brave infantrygriff who had decided to take to the air flitted past, though they never stuck around long, either shot down or twisting away to avoid that fate. As he watched, one of those silver shapes took a brace of shells in the wing, spiraling out with its fuselage aflame before impacting in the mud, though he had no idea who it belonged to, it had blurred by so fast.
Marine Soldat de première Michel Brodeur held the MS-36 rifle close to his chest, trying his best to ignore the deadly Imperial shells that time and again pasted their trenches and foxholes, machine gun positions chattering at the smallest hint of movement in the smoke and mud. It was maddening holding here while the shells and bullets and tanks tore up the world around them, but they couldn’t stay burrowed away in these holes, waiting for death to come to them. Like many of his comrades, he was a veteran of both the Revolution against the crown and the Peripherie Wars to reclaim the old historic borders of Aquileia, but even in the fiercest of the fighting in those instances, it had never reached the vicious insanity this war had already devolved to. He quickly checked the blue-uniformed pony next to him, only to let go upon seeing the mare’s face torn to shreds. He leaned up, peering over the lip of the trench only to duck back again as machine gun fire stitched the air around him, an entrenched MG08 across no-griff's land spitting tracers and raking the Republique line. The Republique Marine squad nearby attempting to return fire from behind sandbags did not take cover in time, however, as the Imperial gunner picked them out through the smoke, tracers punching a line of hot lead up the cover, three of the four Marines standing there firing immediately falling to the ground behind their defense, one of them practically cut in half as his blood spilt into the cold, black earth, the last living survivor gasping as she tried to start a new relationship with the ground.
The coughing of friendly mortars came to Brodeur’s deafened ears, arcing high explosive death over the battlefield towards the Imperial line. While not capable of reaching the enemy guns, the Aquileian shells were instead targeting the trenchworks, undoubtedly full of Reichsarmee soldiers. They knew the pattern of an enemy attack by now; a short, vicious artillery bombardment or an attack by dive bombers, followed almost immediately by a surge of both panzers and grenadiers, sometimes with knights and halftracks. The problem was, for the forces of the Armée de Terre de Aquileia, the usual pattern was getting more and more effective. The best they could do was attempt to disrupt the Imperials before they could get momentum.
“Stand to, Soldate of the Republique!” a sous-lieutenant nearby cried, barely concealing his own terror. “We shall weather this great enemy and-”
Whatever else they were magically going to weather disappeared as another brace of shells screamed down, wiping out the officer’s position in an instant.
“Merde!” cursed Touré nearby, another Marine like Brodeur, slamming another box magazine into his F29 machine gun. “Dumbass boy officers sticking their fucking heads into the line of fire! Where do they keep finding these idiots!”
“Officer’s school,” answered Petreau nearby, another Marine who stood and fired two half blind shots before ducking more retaliation fire, this time the hot blue beams that indicated somewhere out there were either Imperial Knights or Stormtroopers carrying crystal rifles. Ever since these fierce, glowing weapons had hit the field, even the heavy armor plating of armored cars and Republique knights were little protection against what their enemies carried, and while the Republique possessed their own, they were far fewer in number than their opposite numbers.
“Panzers!”
And there they were, even as the shelling continued overhead, Calicos rolling over the lip and churning up the mud, their light cannons swiveling to and fro, machine guns chattering. The Imperials used clever ramps and tunnels to bring them up, constructed with enchanted tools and machinery, and the Empire’s ability to funnel their tanks over the top was unmatched. Compared to the Republique's own ELC tanks, these were less advanced or refined, and against EMC mediums they stood no chance. Light tanks though the Calicos were, here in the gridlock of trench warfare it still counted for quite a lot, bouncing the majority of arms the infantry had to claw. In response, Republican artillery began pasting the Imperial trenches, mortars and howitzers the little could be spared, but as expected this barely slowed the Imperials down at all, still massing for their attack. It looked like a big one too, up and down this entire stretch of trenchline.
“Get ready!” Touré hollered as he squirted off a few rounds from his machine gun, the message passing up and down the line. “Imp charge coming in!”
Brodeur was up instantly, his MS leveled as he put an Imperial grenadier in his sights. The drake could only have been about two-hundred feet away, rising from trenches only dug that day, and Brodeur pulled the trigger, squeezing off two shots in rapid succession and the Imperial fell, jostled and thrown aside by the wave of gray and tan uniforms to either side pressing forward as well. Despite popular opinion, the Empire was made up of more than just Herzland griffons, and the wave that came at them, grouping up into loose squads behind the panzers to use the armor as rolling cover, were of several species, from griffons to dogs to ponies, just like Aquileia. Brodeur fired again at the mass, and his vision disappeared as a mortar splashed down between him and the enemy, sending a geyser of mud and water up into the air. His ears rang, his head felt stuffy, but he could still hear machine guns chattering, the muted sound of his comrades yelling to each other and the rattling of tank tracks, so he fired in the direction he best thought they were coming from, not halting until his rifle clacked empty, and he fumbled for another magazine.
Abruptly, a claw grabbed his uniform, and he was thrown to the mud just as one of the Calicos emerged from the smoke and debris. Rattling forward, the panzer rolled past, crossing the top of their trench as it ventured on, further into the Republique lines. Behind it came a second Calico, this one’s cannon booming as it dove out of sight, then the squads of Imperial Grenadiers, many of them with wings spread as their emotions ran unchecked. Most of them carried rifles, but at least a few had SMGs, shotguns or machine guns. One crazy bastard, a Bronze Dog, even ran forward with nothing more than a pistol and a grenade.
When they had finally passed out of sight, Brodeur glanced at the Marine who had tackled him. His squad leader Caporal Dalier looked back, huffing out her cheeks as she glanced around to the rest of them, examining what was left of her squad.
“La vache,” she swore, MAC-40 submachine gun clutched in claw, covered in mud and grime from beak to tail, wings flared in heightened emotion. “We need to find another trench. Preferably one with an anti-tank gun.” Here, she glanced down at the tattered remains of the young sous-lieutenant, as if contemplating something before she leaned over, tugging his tags off the young drake’s neck and stuffing them into her breast pocket.
“Move, troupe!” she hollered, as another cluster of shells detonated nearby. “Or would you rather give yourself up to the Herzland dogs?”
“Not likely,” muttered Petreau as he thumbed extra rounds into his rifle. “I hear their wine tastes like crap. Except for the strawberry stuff, that is.”
The old joke drew a chuckle from the rest, and they quickly scrounged for better gear, grabbing up additional grenades, SMGs, ammunition, flares, medical supplies and even full canteens and field rations from the dead in the trench, collecting nametags the whole way. If they won here, support would come get the bodies. If they lost, their comrades were likely destined for a mass grave dug by the Imperials.
With that, the Marines moved to withdraw from the now poor position, venturing towards a friendly fortification. Maybe, if they were lucky, there would even be a Dassault Gros tank there. But then again, the gods hated infantry, Marines most of all. So with their luck, this would be the new norm until the meatgrinder of trench warfare consumed them too.
Grimpen, Bluebell Fields, 30 miles northwest of Marechester Solar Plain, Central Equestria Army Group Center, 8th Motor-Infanterie Divisione
The snow here wasn’t as harsh as back home. In the Changeling Lands, especially up north around Neverwarm Point (named for a reason) and the Whitehooves region, the wastes outside the hives and settlements could be wracked by sudden blizzards from out of nowhere, tearing an unfortunate ‘ling caught in the open limb from limb. And that wasn’t hyperbole. Whereas Polarland and Pingland certainly saw deeper lows in temperature, Zarek’s home was infamous for some of the most violent and destructive weather in the world. But here, in the forests of Equestria, this snow was gentle, laying in soft powdery blankets on the trees and bushes. Many streams were frozen over in the deep winter, but the larger and faster rivers were still liquid. It never got to be too difficult to traverse the snow, and the roads they were finding were well worn and carved, easy to find even in the white landscape. Their trucks rumbled on to the southeast, pressing ever forward as they chased the panzer divisions. This time, the 8th were also the vanguard for the 96th Infanterie-Divisione, a hoof unit following on after them at the most traditional of speeds. It would be up to the panzers to cut through the worst of the opposition, the 8th to find and pin it, and the 96th to destroy it with their mass. Then they packed up and went at it again, for the past six months. And so far, it seemed to be working.
Today, however, Zarek and the 8th were relaxing in and around the town of Grimpen, a small rest stop based place that consisted of a fuel station, a restaurant, a few dozen residences and a museum proclaiming to be home to the world’s largest ball of twine (it wasn’t, to Zarek’s disappointment). While the Royal Army had done their best to delay the Changelings during their retreat from Mariposa and Marechester and had impressively kept their own losses low, the ponies’ capacity for scorched earth was clearly lacking. Roads and rail lines were mostly left intact, fortifications barely sabotaged, civilian points of interest left alone. While military supply caches and dumps had been rigged to blow whatever couldn’t be taken, it was obvious Equestria’s soldiers were hesitant to cause damage to their own creatures, however much this action would help them. This had wound up aiding the changelings, as things like salvageable materials, fuel and usable roads gave them all they needed to keep up the momentum south. For now, that meant using Grimpen to rest, reorganize and then keep pushing through the snow, using the winter conditions to their advantage as the ponies suffered through it.
Vorle and Malket were positioned on their MG42, currently deployed on its bipod at the rough barricade they’d made out of an abandoned Equestrian car torn in half by another panzer, and were mostly just passing the time as they waited for the order to pack up again. Technically the three of them were supposed to be manning a guard post, keep anyling from sneaking up on the division down this road. Fighting through three cities and over a dozen small towns and villages had sharpened these conscripts into professional troops, perhaps not as hard-bitten as their NCOs and the veterans who were always the first to storm the enemy trenches, but certainly more capable than the scared grubs they had been back in Acornage. It had come at a price, however. Anchetta and Malkarion had fallen in Whitebell, and second squad had been completely wiped out by a booby-trapped ammo dump in Mariposa. Replacements and reinforcements continued to be brought up to fill in the empty slots as the offensive smashed into the Equestrian defensive lines. Zarek tried not to get close to anyling else anymore. It made it easier to stomach the losses. Progress and experience was being bought with chitin and blood, and the Equestrian ponies were not simply the pushovers the officers and training films kept insisting them to be. According to maps, they had made startling progress, but from the speeches made by the generals and queens, they were supposed to be on the verge of victory every other day. To Zarek, this just soured the gains they -had- made, and left a bitter taste in his mouth. Why weren’t they to Canterlot yet? Were they bad soldiers? Was there something wrong with their equipment? If things were this bad here, were they worse elsewhere in the army? Surely the generals and High Queen Chrysalis herself weren’t…wrong, were they?
The crunching of snow came to Zarek’s ears, and Vorle and Malket also snapped too, a lit cigarette dropping from Malket’s mouth as the gunner team quickly manned their weapon, scanning the treeline, squinting through the gentle snowfall, which was suddenly a massive amount more ominous than it had been a minute ago. Zarek had fallen into a crouch behind the barricade as well, cradling his Gewehr as he sought a target. Was it a pony scout? A monster from the forest?
After a moment, they realized the noise had not come from the front, but the side, and glancing over revealed Private Nera emerging from the snowdrift with Sergeant Rakowitz, the latter raising a hoof to signal the watch post.
“At ease,” the squad leader called, and the three sentries relaxed in relief, and Malket sheepishly leaned down to snatch up the fallen cigarette while Vorle let the machine gun rest. Zarek simply leaned against the barricade, happy that this wasn’t a hostile. The long months of crawling through enemy territory had been hard on all of them. Even excluding the pitched battles, there had been surprise airstrikes, rapid tank assaults, pegasi hit and run lightning raids, artillery that fell on them without warning, booby trapped supplies and partisan resistance. Six months out here on the attack had frayed all their nerves, the loss of their friends had worn their spirits and the astronomically high chance of death had sent more than one ‘ling into hysteria. And yet, they kept pushing on.
Nera was wearing a saddlebag over her coat, and she reached back to produce a thermos, which was revealed to be full of coffee. The other bag produced a cluster of tin mugs, and the troopers all eagerly crowded around as the sergeant poured them all a cup, handing it out to them. Zarek greedily drank his down, not caring that it scorched his mouth and throat. This far south might not be as cold as back home, but the warmth that spread inside him was more a soul-mending brew, something to ease the tension in his body and finally uncoil the spring in his guts and take the chill out of his ichor.
“Battalion Kommand wants everyling to get some rest,” Rakowitz was saying. “You all deserve it. Just keep manning your posts. We’re planning a push through Blackthorn Dale tomorrow.”
Blackthorn Dale was a cluster of forests and hills sheltering the next Equestrian defense line. Everytime the Royal Army fell back, their lines grew more professionally made and their soldiers fought more and more fiercely. At this point, the only two major cities between them and Canterlot itself was Hope Hollow and some place called ‘Luna Nova,’ whatever that was. They were running into the Royal Guard more and more, coupled with the surprisingly resilient Cerberus tank, a relic they had been informed they should be able to easily destroy with their superior firepower. Clusters of Breezie light tanks and the flawed but capable Timberwolf mediums were grinding the changelings up, often delaying the advance by days while the mobile divisions flanked and attacked from more advantageous positions, waiting for the panzers to come and destroy the Equestrian armor. The line in Blackthorn Dale had thrown Army Group Center back so many times, it was rumored General Larynx might request Queen’s Guard support or assistance from Army Group North to punch through.
The three sentries glanced at each other warily before turning back to the squad leader.
“Wha-”
Crack!
Whatever Malket was going to ask disappeared with his head, however, as the changeling gunner’s skull seemed to explode in a shower of carapace and ichor, a full quarter of his head disappearing as he slumped forward, the other eye wide in surprise not fully realized, jaw slack from a question he’d never finish. Nera, who was standing closest, was sprayed with the debris, sputtering and crying out as she dropped the keg of coffee, fumbling for her rifle as she was half-blinded by her squadmates’ brains. It likely saved her life, as her erratic jerking must have thrown off the sniper. A second shot snapped by, the trail of the bullet a line of mist in the air, and Rakowitz was immediately in action, snapping up his MP10 and chattering off bursts of fire at the treeline, the muzzle flash lighting up the darkness. From the trees came boiling movement as more flashes zipped down towards them, and in horror Zarek realized all these events had taken maybe about six seconds, glued to the spot in shock as he was.
“Zarek! For fuck’s sake, get on the gun!”
Immediately, he scrambled towards Malket’s abandoned MG42 at the same time as Vorle, cradling a shoulder injury from the same bullet that had killed Malket. But Vorle did his job, taking up the ammunition belt and blowing on it to clear the snow from the links. Instinctively, Zarek slapped the charging handle, his mind going back to familiarization training a lifetime ago. More rounds snapped past, and he realized he hadn’t been processing the return fire. Now he was aware of it, the heavy cracks and dull snaps from the ponies’ .303 bolt-action rifles as they advanced on the barricade. If they had stopped and taken up better stances, their accuracy would have ensured everyling at the barricade died in one or two volleys, but they were clearly firing on the move, assaulting the position with a certain lust for revenge.
“For Equestria!” one of them yelled.
“For the Princesses!” another called out.
“For Whitebell, you BASTARDS!”
That one came with a purple bubble, reflecting the shots from Rakowitz’s SMG. There was a unicorn out there, and with their battle magic, that meant they were in danger of her deciding to just crush them all with a car or something similar.
Zarek finally got the machine gun lined up, but he didn’t have a suitable target. Another bullet snapped by his head, and he decided that no longer mattered, a hoof moving to the trigger. Hearing the MG42 on full auto and actually firing it were two completely different affairs, he decided. Hearing its thunderous buzzing was akin to a powered saw, an industrial tone that cut things apart. But firing it, feeling it rattle across your carapace as it tried to shake your teeth out, deafening and blinding you at the same time…it was equal parts terrifying and empowering.
There was a pony only about thirty meters away when Zarek spotted him, directing the next burst his way. The pony literally fell to pieces, hot red blood splashing against the snow as severed limbs flew away, the dying cry blotted out as the machine gun blasted away. He spotted another flash of movement and swung the machine gun over, blazing out into the snow. Another pony fell scrambling for cover. He spotted the purple bubble again, and put his MG42 on target. This time it took more effort, a long sustained burst before the magic shield finally burst with a loud popping noise, and the slew of fire Zarek put on her was enough that he couldn’t see more than bloody scraps after.
Another movement, and he automatically responded. Another, and he didn’t even bother letting up on the trigger. Another, and he oriented again. He hadn’t realized it until now, but he’d been screaming bloody invectives at the pony troopers the whole time he’d been firing. Curses, threats, names of all his squadmates and friends taken from him by this stupid war, over and over and over again. The barrel ran hot, the shots melding together like some sinister tearing noise, a racket that defeated him again and again.
Finally, the machine gun’s belt ran dry, and the action clacked loudly. It took Zarek a few seconds to realize this, and he blinked in surprise at the silence. His heart was hammering up into his throat, he kept gulping down air and he felt like he was about to be sick. He’d been in combat before, of course, shot at and in danger many other times. But there was something visceral about this, how suddenly it had gone from calm and almost normal to under fire and at risk. His adrenaline had shot into overdrive in a heartbeat, and now, wide-eyed and trembling, he was having a hard time coming down.
Now he got a better look at the killzone between the barricade and the treeline, he saw there was maybe about six or seven ponies laying in the snow. If any got away, they left no trace. The devastation wasn’t as bad as he had thought either. Oh, the MG42 had done terrible damage, of course. But the only one chopped to pieces had been the poor stallion who he had caught at close range. In the silence, the only thing he heard was the hiss of his machine gun barrel as it cooled off in the chill air and Vorle dutifully tugging another belt of rounds into the weapon.
“Zarek? Hey, Zarek?”
He felt a tugging at his elbow and glanced over to see Nera, rifle cradled in her forelegs as she looked over at him, an expression of concern on her face, which was still covered in Malket’s ichor.
“You okay?”
Zarek finally found he could move, and he nodded slowly, exhaling in a puff as he tried to banish the rush from his body. A reversal of events said that all felt like a long time, but as he thought it over he came to the realization it could only have been about twenty seconds for the entire engagement. Rakowitz was still huddled behind the barricade, squinting out at the treeline as he fumbled a new magazine into his weapon.
“They’re getting desperate,” he muttered. “There’s two things creatures do when they’re desperate; panic, or fight back harder.”
In the distant, the air suddenly filled with the distant crackling of gunfire, and dark shapes in the sky told of aircraft flying overhead before the whistling of bombs or the buzzing of engines told them the RAF was back to settle the score. The clatter of tank tracks in the trees announced another advancement, and Vorle hastened his reloading.
Another counterattack. It looked like Equestria was through running away.
Ponderosa, Southwestern Equestria, Luna Line 32 Engineer Regiment, 8th Engineers Division (detachments), Corps of Royal Engineers
It was a strange experience, with a major shift in priorities and base knowledge. But Applejack had to admit, being in charge of a bunch of combat engineers really wasn’t too different than running a farm with a bunch of hired help. There were tasks to organize, supplies to manage, plans to make, areas to zone and survey, pits to dig and scheduling to map out. It really reminded her a lot of Sweet Apple Acres, especially in the labor heavy times when it was time for planting or harvesting. Both required a large amount of foresight, experience and good ol’ grit. Yes, if she framed it correctly, being the General in command of an engineering regiment was just like running a farm.
“25-pounder, firing!”
Well, except there was a lot more chance of getting killed. But she clung to the similarities. It was all she had left.
As she watched from her command tent, the artillery crew yanked on the cord, and the massive gun rocked the earth as the shell rocketed away.
BOOM.
To them, the only indication that they hit anything was the distant sounds of explosions and gunfire, where the 26th New Mareland Infantry Regiment was holding off the Olenian advance. The Commonwealth had been involved in the war since the changelings had crossed the border, but as it happened only their air force had been ready to go, the aviators and ground crew able to pack up the planes, parts and personnel in record time. Mobilizing the actual army of such a small population took time and resources, as their standing troops were more of a defense force more reliant on District Militia and a core of professionals, just like when Sombra had arisen years ago in the Crystal War. But now, Applejack was just happy to have them here, standing the line and holding their own. Surprisingly, Commonwealth ponies (self-referred to as ‘Diggers’) were tenacious fighters, having dealt with monsters and outlaws in their dangerous homeland on top of standing next to brothers and sisters in combat. Each one of them was easily worth three Equestrian soldiers, raw and inexperienced as many of them were compared to the colonial colts. It also helped that the Olenians being thrown at their line were inexperienced conscripts themselves, not the hardened elites that had seized Las Pegasus. The miraculous breakthrough they had served up on top of defeating the Lunar Fleet seemed to be petering out, as without changeling panzer support, the last generation Olenian tanks didn’t have the same staying power, and many of the deer soldiers turned as soon as the New Marelanders put up stiff resistance or Applejack’s guns began laying down covering barrages.
BOOM.
Another shell downrange. When she had accepted Princess Celestia’s commission to lead engineers, Applejack had thought it would be about building roads, bridges, bases, clearing obstacles and making way for the troops. That -had- been her job at first, but it had quickly melded into a combat role when they gave her ponies rifles and cannons and told her that the fighting positions they dug would now also be where they held. She had to memorize all the guns the engineers were expected to be experts in, from 2-pounder anti-tank cannons to the 25-pounder howitzer the crew was struggling once again to reload.
BOOM.
It wasn’t just this pit either. A dozen others for this regiment were dug out, and even at three shells a minute for a dozen guns, they were essentially pounding the deer lines. Next to the other artillery regiments here, dedicated combat units for the infantry divisions and the New Marelander forces with many of her other engineers attached, they were currently raining nonstop punishment down. It seemed to be the only thing that stopped them.
BOOM.
She felt bad for them, the reindeer. A few years ago, they’d been loyal servants of harmony, likely living happy, peaceful lives under then Princess Velvet. Then King Johan had staged his coup after the king’s death. Then Queen Chrysalis came knocking, and then forced them to be the cannon fodder in this war. She frowned as she watched her gunners again. It didn’t seem right, a small group of creatures making the decision to rob so many others of their lives and freedom and peace. But here they were now, with the deer forced to charge her line, and her forced to kill them for trying it.
BOOM.
Applejack didn’t like bullies. If it came down to it, she’d kill deer all day if it meant keeping her sister and grandmother safe. She didn’t like doing it, but it was something she’d learned to at least accept. Big Macintosh was already in the war too, an infantry sergeant in another unit further north. Sweet Apple Acres was being run by a filly and an old mare with a bunch of hired hands. She just wanted to go home, go back to the days when all she did was go on adventures with her friends and buck apples to make a living. That trip all the way to Kiria had been an amazing journey, and she felt a small smile as she thought of Autumn Blaze.
BOOM.
Now, she was here, ordering death as she wondered about her friends and family. Pinkie Pie had been called up as well, and surprisingly seemed to do well in command, her unpredictable nature making it hard for the changeling swarm to follow her tactics. Rainbow Dash was working with the RAF and pegasus divisions in Cloudsdale, coordinating with the Wonderbolts, so there was her dream achieved at least. Rarity had been enlisted for uniform and camouflage development, which from what Applejack had heard was a fulltime job to be comparing swathes of colors against each other. Fluttershy was…well, to be honest, she didn’t know much of what Fluttershy was up to in her military duties, and nopony seemed capable of telling her. Twilight had swooped down one day and insisted she needed Fluttershy’s expertise, and then taken off to who knew where after that. Bit of a mystery, that one. But it all added up to Applejack feeling lonely and homesick, stuck in a command post all day long, away from friends and family, knowing that if she didn’t do this job, it could result in everything she loved getting bulldozed. Apparently, the front was buckling towards Appleloosa. She hoped Braeburn and everypony there would be okay. If anything, the hot desert air might help fight back against the cold-inclined deer and changelings. If not, she suspected a .303 rifle and a few thousand buffalo warriors could help.
BOOM.
“Ma’am,” one of her captains suddenly piped up, turning from the radio set. “We have a situation to the north.”
Regretfully, as it was one of the few times she could be left alone in peace, Applejack sighed and turned away from observing the gun crews firing.
“Lay it on me, sugar,” she said. It had none of the energy of the past, when one of her mare-friends would come up to her with a problem or question. This was cold, clinical, precise. This was business and duty. And right now, unfortunately, business was booming.
BOOM.
They would not get past her.
Osnabeak, Strawberry Duchy Griffonisches Reich Osnabeak Reichsinstitut für Militärwissenschaft, 3rd Armee Headquarters
Osnabeak was on the outside not a very impressive city. Small both in terms of city coverage and population, one would think it not vital at all. But another glance would reveal railroads connecting the Imperial core states of Interriver and Crona to the wider Herzland, avoiding difficult terrain to reach places like Winterbell, Readewetter and De Vleugels on both steel rail, overland road and river barge. Massive refinery works sprouted up on the outside of the city, providing it's residents with the primary source of their occupations, as while Feathisia pulled crude oil out of their underground reserves, Osnabeak were the ones who turned it into fuel. Many noble families in the Industrierat had investments into what was commonly called the Petrolwerks, and it had churned out a dozen followup industries connected to the ‘Werks, from steel plants and truck factories to the beginning of synthetic rubber plants, attempting to shore up the Empire’s reliance on trade partners like the Gryps-Süd GmbH or long and vulnerable shipping routes back to the Zebrides. Truly, Osnabeak as an industrial hub could not be overlooked.
But above all that, one of Osnabeak’s primary sources of pride was none other than the Osnabeak Reichsinstitut für Militärwissenschaft. Though not as prestigious as the officer training schools like the primarily noble attended Groverianishce Reich Militarakademie in Helheim, the Reichsinstitut was a lynchpin in kadet training, and what it lacked in high esteem it made up for in the number of common officers it turned out, leutnants from the lower classes attending in their hundreds to fill the bulk of the junior officers the Reichsarmee needed to function at a lower level, most of them having come from poorer families or the enlisted earning their commissions. Working in cooperation with the massive training camps in Crona, the Reichsinstitut had become a vital part of getting the Imperial Reichsarmee to its current size so rapidly, and impressing Imperial war doctrine on kadets and officers alike to make the reborn leviathan a smooth, harmonious machine.
Today, the Reichsinstitut played an additional function; that of headquarters for the 3rd Armee as it attempted to coordinate the resistance to the Entente forces that had exploded out of Verenia and already overtaken Greifenmarschen and half of Yale. The line had been anchored at Romau where the city that had resisted so hard in the Herzland War had turned into a fortress for the Empire. Luxwingburg and Reitscheid were being viciously contested, and it was the latter that one general in particular was especially interested in.
Generalleutnant August Duskwing studied a painting on the wall, helmet tucked under one arm as he carefully looked at the canvas, appraising mismatched eyes examining the shades carefully, the brushstrokes and the depiction of the scene itself. In the painting, grand and large, was Kaiser Grover II, the famous ancient crusader. While Grover I had conquered the lands of the Empire proper from Cloudbury in the north, Aquileia in the west and Wingbardy in the south, all the way to Cyanolisia in the east, his son had crushed an uprising in Aquileia, then immediately turned east to do battle with Nimbusian pegasi over the lands of the Gryphian Host before sweeping up Sicameon in the south and overtaking the minotaurs. His Eternal Crusades raged for the next forty years, the subject of the painting itself as it showed the grand and glorious Grover II standing large and proud in the center, a sword raised in one claw, his other clenched in a fist, as behind him an army of knights and footdrakes surged on in his wake. Before Grover II, a motley band of Nimbusian spearponies recoiled away, the pegasi hoplites unable to look up at His Eternal Majesty’s glory.
But anyone who studied history knew the truth, as August did. Grover II died to a Nimbusian spear, carried by an ordinary soldier, not a hoplite. Those were normally recruited from the middle class, such as successful farmers. But the glorious Krieg Kaiser had died to a commoner, a conscript. As ignoble an end as could be.
“A lesson to be learned there,” August muttered out loud, sighing as he glanced over his shoulder out the window, where the snowfall could be seen on the balcony, and beyond it the industrial town itself. Why he’d been summoned away from the front in Reitscheid was still a mystery to him, and his annoyance spiked again. With the Entente squeezing them hard on both sides, this was the crucial moment. Holding the line was vital to allowing the Empire to win here, as Reitcheid was just a quick river cross and a rail line away to reach Vinnin, the true industrial powerhouse of the Empire. Vinnin was the home of several weapons designers such as Reichswaffen and Blautal churning out thousands of arms and millions of rounds of ammunition, and produced armored trains, railway guns, panzers. Without Vinnin, the war effort would be harshly crippled. On top of this, Vinnin was so close to Griffenheim that heavy guns could shell the Kaiser’s palace. More than ever before, more than the Herzland War, maybe even more than the Revolution, the Kaiserreich was at risk. So why was he here, when he and his Sturmtruppen were needed to throw the enemy back?
August Duskwing did not see himself as a figure like Grover II. A warrior crusader who was destined to go on and do great things. At forty-eight years old (forty-nine in two days) he was the son of poor factory workers, and likely would have gone on to live the same life if a misspent youth with local gangs hadn’t changed his fate. One screwup later, and he was given two choices; go to prison or to the Reichsarmee to join the Loyalist forces gathering to throw back the Revolution. He chose the latter, and his service in the ‘Dare to Die Corps’ wound up catapulting him into a career of mud and guts, and he was good at it. So good, in fact, that they promoted him again and again and again. Now, the Reichsarmee didn't see him as criminal convict scum from a penal battalion, but the foremost expert on assault tactics in the Empire. Maybe he wasn't Grover II status, but it would be inaccurate to say he wasn't a little proud.
A door opened, and August glanced wearily over by habit. Emerging from a door nearby was a taller griff, gray in feather coloration and sporting a row of medals on his chest. August knew this griff personally, had worked with him in the past and seen combat together up north against Republic guerillas, and his face broke into a smile, though not as large as the one the other drake gave.
"August, you son of a bitch!" cried Reinhold Thundertail, Generalmajor and one of the premier experts on tank and armored car warfare in the Empire. It had been he who had closely worked with the Changelings Synovial and Thranx during joint development and cooperation, he'd gone to Vraks itself to observe their take on panzer design and he'd even been assigned as an instructor at the Crona Training Grounds, helping new recruits learn the in and outs of armored warfare. He'd even tried his claw at weapons design, from a new officer's sabre to competing for the uniform of the Panzerwaffe (though admittedly the sabre had better success). Reinhold Thundertail was a bombastic showman, and even though his voice was a little on the unimpressive side as it was high pitched and squeaky, he nevertheless knew how to play a crowd, as he practiced his speeches and mannerisms for hours. While August may have been the quiet soldier, Reinhold was the bloodthirsty warrior, constantly spoiling for a fight even if it was just a bar brawl, cussing and thrashing the whole way down. In the Herzland War, his downright ludicrously aggressive tactics had seen him crush the Holy League in Yale and Angriver, though he'd been removed from command in Katerin as he had clashed too much with Wingfried von Katerinberg, whom Reinhold called a 'toy soldier son of a bitch.' The troops both loved him for his bombastic personality and hated him for how often he ran them ragged on the attack.
"Reinhold," August replied, meeting his friend's enthusiastic clawshake. "I didn't know we were losing so badly they called you in. Weren't you supposed to be heading north?"
"Ah, Anjers and Silverfeather broke through the Republic lines at Mirabelle, they’re fine! They're predicting they'll throw the traitors back from Rottendedam by New Year's and then its next stop Cloudbury. What I wouldn't give to be pointed at that rat bastard Kemerskai, though."
Thundertail's eyes misted over, and August realized the Warhawk was being absolutely serious.
"And so they sent you here? Mein gotts, we -are- desperate."
"Hey now," Thundertail retorted, some of his good cheer fading a bit as he almost seemed to square up on August. But before he could, the door opened once more, revealing a third griff, this one a female who stuck her head out, brow furrowed in agitation, though the patch over her left eye and the Generalmajor's pins she wore gave off the air that she was simply always agitated.
"Are you two old birds going to keep jawing away out here, or can we get on with this?"
Her accent was decidedly Aquileian, and her voice was husky, which added to her brazen attitude at addressing two superiors in such a way that the two generals paused sheepishly before the major huffed and stepped inside. Thundertail turned to Duskwing with a grin.
"Generalmajor Marshtail. Fiery one! What a formel!"
"She's also trouble," August noted before frowning. "And you're married."
The younger general, a happily married father of three, shrugged, not an ounce of shame on him at all. "Just because I browse the gallery doesn't mean I plan to take another painting out. Maybe she's more your speed, August!"
August Duskwing had never married, and while he was certainly a fan of the female form, his duty had always come first, leaving little time for courtship. Besides, he always saw it as distasteful to look at your colleagues and compatriots in service with such an eye.
"I have enough to worry about in my family without adding to it," he retorted, stepping around Reinhold to enter the room in question, nodding to the bored looking guard who had been standing next to the door this whole time.
The room in question looked to have once been an office of some kind, though it had been converted to something more like a command center, like many other rooms here had been repurposed. The walls were covered with maps, spreadsheets, organization tables, notices and communiques and more, while tables and desks were heaped high with intelligence reports, short-range radios to patch into the actual radio post just outside, reconnaissance photos, casualty reports and inventory sheets detailing the makeup of each and every unit in 3rd Armee, what equipment they carried, the vehicles they were attached or assigned to and what support personnel were required to keep them going. The command center was alive as aides and support personnel manned their posts, a buzz through the room from the constant activity, the chatter of typewriters and the squealing of radio sets, the rustle of wings and clatter of boots and claws from message runners rushing off to their next destination. Off to one side, the ominous and black-uniformed figure of a Vollstrecker stood in half-shadow, barely moving a muscle as he carefully watched all movement in the command post. The political officer was making sure they were not about to suffer a mutiny or spies in their midst, the Blautal PP/MP pistol holstered at his belt, likely fully loaded with the safety off and ready.
Behind the desk at the back of the command post was none other than Generalfeldmarschall Elias Bronzetail himself. At seventy-two years, the Feldmarschall wasn’t bad looking, and his tan plumage disguised his grays, helping hide at least a decade of age, maybe more. He sat behind his desk as he penned missives, handing them off to various aides that came and went, taking paperwork and giving it what seemed to be a quick glance over before signing them off or snapping out curt, short orders. The youngest of eight children of oil baron Ernst Bronzetail, Elias would have had no chance to inherit anything, and as such had enlisted in the Reichsarmee. This being the unstable days just before the collapse of the Empire, he had been forced to contend with noble kadets from other kingdoms and still rose to the top, and his regiment had been the key to repelling the traitor General Suntail in the 979 Battle of Crona, finally repelling the Revolution and earning a promotion to Generaloberst. Now in this war, he was in charge of an entire army, and the Herzland War had allowed him a buyer’s market in capable commanders years ago, which was why he had assembled this particular force. Facing the Aquileians might have just been a dream come true for him.
Without even glancing up, Bronzetail grunted at the approaching generals “Seats.”
Almost as if summoned by a spell, three aides appeared out of nowhere, chairs in hand as they set them down for the officers, immediately pushing them up and then disappearing into the quiet throng of work. Duskwing and Thundertail took their seats, watching the Feldmarschall as he continued to work. Marshtail, however, remained standing, her eye fixed on the army commander as if expecting him to respond to some unspoken request.
Finally, Bronzetail reached up, tugging his glasses off as he examined the two generals.
“When I was told to pick who I wanted to lead my korps, I said I’d need a ballsy maverick and a stable pragmatist to balance them out. Problem is, I got half of each in you two.”
Thundertail grinned, while Duskwing cleared his throat to avoid chuckling, and Bronzetail’s scowl deepend.
“It’s not a compliment, du Lusche!” The statement did not wipe away Thundertail’s smirk. Bronzetail groaned again, waving dismissively at Marshtail once more. “I’ve called you here to discuss a new operation. I’ve gotten word from High Kommand that enough panzer divisions have been assembled to begin counterattacking. Priority is obviously on Aquileia. Three months of trench warfare isn’t a good look. The codename for this counter attack will be Operation Donnerkeil. 3rd Armee is to work collectively to press the Republique line back, and I’ve been tasked with dispensing operational understanding to you here.”
The three generals glanced at one another. Between them, their korps numbered around fourteen divisions, with panzer, artillery and knight support. It was a massive undertaking to coordinate, and even between generals who knew each other well it was still a leviathan effort to move over a hundred and fifty thousand soldiers, plan their logistics, map out the advance, request and schedule air support from the Luftstreitkräfte, set up casualty evacuation points and notify Kommand of where each and every soldier was going so the personnel office could keep track.
“How soon do they want us to move?” Duskwing asked, his voice clipped and restrained, but not so controlled as to erase the concern that tinted his question. “We’ve got the Entente held in place, but I don’t think we’re exactly in a place to break their lines yet.”
“Give me two weeks, I can have my staff finish the plans,” Thundertail boasted, and everygriff in this meeting glanced at him, justifiably worried. “We’ll run through them like crap through a goose!”
“We already have the beginning of a plan,” Bronzetail countered quickly, holding up a claw. “I just want ideas to bounce around before we get into the details. Now, part of this hinges on the new heavy panzer battalions coming in out of training. August, I think you had a claw in that?”
Duskwing felt the blood in his veins turn to ice, and for a moment he was rendered dumbstruck by the question before he recovered, clearing his throat as he sat up.
“Ja, Herr Feldmarschall. Three of them are training in the east with the Rosewood Spears and Black Knights on the new Gryta prototypes. But they won’t be ready until at least the beginning of February-”
“Well, that’s good news then.”
August felt his heart sink. All his efforts to keep Cyril out of harm’s way had involved posting his nephew in ordnance development after his officer’s training. Now, with the Entente banging down their door, the big push was going to throw his one-winged nephew, the closest thing he had to a son, back into the way of the guns. What was he going to tell Margot?
“Kommand wants those prototypes combat tested for final trials before approval for mass production, and I’ve got four more battalions coming out of Crona and Helheim with the old Beaks, but they’re getting ready to ship out now. This Operation will rely heavily on a massive punch through a strategic exploitation area, a place our enemy has left woefully undefended.”
Bronzetail glanced over Duskwing’s shoulder at the command staff in the office with them. For the sake of operational security, they couldn’t speak of such things where potential spies or leaks could hear them, but that was likely to be discussed in the details when they moved to somewhere more secure.
It was here that Marshtail spoke. “I know my countrygriffs. One decisive action won’t send them scurrying back when the risk is their home is next. Does Kommand have any assurance this is going to work like they want it to?”
“Kommand always has -assurances-,” Bronzetail replied sarcastically, glancing now towards the Vollstrecker, who hadn’t moved aside from his head turning to track various personnel here. It wasn’t unknown for criticisms of the army and government to be seen as treason and sedition. In the wake of the slaughter on the Regency Council and Reichsbeirat, paranoia on the part of the nobility was the new order of the day. Plenty of noble houses had been gutted with the Revolution in 978, and now the old bogeygriff had come crawling back down from the north with friends. It seemed the fears of the vocal few had become reality after all.
They retired to a more secure operations room after that, examining maps and tables of organization, aides bringing pot after pot of Süd-Zebrikan coffee. What it all boiled down to was a crazy, harebrained scheme; while general pressure would be exerted to break the stalemate in the west, all those heavy panzer units coming in off training would be, backed by knights and the panzer reserve, funneled into one place; the territory of Adelart, a thick, forested patch of countryside with poor roads and no real strategic value aside from location. Reconnaissance and MfÖS infiltration had revealed that thanks to the rough countryside, relatively few supply lines ran through here and Pomovarra, preferring to go through the more built up Greifwald and Verenia. If the line buckled, the sectors behind Adelart and Pomovarra not only stood the least chance of recovering, but also the best chance to quickly turn the situation around on Aquileia, punching through the forested terrain with engineers and dozer-equipped panzers and coming out in the March of Westkeep, true Aquileian soil. Was it intensely ambitious? Yes, but in a two front war like this, it was clear the only way to retake the initiative was to take this fight back onto enemy soil as fast as possible, and that meant taking gambles with things like this, even if the odds were long.
But August Duskwing was worried for more than just his soldiers. His nephew, one-winged, pining and thoroughly disillusioned with war and the world, would be marching back into the grinder. He had failed, and any attempt now to transfer Cyril again would reveal his attempt to exploit his position. As he was not a member of the peer, that was something he doubted he could get away with in wartime.
All he could do was use the time he had before Cyril came back to the front to give the young drake the best odds he could. He had a new heavy panzer. Now, it was time for August to get him as far forward as he could.
MESSAGE BEGINS:
FROM HONORED GUEST TO EISEN:
HAVE INTEL PERTAINING TO COCOON PLANS IN REGARDS TO FRONTIER.
'"Extensive conscription". How can these two words possibly describe the disappearance of a friend, a parent, a sister, a brother? Many may not return. Or worse…' -Princess Celestia, on the signing of the Princess' Levy, 1011
December 16th, 1011 120 miles Northeast of Ponytown, Selenite Divide, Crystal Empire
They were cut off. Isolated. Surrounded. Here, caught in the savages of deep winter, the hills were coated in sleet, trees bent almost double as the winds raked the hillside. The cold, pitch black night surrounded the small cluster of ponies as they grouped around their leader, white uniforms decorated by purple snowflakes pulled in close and tight. For even Crystal ponies, this blizzard was lethal, and their winter gear was not sufficient by itself. Their weapons, though typically geared towards the cold temperance of their home, froze over and jammed regardless, the actions held shut by ice, ammunition cartridges stuck in place and the frost on the firing pins preventing the weapons from firing. At this point, they were on the run, as were much of what remained of the Crystal army. They knew not the fate of their comrades, but so long as they kept pressing east, away from the magically-dominated Thralls, changeling Jager troops and terrifying Umbral monsters, they might eventually find out who made it.
If they themselves survived.
Prince-Consort Shining Armor paused, listening to the scream of the blizzard wins around him before signaling a halt. Around him, the platoon of Crystal ponies and hoofful of his faithful Royal Guard came to a pause, watching their leader with concern and anticipation. He had called several such halts in the past few days, mostly trying to keep their bearings, partly to make sure they weren't about to be ambushed. But these were not breaks. The ponies had been running ragged attempting to flee east, without sufficient rest, only eating what they could on the run, constantly watching out for the enemy. And when it seemed like such a breakneck pace was unnecessary, there was always a reminder swooping down to reinforce the attitude that flight would be their only savior now.
Shining Armor turned, tugging the Snowflake submachine gun off his flank as he vigorously worked the action, ice chips flying every time the bolt retracted. Taking his cue, the other soldierponies immediately did the same, fanning out under their leader's view to take up fighting positions, desperately trying to ready their weapons, the weariness in their bones forgotten for the time, the numbing cold ignored in the face of danger. In seconds, they were in place, set in a perimeter protecting the Prince, Lavender rifles scanning the white snowscape around them, ignoring the ice that clung to the rims of their Bronie helmets.
The winds whipped past them, sleet obscuring their vision. The silhouettes of their fellows and the purple glow of the Royal Guards’ Equestrian-made crystal rifles seemed the only indicators of anything in the rolling white hills. It was dangerous enough to travel across the Empire the rest of the year, where the curse of perpetual winter kept the landscape cold and barren, but in True Winter the blizzards were capable of tearing flesh from bone. In these conditions, only the shimmer of Prince Shining Armor’s magic and his refusal to stop fighting kept them going.
For what felt like an age, the ponies held position, carefully watching what was happening in their surroundings, trying not to be taken by surprise or fire at shadows in the snow. It was difficult. Being half-dead from the brutal march and lack of sleep meant shapes leapt out at them, real or imagined. On this march, many had cried out in panic, snapping off a shot or two and causing the entire group to pour fire in that direction, only to realize nothing was there. Every howl of the wind sounded like the screams of Sombra’s dark magic, or the ear-splitting shriek of a Stuka on a dive, or the roar of a massive Umbral coming in to charge them down. They were high on adrenaline and paranoia, and low on ammunition. Very low.
Finally, Captain Spade turned towards the Prince, standing amongst them, his horn alight and casting around for danger, a rock of solidarity to them all here in these dark times. It was clear there was no danger, and it was time to move on.
“Your Highness-”
A scream split the air, abruptly cut off by an unearthly howl.
“CONTACT!” came the next yell, from nearby.
Every rifle on that small hillock spun, leveled and booming at the massive, rippling dark purple unreal form of the Umbral, jaws locked in the throat of a unicorn, the bullets either passing straight through or seeming to not even affect the creature. It dropped its victim before pouncing on the next, disemboweling her with a sharp blow to the guts that nearly ripped the earth pony in two. She fell to the snow in a shower of her own blood and entrails spilt crimson, a sharp shattering of the pristine white landscape, coughing and gagging as blood filled her throat and she was eventually lost under the flurry of snow, falling still after only a few seconds.
A purple bolt suddenly shot off the Umbral, splitting in half midair before smacking into two more ponies, who swayed on the spot, shaking their heads and crying out as if wracked by a terrible headache. They were both cut down on the spot by their comrades who blew their brains out with their .303 Lavenders, not letting their friends suffer Sombra’s mind control. Finally, the Royal Guards got a clear shot, and their crystal rifles blazed, beams slicing the battlefield with cracks of ionising air as the heat and magical energy blazed through. Now the Umbral staggered, shrieking like the pits of Tartarus as energy seeped from its shadowy wounds. Another bolt separated, but a lucky shot from another Guardspony intercepted it, destroying the magic energy.
Another volley, and the nightmarish creature staggered, slumped to the ground and dissolved in a last scream of the damned.
“Sound off!” Shining Armor ordered after a few seconds to ensure the creature truly was dead, checking his Snowflake’s magazine and replacing it. Ammo was too scarce to be wastefully changing mags before they were empty.
“Brazier and Opalescent are dead!” called out another pony soldier, who had moved to check the Umbral’s victims, wincing as he trod through Opalescent’s intestines, trying not to step in her blood. It was difficult.
“Jem and Fair Flier got mind controlled,” said another soldier, mournfully and apologetically, standing over the corpses of her comrades, trying to say that she was sorry for doing such a thing. If there was a way to break Sombra’s dark hold on them without destroying him first, nopony had found it.
“Grab what’s useful!” Captain Spade ordered. It was nicer than saying ‘strip the dead’. “We have to keep pushing east!”
Shining Armor sighed, looking away from his dead ponies as his officers reorganized what he had left. Four less, now. It had been like this since they had fled his command post. First an army, then a division, a regiment, a company. Now his platoon was being whittled down. How many would make it? How many had already fallen to Sombra? How badly must the war down south be going for Celestia and Luna to not come to his aid? The air support he had been counting on had either vanished into the winter snow, been grounded by the weather or worse, been taken by the Legions. The ferocity of polar bear shock troopers and changeling Jagers appearing out of the winds before disappearing again had plagued them like the umbrals, and the winds killed almost as many as the enemy.
But they had to keep pushing east. They had to reach the Crystal City.
He had to reach Cadance and Flurry Heart. And he’d tear through whatever Chrysalis and Sombra and these damned hills threw at him to do that.
20km south of Dimpeak, Whitetail Mountains, Northern Griffonia 27th Eisenpfote Regiment, Bronze Legion
All things considered, the Whitetails were not so different from Crownspike. As most development and industry laid down by the Imperial griffs and Bronze Dogs had focused on subterranean construction, underground railroads and their cities built into larger caverns and mines with a little on the surface, the mountainous landscape of home was relatively preserved from the outside, with barely the trace that entire cities lay just below the surface, out of eyesight where millions of dogs lived. But the Sunstriker Cultists had never invested much in industrial development, so these ranges were mostly dirt roads and isolated towns and villages. From the surface, it was just as empty and desolate as home, which was likely why they were here of all places.
Officially, they were the Countal Army, also known as the Royal Defense Force of the County of Bronzehill. They were the same soldiers and line troops as the Grenadiers of the Reichsarmee, the Knights of the Bronze Cross the same as the other Knightly orders. The Barkginian Guard, the Kaiser’s personal bodyguards, were all unquestioningly loyal dogs of high caliber. Unofficially, the age of the County recruiting separate divisions was ended, and everydog knew it. The establishment of the Bronze Legion to specifically accommodate the Countal units was every sign of that. Dogs were even now being recruited into Reichsarmee divisions, closing the gaps that had existed in race and nation for generations. The famed elite 82nd “Grounded Griffons” was proudly a majority dog unit, having expanded and turned into the Empire’s first Fallschirmjager division. In summation, while proud Imperials, the Countal Army was acknowledged to essentially be almost done. It was the Bronze Legion and the Reichsarmee going forward. For the most part, the loyal bronze dogs marched to this new fate fully aware and willing.
Etatmäßiger Feldwebel (Sergeant Major to Equestrians) Henk Dober was an eager proponent of this measure. By joining their Imperial sovereigns on the field of battle, they would prove their devotion to the throne, and thus gain greater glory in the eyes of the Reichsberat, the Duchess Regent and the Kaiser himself. So it was that he scanned the pass ahead through his field glasses, watching the snow-capped peaks for any sign of Sunstriker ambush. Many thought with their capital Brantbeak now under Imperial occupation, that would be it and the cultists would give up. But Dober and many of his comrades had seen the enemy up close, fought them over these mountains for the better part of a year. The crazed maniacs didn’t give an inch, threw themselves into battle with fervent glee and almost seemed to not even notice their own injuries. Their Kingdom of Whitetail, for that was what they called themselves, was a fanatical raider state dedicated to the God of Death, Maar, He whose name was whispered and feared by all god fearing griffons the world over. And even now, with Dimpeak being their last stronghold, the Sunstriker fanatics fought just as viciously on their last inch of ground as back on the border, when they were raiding the Herzland.
“What’s the word, Etatmäßiger Feldwebel?”
He ignored Hauptmann Dachs for the moment. Not because he disrespected her, he actually was impressed by the young officer. Hauptmann Dachs was the prime example of the Bronzehill military system. After coming to terms with their need to protect the Empire and shedding their past traditions of pacifism, the bronze dogs had come roaring out of the mountains and onto the heads of the Kaiser’s enemies with a vicious fury. Dachs was a good example of that attitude, always up at the front with her Eisenpfote, climbing the next peak with the vanguard, ordering assaults as she herself led the charge. In the open fields of battle, it was a tradition that was sadly dying out with the lethality of modern rifles and artillery, the expertise of dedicated sharpshooters and the intricacies of command systems. The age of heroic generals leading their armies was almost at an end, and soon it would have to be that officers were shut away in bunkers or reinforced vehicles, perhaps never seeing the field of battle themselves. But that, he hoped, would not come to pass quite yet.
He kept the glasses trained on the pass, scanning the floor as he watched the previous kompanie moving into it, dispersed in two columns on either side, officers and NCOs in the middle to coordinate them. They were spaced out, moving quickly but with weapons up, ready for battle, helmets pulled down tight and tan uniforms marking them out compared to the snowy rocks. In summer, these would have been perfect for blending into the mountainsides, but with the war against the Entente, priority for winter uniforms had gone to the line units in the south or fighting to repulse the Republic forces from Cloudbury.
“Anton Kompanie has not yet met resistance, Hauptmann,” he reported, watching carefully. “If they press on like this, we should be on the other side of the pass shortly.”
Dachs, never one to miss out on inference or subtle clues, looked down into the pass herself, frowning as she added up the facts. He knew she would catch on sooner or later to what he was implying.
“But this is the only pass to Dimpeak. Any other way and we’ll have to scale up sheer cliffs.”
“Correct,” affirmed Dober, squinting through his field glasses. A flash of movement. Feathers, perhaps. A griffon, lying in wait? Or just a bird of the mountains, a mere animal and not a sentient being?
“And if they let us take this pass, we’ll be able to move the whole division straight on towards the peak.”
“Which is why they’ll never let us have it,” Dober reaffirmed.
He could tell Dachs was confused by his statement, but as the kompanie commander drew closer to express her issues, the pass was suddenly ripped by explosions, answering the question instead. At least a hundred griffons emerged from hiding places in the pass, on ground level, higher up, from the very top, out of spider holes and more, descending on the dogs below in a swarm. They wore little to no armor or gear, and as such flew nimbly through the sky on approach, revolvers and rifles snapping on the way down, tossing grenades, Angriever cocktails and other explosives to clear the way. Despite the distance and the noise, Dober knew what their warcries would be, having heard it a hundred times himself.
“THE SUN NEVER SETS! SOULS FOR MAAR’S COURT!”
Anton Kompanie died. They stood their ground and fought, without cover or coordination, firing at griffons coming down on them with bolt-action rifles and stabbing up with bayonets. Their discipline was as good as their name, and their leadership quickly coordinated return fire that cut down a score of them. But they were too few, caught in a bad position with mobile enemies. That only got worse as several griffons on the cliffs above emerged carrying machine guns, revealing the next part of the trap as they began spraying down enfilade fire from above. For all their discipline and marksmanship, for all that they were Eisenpfote, the best mountain troops in the Empire, Anton Kompanie stood little chance. They began taking casualties by the score, and it wasn’t long before they were forced to start giving ground, making a fighting retreat back down the pass.
But this was what they had counted on.
“Signal the guns!” shouted Dober, and nearby another dog soldier drew a flare gun, thumbing back the hammer before firing off the red signal flare, high into the sky. Not far away, short barreled artillery cannons and heavy mortar emplacements began laying down a vicious drumroll barrage, and the cliffs around the pass were suddenly subjected to a brief, savage bombardment that pasted the rocks. The machine guns were wiped out, and dozens of griffs fell in bloody chunks from the walls as the shells clustered on positions the Eisenpfote knew they would be at. As for the survivors, they turned to quickly find the survivors of Anton Kompanie rallying with reinforcements from Brutus Kompanie right behind them, pushing up the pass once more just as the guns went silent. The exchange of violence that occured was swift, brutal, and entirely one sided.
“Finally,” Dober proclaimed, bringing the field glasses down and turning to a runner. “Tell the Oberst the pass is taken. The road to Dimpeak is open.”
Ain Trotgourait, Zumidian Mandate Zebrica UKS Venture, Carrier Division 2
“Mooring! Mooring!”
Captain Surfray sighed in relief as the watch officer cried out, signaling the massive vessel was finally pulled into dock. She was still relatively new to the job of commanding such a large ship, as her previous experience had been on destroyers, hunting for smugglers. But the huge Howlington-class aircraft carrier was an order of magnitude above and beyond her previous experience, though she luckily hadn’t been forced to helm the vessel (though she had passed the requisite training and knew how to if necessary). The ship’s bell signaled the arrival of UKS Venture to the port, and her eyes moved from the busy harbor to the distant city beyond, and then the grassy plains beyond that. Though Zebrica was home, the island of Aris sitting off the continent’s shoreline and Sequestria deep below were both isolating factors resulting in a culture as different from the zebras here as ponies from griffons. Isolationism to hide from the Storm King’s armies hadn’t helped that old issue, resulting in many back home referring to the Mandates as an ‘occupation’. They were all just too different, many hippogriffs and seaponies said.
She didn’t like coming here. But it was necessary.
The other ships in the Venture’s escort group were also docking, mostly to take on fuel and supplies and let the sailors and marines aboard catch some shore leave, though out of necessity two destroyers stayed on picket duty, to ensure the fleet wouldn’t be taken by surprise in port. Here in the Mandate, it never served too well to linger, especially with the possibility of Chiropterran strike forces or Colthagian guerillas in the populace. She hated thinking like that, but hearing stories and reports from the marines who returned and the army officers she sometimes interacted with said the Mandates were facing these kinds of opponents. When both forces had met the small but well equipped and trained Royal Army, they’d been smashed by Swellart light tanks and M3 Lagulee mediums supported by vast air columns, far outclassing what the erstwhile allies could bring to bear. The result was a mass occupation and suppression campaign over the better part of the past year, sucking griffs and equipment into the continent. Even the idea of saving the native zebras from Chiropterran slavers and Colthagian criminals hadn’t endeared them much, and many back home were seeing these Mandates as wildly unpopular.
A flight of P-39 Airacobras buzzed over the naval squadron, as if assuring their comrades that all was well before peeling back off towards the hills. Admittedly, Surfray did feel a bit better.
“Another happy landing, Captain?”
Surfray jumped slightly, turning to face the speaker, Rear Admiral Chargeplume. Chargeplume was a representative of the portion of the Royal Navy who believed less in the sanctity of the mission to defend Harmony and justice on Zebrica and more in the idea of asserting Arisian military supremacy to keep the peace. Surfray was aware of his politics, but as her commander was also in charge of the entire battlegroup, a job way over her own head. Lucky her, every time they had interacted he had always been professional and to the point, refusing to let politics get in the way. This time, however…
“Confirmed, sir. We’ll have maintenance on the ships underway ASAP. Estimates say we’ll be back to sea in forty-eight hours.” To emphasize her point, she picked up the clipboard containing the report. Only light damages to be fixed, and a restocking of depth charges and AA shells after seeing off Colthagian raiders and Chiropterran submarines.
“Good,” Chargeplume replied, taking the clipboard and studying the report for himself, flipping between pages. “We can get back out and keep an eye on those bugs.”
Uncomfortably, Surfray glanced over at the admiral. Their orders from Mount Aris were to, as Fleet Admiral Orcinus himself had said, maintain security in the island chains near Hippogriffia's shores such as the Trot and Canter Islands, Equestrian aligned Puerto Caballo and even the Aquileian Les Meridiennes and ‘engage Changeling forces as necessary for safety.’ Admiral Chargeplume had interpreted this as ‘shoot the dumb bastards if we make contact and sort them out later.’ No, Chargeplume certainly wasn’t the glorious champion of justice many other hippogriff and seapony commanders tried to live up to. This might have something to do with him being the attache to New Mareland not long ago.
“Captain? Something you want to say?”
She started, her head whipping up to face the admiral, who squinted at her menacingly, his beak set. For his age, he was especially shrewd, and the lightest touch of paranoia and bullish behavior meant he preferred to tackle potential issues head on. Surfray swallowed to get control of her nerves before clearing her throat and finally getting her reply put together.
“Sir, all due respect-”
“I fucking hate that phrase,” he growled, turning away to stare at the nearby port, watching a crane lifting several planes off the deck, more prepared on the quay to replace those damaged by training and weather. But he didn’t tell her to stop, and she’d gotten started, so she plowed on regardless.
“Sir, with all due respect, standing orders or not do you really think it's such a good idea to go picking a fight with the changelings?”
“Why -aren’t- we picking a fight with them, Captain? Did you wonder that?”
The reversal caught her off guard, but Surfray was able to recover quickly with a response.
“The Mandate War, sir. We’re protecting harmony here.”
“Bullshit.” Chargeplume ignored her shocked and rather confused expression as he fished a pipe out of his shirt pocket, tamping down the tobacco inside and then lighting it (with a wood match, not a lighter) despite the regulation against smoking on the bridge. He took a puff, let it out and continued his thought.
“If we wanted to, the Air Force alone could turn North Zebrica into a parking lot with a few hundred sorties. Harmony being protected in the Mandate has already been achieved, we’re just working to install it elsewhere now. No, we’re not facing down the biggest threat to that peace because we’re -scared-. Defeating the Storm King’s army was a fluke, an afterthought. So we've kept to our own corner of the world, where our biggest enemies are years behind us. And now, our biggest allies are being invaded and we’re across the sea playing babysitter on a bunch of batpony Lunarist crazies, a crime-riddled dictatorship and the neighboring lands they tore up.”
The tragedy of Zarantia and Tobuck and the maltreatment they suffered under Chiropterran military occupation came to Surfray's mind. Once more, Chargeplume tapped his pipe, letting the contents settle before he took another puff.
“That high queen of theirs only understands strength and cunning. Need to get out there, let the bugs think we’re still ready and waiting in the wings. Keep them from getting out of control. If they think the world’s largest navy is on standby to go fuck ‘em up, I guarantee that would change things.”
Captain Surfray’s response spilled from her beak, before she could stop herself.
“Admiral, you can't start a private war of your own! Who's going to take the responsibility?"
It was not like her to backtalk a superior this way. Captain Surfray had built her career in the Royal Navy by keeping out of the spotlight, making sure her superiors had no reason to pay too close attention to her. She found that this kind of meek attitude served her well compared to the far bolder officers she had to work with during her time as a seapony. Now she preferred to be a Navy hippogriff, it found her in contact with many like the admiral, who were all too eager to prove the surface fleet and naval aviation’s value. But for once, with the peace her kingdom worked to try and maintain at stake, Surfray had found she just couldn’t overlook this warhawk officer.
Chargeplume slammed a taloned fist down on the control panel, and several junior officers nearby jumped, clearly not wanting to get involved in this exchange or pretend they could even hear it.
"I'll take it! If anything gets in my way, we'll shoot first and argue afterwards."
Captain Surfray blanched, turning away as her feathered face grew red. This was not a conversation to have around the bridge crew, and the admiral, for all his gruff, seemed to realize that too as he turned away to look out onto the massive deck of the Venture once more. For a minute, the two simply watched the crew go about their in port duties, maintaining the ship and aircraft as they readied the flight chalk for a war they might not understand. It was quite a sight to see such a massive system in action like this.
Finally, the admiral spoke again.
“You should do that more often.”
Surfray started, blinking in confusion at Admiral Chargeplume.
“Sir?”
“Call out your superiors when they’re being stupid.”
They both had a brief chuckle, and like that the tension was broken.
Margatroye, Misty Hills Caramel Marks Oblast, SSSR 19th Rifle Division, 6th Rifle Corps, 2nd Army
Marching in snowy winter time was not an enviable task. The snow was hard to move through, and where it was not snowy the ground was slick and hard with ice. But where it was not so bad was the roads. Every year, the autumn rains turned roads and fields into muddy slogs, hard to walk through and even harder to drive through, though automobiles were still recent in Severyana. In the local dialect, the ponies even had a term for it; rasputitsa, the sea of mud. It happened in both spring and autumn, where melting snow in the former and heavy rain in the later turned the countryside into little more than a literal mudscape. Roads, in those seasons, were an impassable deathtrap in many places without modern grading and paving techniques, which meant many of the large collective farms still relied on hoofpower to get goods to the cities. But in summer and winter, the mud dried or froze respectively. This was the time for travel, or in this case, war.
The red and gold banner of the Soviet Republic hung in the breeze far ahead, carried by the standard bearer at the head of the column. They had long ago ceased marching in step since they left the railhead behind, but the lines of ponies dressed in white winter clothing still followed the flag ahead, on and on and on towards the west. There was no rail connection between Severnaya and the Crystal Empire, though that was for good reason; the two had been ideological enemies for the past decade. It was only with General Secretary Vasiliy Wheatin’s agreement to join the princesses in their struggle was a work crew now tearing up the land as fast as they could, trying to extend the rail line from the city Caramel Marks (named after the glorious founder of socialism) towards the Crystal city of Rainbow Falls to join the networks. As Comrade Vasiliy had said on his radio pronouncements, the princesses were an ideological threat, one that could be negotiated with and held back with simple words. Dangerous, yes, but rational, reasonable. The changelings, however, were a black tide of chaos set to sweep the land of everything everypony held dear, and banners or ideology did not matter to them. The changelings were a present threat now, not something that could threaten them in ten years without measures taken. And so, despite criticisms and accusations that the Supreme Soviet and General Secretary had betrayed the revolution, Stalliongrad had agreed to stand next to their erstwhile rivals, allies in a common struggle.
This rang in the head of one Krasnoarmeyskiyponi Artyom Vasilivich Federov, mere riflepony unicorn. During induction and training, the speeches and addresses of many of the nations’ party leaders, generals and politicians had been played for the recruits and conscripts, showing them why they were fighting and motivating them to remain interested in the nation’s future. With her origins as a breakaway state, the Rodina was not very large or heavily populated. Everypony worked, from the collective farms to the sprawling factory complexes in the cities to the railroads and truck depots to the navy and army itself. The Soviet Republic could not afford to let its ponies stay idle or ignorant. Every soldier in this regiment marching west was well trained, drilled to high competency and equipped with the best the State could give them. While her armies were far smaller than Equestria or the changelings, they could put up one hell of a fight. Each Red Army trooper carried a modern SVETA battle rifle with as many as one in five given one of the new PPSH-10 submachine guns, an absolute terror at close range. Nearby, the same road they marched on played host to rank after rank of ZIS-5 trucks carrying the more elite Soviet Guard, mobile rifle battalions meant to be the hard striking power of the Red Army, and BT-7 light tanks and T-34 medium tanks rolled by in small armored platoons, turrets swiveling as their cannons swept the countryside. Overhead, wings of SB-2M bombers escorted by LaGG-3 and La-5 fighters flew by, ready to challenge the infamous changeling Luftwaffe for control of the sky.
Federov was scared, certainly. Even as he glanced up and around, witnessing the Arm of the Revolution in motion, he knew they were marching into a hard fight. Alone, the changelings had crushed their neighbors. With Sombra’s help, they were crushing Equestria and the Crystal Empire. This was an enemy to be feared. Comrade Vasiliy had stated in his speech that the threat from the west could not be ignored, and if the Ponies of Severyana did not react now, there would be no illusion; the Revolution would be swept away. The fury of the Red Army was steadily grinding west, and behind them came the capacity to send even more into the Crystal Empire, once the rail lines were done. Supplies, ammunition and reinforcements would flood in behind them, and so long as they held the line, they would not hold alone. Stalliongrad would defend World Revolution from Direct Imperialism first, Harmonic Imperialism later.
So the propaganda kept saying, at least. But Federov was reminded of what his mother had told him, just before he’d shipped out; “Even in the revolution, those in power will always tell you they can fix things.”
An armored car rolled past, roof-mounted speakers booming with the sound of a commissar from inside, delivering a speech.
“Comrade Vasiliy calls to -you- to serve your Motherland! Resist and destroy the imperialist invaders! Cast out those who seek only to conquer and dominate and banish them back to the dark lands they crawled out of! WE are the Red Army, and we have -no- other equal in the world! Show the other ponies of Equus what happens when they are freed by the Revolution!”
An ill wind blew from the west as Federov glanced over his shoulder, back towards home. But, truth be told, all he could see was the row after row of soldiers, trucks and tanks, pressing the same direction as he.
Kemmerich Air Base Cloudbury, Griffonian Revolutionary Republic 5th Fighter Wing “Freedom Falcons”
Speaking from an objective point of view, the war was not going well.
The strategy, as he understood it, had been relatively simple; a three front attack from land, air and sea. The Republique de Aquileia, being the largest of the Republican Entente, would be the main focus, engaging the Empire along an extended southern front to bog them down and push towards Griffenheim. The Skyfall Remnants would use what was left of their fleet, combined with the Marine Nationale and the Republic’s own Liberty Flotilla would blockade Sky Bay and take the Kaiserliche Marine apart. Here in the north, Republic and Vedinan forces, well versed in winter warfare in the mountains, would take Rottendedam and other northern cities and hold to provoke a split Imperial response.
It should have worked. The new year was coming, and there should have been progress. But from where Flight Lieutenant Otto Proudbeak stood, things had already gone poorly, and the Entente plan for a swift victory into what should have been an overextended and reeling Imperial state had instead run into cold reality; the Empire had buckled, but not broken. Even now, the offensive into Feathisia had bogged down on both fronts, with their attack on Rottendedam stopped cold and the attempt to march on Readewetter thrown back before the city was even in sight. While it was true the border fortifications had fallen quickly, the Imperial forces had rallied much faster than assumed, and the thought that the winter weather would slow response time hadn’t accounted for the Empire’s massive truck fleet delivering reinforcements and supplies on vastly superior roads.
Some consolation could be taken from the fact that, although their offensives had been halted, the four powers of the Entente were still on enemy ground and had retained control of the seas. Things -could- be turned around. The President-Marshal had insisted they had come out of worse.
But as Proudbeak watched the ground crews haul the body of a near-dead Republic pilot out of his crippled Faucon, he was having a hard time seeing that as a certain fact. Yes, they had solved the famine crisis, turned a revolting army into a functional war machine and brought several troublesome officers back to the fold. But when it came to stacking the Republic’s war machine against the Empire, it seemed the Republic came up short.
Most aircraft used by the Griffonian Republic were either lend-lease provided by Aquileia or copies of Imperial aircraft built here or in Skyfall’s own workshops. The Republic’s own Skyshark was a replication of the Imperial Adler fighter. Hell, some of them -were- Adlers, stolen from Imperial factories and airfields like a lot of their war material by griffs sympathetic to the Revolution. They flew like Adlers, and many soldiers and pilots had gotten experience from Aquileian instructors and acting as volunteers during the Peripherie Wars. But it appeared splashing biplanes and the occasional bomber was not enough for some.
Lieutenant Proudbeak turned back to his own Skyshark, looking her up and down. She was a good plane, damn good. He and his other pilots had drilled endlessly on their craft, participated in numerous wargames and flown in Aquileia itself to accommodate differing weather conditions. It should have been enough. But the line of bullet holes and torn metal from a 20mm flak shell in his undercarriage told him it hadn’t been. The ground offensive may have been able to hold ground, at least, but the air war in the north was failing miserably. After just two months, so many bombers had been shot down Bomber Kommand had cut all deep strike missions and reserved logistics strikes to night time raids, when the Luftstreitkräfte was at a disadvantage in interception. But another factor in all this was the Empire’s new fighter; the Habicht. Faster, more advanced and heavily armed. According to briefings, there weren’t many yet. But the longer this fight went, the more there -would- be. The Empire was not restricted to begging, borrowing, scraping and stealing like the Republic was, they had a massive industrial complex churning out war material. This entire plan had banked on a swift victory with the sympathy of the world keeping anyone from intervening on the Empire’s side. The Entente had in fact received a wave of volunteers from nations abroad, as far as even Zebrica. But the ideal seemed to have smashed into the cold wall of reality.
He heard crunching in the snow that was already settling on the runway, and turned to find Flight Lieutenant Nadia Olvirdottir stepping over, her flight hood already tugged off and under one arm. The Kingdom of Vedina didn’t have a substantial air force, even smaller than the Republic, so many of their prospective pilots had simply come to fly under Cloudbury’s colors. The problem was, with so little time to train them between signing the Entente and the declaration of war, most were still green, unfamiliar with their machines and prone to rookie mistakes. Brave, yes. But bravery counted little without skill. Olvirdottir was different, a rare natural in a flying machine, flying it as if it were an extension of her own wings and taking to her own Skyshark as a fish to water. But her expression here was concern, and consternation.
“You okay, Otto?” she asked gently, ear flickering in the snowfall. She was agitated, as she had right to be. They’d lost a lot of friends that day.
“I’m fine,” he replied quietly, only half lying. He jabbed a thumb back at his plane, indicating her damage. Just below his cockpit, the four planes he had racked up already were marked in white silhouettes, a sign of the kills he had painstakingly collected from Imperial pilots. One of them had a bullet hole in it now. “Just a bit battered. Be back in the air soon.”
But Olvirdottir shook her head.
“Kommand’s ground all air operations. Storm rolling in from the north. They’re saying it's a good time to get our planes patched up.”
Secretly, Proudbeak agreed. They needed to catch their breath. Assumptions about the enemy had blown up in their face, despite the information that both recon and spies had gotten them (not that the latter had had an easy time of it. MfÖS had been vicious in the past few years). Out loud, he sighed as if in bitter disappointment before standing up and gathering a few things, from his post-flight checklist to his sheepskin coat and tugged of his pilot’s hood and goggles, heading with Olvirdottir towards the locker sheds, where they could store their equipment.
The ground crew they passed by were a mixed bag. Griffon manufactured aircraft were able to fit a variety of creatures, from griffons and ponies to some dogs and even kirin (though they were few this far north). But the ground crew was a more diverse array, from Saddle Arabian horses (like ponies but much taller, it turned out), minotaurs from Asterion (now occupied by the Empire, Black Knights and reformed Cyanolisia), zebras from a few of the more liberal minded countries, penguins seeking to escape military dictatorship in Nova Griffonia and even one or two hippogriffs. The Republican cause to dismantle the Empire had spoken to many, whether victims of the Empire or just freedom fighters. Being ground crew, they didn’t have such size restrictions when it came to maintaining craft, and could be put to great use in such a support role. Language barriers were a problem in the Republic, but for the most part, they found ways to make it work with all these varied backgrounds.
After storing their gear, the pair ambled off to the briefing shed, a nissen hut filled with seats, a few blackboards and a podium where pilots could receive their mission and any news pertaining to their flying conditions. As it happened, most of the survivors of the Freedom Falcons were already here, but Proudbeak could see quite a few chairs were empty. His heart dipped lower, matching the sombre tone of the room.
At the front, Flight Commander Terra Cloudkick, a pegasi from Equestria who had formerly been an RAF officer, was going over some papers, trying to collect herself to debrief them all. On one of the blackboards behind her, several names had been scratched off from the 5th’s tally, but Proudbeak saw that the bombers hadn’t done well either. He and Olvirdottir took their seats, quietly greeted by their squadmates. It seemed they were the last ones, because when Commander Cloudkick glanced up and saw them, she cleared her throat and began.
“Okay. So, we got hit pretty hard out there.” The room quietly grumbled in assent. “Kommand wants us to rest and recover a while, focus on defensive flights only until the weather clears and we get a few more planes operational and crewed. Um…” She checked her papers again, sighing as she viewed the numbers before her. “Ammunition remains strong. We can at least run a few more training flights to practice before our next mission. Kommand is still saying they’re trying to devise a countermeasure to the Habichts, so that will hopefully come sooner rather than later. In the meantime, we use the Hippogriffian Weave technique. No lone wolves up there, we fly in squadrons and wings for a reason. I’m tired of hearing about gloryhounds getting shot down because they broke formation.”
The room was silent at that. Plenty of their junior pilots, those from Vedina or the raw recruits who hadn’t received experience or enough training, had fallen victim to that condition, but it wasn’t just a raw rookie mistake. Veteran aviators who were overconfident tended to also go searching for that last kill before calling it a day, and their isolation and bravado often was what killed them.
Cloudkick glanced out the window at the snow coming down before she sighed, pursed her lips and stacked the papers, glancing over the room at her glum pilots.
“Take some time. Rest up. Then we get up there and show these Imperial dogs what for.”
Before, the assurance would have actually made Otto feel better. But as the 5th finished their debrief, Cloudkick dismissed them and he headed for the door, he couldn’t help but feel it was little more than an empty platitude.
’The role of the infantrygriff is, first and foremost, to be the massed meat of an army. Such a callous view is cold and unfeeling, but also reality, and in most every instance the most vital. This meat is slowly bitten away, but is also an army's flesh and muscle. While the artillery fires and takes great chunks out of the meat, it is the role of the infantry to press the enemy position, to exert great mass on the foe to either kill him or force him from the field. These critical points are where tactics, weaponry and leadership come into play, but none moreso important than simple luck. For the best of all three of the former can be undone in an instant by the latter and nothing mortal drakes can do will prevent this. On top of it all, the primary goal of the infantrygriff is to survive.’ -August Duskwing, Infantry Attacks in the Modern War, c. 1005 ALB
January 6th, 1012 Industrie, Griffenheim Herzland
This time, she didn’t even wait for the air raid sirens to stop. Instead, as soon as she judged the bombs to have stopped falling (something she had gotten very good at) she burst out of the bomb shelter and scrambled to the house itself, just happy to see it was still intact. Nearby, she could still hear some of the city’s AA defense guns thumping away into the sky, 20mm flak shells detonating high overhead. Abruptly, the ground shuddered from impact, and she stumbled through the kitchen as pots, pans and plates flew from the cupboards and counters, dust falling from the ceiling. Clearly a plane or two had lingered.
Coughing, Margot Duskwing lurched into the sitting room, tugging on the helmet she’d taken with her, issued by the Eimerbrigade. It was an old model from the time of the Revolution, but the coal scuttle shape was similar to those she’d seen on Reichsarmee soldiers. These being minor details for later, she quickly donned her working boots, changed from her dress into more appropriate coveralls and was out on the street in minutes. By this time, even the AA guns had mostly stopped firing, though occasionally a few thumps would signal a jittery crew shooting at shadows in the smoke. The streets were choked with abandoned cars, rubble from the buildings caught in the explosions and burning debris from wooden bridges and structures collapsing, creatures still emerging from the ruin and attempting to seek shelter, escaping from the destroyed streets and cars. Some volunteers were trying to help them along, marked by their own coal scuttle helmets. There were few corpses this time. The warning had gotten out. She was glad Cyril was not here to see this, or Sophie. Witnessing their home in ruins like this would be devastating.
The trip out to Hellsword was mostly part of an act. Oh, she certainly wanted to see her son after such a grievous injury and so grand a promotion. But she needed to make sure he fought with a clear head. It had not been easy to get out, and while she could have fled Griffenheim as it was being pounded by the Entente, her decision to return had been as much by stubborn defiance as by practicality; she had nowhere else to go. Stefan’s father had an estate in Strawberry, but there was the risk of being closer to the Republic and Sunstriker Cultists. Last month, before Mondstille, a Childrens’ Evacuation was called, and thousands of chicks, foals and pups were placed on trains heading to Bronzekreuz. It was reasoned that the underground city would keep them safe in a shelter run by Count Ignatius, and she had insisted Sophie go. Her daughter had resisted, of course. But Margot had remained firm. A warzone was no place for an eleven year old. And so, Sophie had gone on the train.
Now, Margot was alone in a city subjected to bombing raids almost every other night. She could have gone to stay with her parents a few blocks away, but abandoning the apartment for another place in the same city felt wrong, and they were capable of handling themselves. Her son and daughter were gone, whether off to war or because of it. So the city became her chicks. Every time Griffenheim was bombed, she was out there with thousands of other volunteers, helping to fight fires next to the Feuerwehr, searching for injured and helping recover the dead, clearing roads so emergency vehicles could roll through and city services could begin repairs to get traffic and life going again. Sometimes, she’d come upon aircraft wreckage, either friendly or enemy, and work to dig the bodies of dead aviators out. Luftstreitkräfte Adlers and Habicht fighters (some decorated with the seal of the Imperial Guard), Aquileian E-143s and F-225 bombers. Once, she’d found a survivor, an Adler pilot with a crushed beak and two broken wings, couldn’t have been much older than nineteen, a mere chick himself. But he’d been grateful in his own exhausted way, and as she hauled him to the stretcher set up by the paramedics, he had mumbled one thing to her; “Danke, Mutter.”
This time the damage to the city looked especially bad. More and new types of bombers, aircraft she had not learned the name of yet, had flown over the Imperial City in great fleets, dropping death and destruction across the split rivers. She dared not take to wing for long, lest the AA crews stressed out and overworked at their stations see her movement and fire on reflex. But as she clambered over the ruin of a bridge and a dozen crushed automobiles, she could already see countless apartment buildings on fire, watched distant figures abandoning their homes in panic. The Imperial Palace had been hit, a fire blazing in one of the wings, and even the Great Temple was in danger of the blaze, though it didn’t look as though it had been struck directly. Sirens rang through the streets from emergency vehicles like ghastly wraiths, shrieking their mournful cry, following the devastation. Overhead, she heard the droning of the engines belonging to a Fliegender Teppich AG airship, likely scanning the streets below to examine the damage and the skies to watch for more enemy aircraft. The tight avenues turned the growling machinery into a sinister, menacing predatory din, echoing like a monster on the hunt.
Margot dove into Industrie. The tenements, block housing, factory yards and market squares of the poorer districts were always at greater risk than the noble manors or the grand Imperial Quarter. Here, the structures were cheap brick, stone and wood, sometimes old or rotten with age, and the factories and workshops often had piles of material and fuel (coal or, more recently oil) waiting inside or in their yards. Whatever building reforms the Indistrierat were planning to make had not yet reached all the way out here, and so they suffered under these bombings inside a massive tinderbox.
A policedrake stumbled out of the smoke, his black uniform and high, plumed hat decorated with its silver badge smudging his form in the gloom. He wore a facemask and goggles and held an electric flashlight in one claw. As Margot landed, he snapped towards her, flashlight in one hand and police pistol in the other. She didn’t know why he bothered. The enemy had landed no paratroopers here tonight, though then again rioters and criminals had used the chaos to their advantage.
Luckily, this policedrake was from the local precinct, and he squinted at her through the cloud of debris. She emerged, claws up to show she meant no harm.
“Is that you, Margot?” he called into the smoke.
“Ja, Dietrich,” she called back to the aging drake. Dietrich Bluebeak was in his fifties, an age that had so far precluded him being called into the conscription levies. If the Empire ever got that desperate, it was a sure sign of dark times. Then again, things were plenty dark here.
He waved to her, the beam from his light bouncing around chaotically with the action, and she was glad he had not done the action with his pistol claw.
“We need your help! A bus is slipping into the river, full of passengers! I left to find assistance!”
Immediately, Margot squared herself to her task, tipped her coal-scuttle helmet forward and lunged forward, following Dietrich into the gloom at a gallop. It was just as he had described, a double-decker bus sliding over the side of a bridge, threatening to fall into the Griffking. The only thing keeping it from doing so was the twisted tangle of street sign, high iron bar fence and several ropes from local residents. The doors were forced open, and the bus driver passed passenger after passenger up to people waiting on the street, desperately reaching out. From the looks of it, several chicks and foals had already been extracted, crying out as their parents were rescued as well. Margot immediately swooped in, pushing her way to the front and picking up another rope, fastened with what looked to be some sort of hook. She tossed it regardless, and the hook caught on the bus, allowing her to pull it taut and tie it around a nearby tree with two other lines (she wasn’t going to be able to haul a whole bus up).
“Over here, Mutter!”
She turned to her now familiar nickname before lunging towards the sound as a dog attempted to extract a larger pony, and together they pulled the draft stallion up onto the street. Then another griffon, and another. They almost had all the passengers up when a sharp crack sounded from the tree. Everycreature’s head snapped around in shock, realizing it was not as sturdy as assumed, and the trunk was splitting.
“Grab the lines!” some called.
“Grab the passengers!” yelled others.
Margot, for her part, decided to do both. In a moment of inspiration, she ran a claw down one line until she was practically hanging off the side of the street. Shocked gasps and worried hisses were heard, but as she leaned out, she reached for the first passenger, a griffon mother holding her young, terrified son out to her. In that moment, Margot quietly appreciated the irony, but stayed in control as she took the young boy’s claw, gently tugging him up until he too could grab onto the line before pushing him up to a dog standing nearby, who took the chick and deposited him away safely. Next came the mother who, while larger, had a longer reach, and Margot functioned as bridge only a moment before she too was away.
So it was again and again, until six more passengers stood on the bank, and the bus was empty save for the driver. A good thing too, the miserable vehicle was ready to give way any moment now, if the groaning and creaking of metal was any indication. The driver, an older drake, moved from his seat, having remained to push his charges out, but the final shift in weight must have been too much for the wreck. Finally, the snapping of wood rang out, as the tree and lines holding up the bus began to give way. The driver squawked, scrabbling desperately, and Margot reached downward as far as she could, wings flapping to steady herself. Too far, as it happened. Her rear paws slipped, and her claw instinctively dug into the rope to save herself, helmet slipping forward to block her eyes. While she would have been fine, as a winged creature, the disorientation and momentary loss of sight were distraction enough, and her other claw scrambled and flailed, searching for its intended target or (in her panicking mind) something to halt her fall.
Luckily, her leg, not her claw, found the driver’s claw, and it was enough to pull him clear as the tree finally snapped fully, the lines pulling it down and finally giving way. The other volunteer rescuers cried to get out of the way, releasing the lines and diving to the side to get out of the way. The massive vehicle finally fell over, and furtive wingbeats told Margot her rescue attempt had succeeded. Tilting the helmet up, she was greeted by the driver’s grinning face as he hovered before her.
“Danke, mein engel!” he cried, returning the favor by taking her claw and helping her back up onto the stone. It was only then, Margot realized how much her shoulders ached from the strain of her endeavor, and she hissed as she too beat her wings to take the weight off her stricken arm, coming to crouch on the bricks as she tried to end the howling in her joints.
Around her, the smattering applause and cheers of the onlookers told her she had an audience, and she glanced up to find the other volunteers closing on her, some ecstatic, some worried and searching.
“Is she alright?”
“Is she hurt?”
Margot stood quickly, wincing at the pain as she went on all fours but trying not to let it show too much. Being the center of attention made her nervous.
Abruptly, the moment was shattered by a nearby boom of detonating material. First reactions were panicked, but the volunteers had heard enough explosions to know this wasn’t another bomb falling. Evidently a surface detonation then, likely a building fire finding some coal or oil stock, or a crashed aircraft brewing up. With that, the miracle was forgotten, and they all rushed off to the next blaze, the shaken passengers gently but firmly led away to the nearest source of shelter.
But that young boy never forgot the griffon who pulled him and his mother from the bus.
January 7th, 1012 Korinna Proving Grounds Zeldstadt, Hellsword
Korinna Proving Grounds had originally been built to rest in isolation, away from the eyes of common rabble and peasantry. As a result, it required new roads and a rail line built to conveniently reach and supply. Formerly a knightly training and testing center, the various arenas had mostly been converted into modern ranges, where knights from four different Orders tested the weapons they were given and drilled their squires and initiates. Recent additions and modernizations had converted and shored this place up, chainlink fences around the Proving Grounds now, steel I-beams replacing wooden supports and concrete foundations added to ensure they could withstand the punishing forces they now contained.
Of course, there was only one which concerned one Kadet Duskwing, and it was the largest course of all; the heavy panzer range. Not so much a target course as an open field, with range markers set up for spotters to plot shots, with various ‘targets’ made out of wood, bricks, scrap steel and even wrecked cars. The panzers in question were huge monsters, at fifty-six tons of gun, engine, tracks, internal mechanics and brand new enchanted armor plating. At nine and a half feet tall and thirty long, it was the largest panzer Cyril had ever seen, like a bunker on treads, even bigger than the old Beaks used by Knight formations and some Reichsarmee battalions. So far as he understood, the mentality was to design a breakthrough vehicle, to be a sledgehammer where the mobile panzerdivisiones could not press through. Hence, the thick armor plating, heavy gun and overpowered engine.
These vehicles, however, were different.
He, Eisenwing, Eihol, Spotsley and Brightclaw appraised their new vehicle as the engineers finished their checks and preparations on it. Assembled at Kasteel Automobiel in Feathisia, the fact that they had gotten these prototypes in the middle of the war spoke to how high up they were one somegriff’s requisition priority table, as this was the fourth model they had received. The old prototypes, they were told, were taken back to a local Kasteel shop where they would either be modified to the new designs company HQ sent them or broken down for scrap if the changes were too drastic. But through the testing, Cyril and his crew had all gained an eye for the things that had changed, and what had stayed the same.
“Interleaved road wheels are gone,” Eihol muttered, studying the tracks. “Just torsion bars now. Wonder why they dropped it, I hear changeling panzers were having good success with them…”
“No more flamethrower in the hull,” Spotsley chipped, her tone a good deal happier. “Damn straight. I’d rather not be sitting on a drum full of petrol.”
“Still the same 76,” Eisenwing noted, studying the gun. “Good. I just got used to firing that.”
“Wonder if they expanded the ammo stowage,” Brightclaw brought up, reaching up to touch his medallion of the Trinity subconsciously, like he always did when he was deep in thought.
Cyril checked the number spray painted onto the hull. The prototypes always came in with different designations, to separate the generations and testing models, though they hadn’t stuck with one for more than a week at a time. The last one, VK. 45.06, had been the longest at three weeks, and they had been pretty happy with her aside from a clawful of issues.
“VK 48.02,” he read off. “Well, suppose we better get to it.”
“If we’re lucky, this is the full mass production model,” said Kliment Viers proudly. Viers, a noblegriff, was the representative from Kasteel, sent to observe the testing procedures and report back his findings with a more clinical eye than what the panzer crews in this kompanie could say. Noble though he may be, Viers was smarter than met the eye, and Cyril knew him to be a capable engineer. That already put him beak and wings over most of the rest of the peer in Cyril’s mind, and the two drakes had established a working relationship. Unlike Morgend Longpaw, who barged in every so often to disrupt Cyril’s schedule and watched the handicapped kadet much like a test subject, Viers treated Cyril and the other platoon leaders like actual coworkers, trading notes and asking questions and opinions as well as staying attentive up in the observation tower. He was a bit on the younger side of thirty, though Cyril had never asked, with a dark blue-gray plumage covered by a scattering of black specks. He had dressed like a noble before, but they had seen him in trousers, vest and rolled up sleeves, oil and grit all over his face and claws and a pencil behind one ear as he worked fervently to jot down notes and make adjustments to his plans. Behind the kompaniegriff stood a knight, dressed in full enchanted plate. According to the sigil on his breastplate, this knight was from der Orden des Turms und des Schwertes (the Order of the Tower and Sword). This was not the regal medieval plate like the legacy pieces nobles sometimes wore from the times of the Crusades. Knightly plate had evolved after the Revolution to be more streamlined, easier to mass produce, with smoother edges and almost no ornamentation. The Knights of Hellsword had begun adopting the Imperial practice of wearing the modern plate despite much pushback from the more tradition minded masters, but the change was now in effect. This Knight said nothing, and Cyril was certain the drake was there as much for security as protection. Viers was still an outside civilian, after all.
“Okay, so what’s changed?” Cyril asked, beginning his walkaround while Viers continued with the presentation, the Knight silently following behind.
“The new VK 48.02 model has an upgraded engine, the HL 241-P49. As you can see, we had to extend the rear by about three feet to accommodate both the slope and the larger engine compartment. She’s a 23 liter gasoline, generating about 521 kilowatts of power at three-thousand RPM. V12, cast-iron engine block, so those engine blowouts from rough handling should be a thing of the past. She uses a hydraulically controlled semi-automatic pre-selector gearbox thanks to her weight, a little something we borrowed from a changeling project and improved upon. Six road wheels on either side, with both an inner and outer wheel.”
“No interleaved?” asked Eihol, squinting to get a look at said road wheels with his good eye. Viers nodded.
“We found that in rough terrain such as mud or swamps, the interleaving made maintenance difficult. Debris could too easily catch inside the road wheels and jam them, and it was hard to remove effectively. We’ve instead gone with dual wheels on the axles.”
“Thank the gods' wit for that,” Eihol retorted as he stood up, making Brightclaw scowl.
“You shouldn’t take their name in vain, Sergeant,” the young Gefreiter said, touching the sign of the Trinity again. “It’s not proper.”
“I’ll say whatever I like about the gods, they’ve thrown enough at me in my life.”
The rest of the crew ignored this rather blatant heresy. Eihol was convinced the gods were out to get him, driving his paranoia and worry through the roof to the point where he was certain anything and everything was a death trap waiting in disguise. Recovering from his wounds hadn’t helped, as he checked nearly everything he interacted with for some kind of booby trap or listening device. It had been worrying at first, but now they were all used to it.
“We also took out the fording system,” Viers commented. “True, it means you’ll have to use reinforced bridges now, but we found it just wasn’t living up to expectations. Plus, with the conventional road wheels, you can now transport them on standard train cars without issue in tunnels.”
“It’s a panzer, not a U-boat,” Spotsley remarked snidely, crossing her arms over her chest. She had always had a problem with that system, and it seemed some engineer had finally agreed with her and canned it.
Viers pressed on. This wasn’t the first time he’d dealt with crews interjecting in his diatribe.
“The main cannon is a revolutionary new design we’ve been working on with Helheim Kanonen. Instead of a firing pin, it uses an electric current from the vehicle’s battery, and ejects the spent casing into a basket automatically. The wedge block breech stays down until you load a new shell, at which point it then shuts on its own.”
“Hopefully not taking my talons off with it,” Brightclaw muttered in consternation, rubbing his wrist as he did so. Cyril had to remember, for their similarity in age, Brightclaw was still close to a raw recruit, and as such the reality of combat was not apparent to the religious drake.
Viers kept going, indicating the gun tube with an extended talon, which Eisenwing paid close attention to.
“That barrel’s a bit extended, and Helheim designed a whole new ammunition line for it. From what I’ve heard, the Reichsarmee generals are interested in mounting these in AT carriages, but I believe they’ll keep the high velocity 57s. But you’ve got armor-piercing, high-explosive and a new fragmentation shell we’re testing. Though there’s some talk about replacing that with gas shells. Perhaps white phosphorous. Still a concept, though.”
"I'm always a fan of firepower, Herr Viers," Einsenwing remarked, a clever smirk on her beak. "Love big...cannons."
The kompanie drake looked taken aback for a moment, then smiled in return, looking quite pleased. Cyril, however, shot a nasty look at Eisenwing, who wilted under her commander's accusing glare. Viers, smart griff he was, quickly looked away. Sighing, Cyril turned back to VK 48.02, eyes appraising the shape of the armored vehicle. He was used to driving fast, mobile attacking units, and the idea of being mounted up in what was essentially a battering ram on treads was a little new to him. True, all their time testing prototypes had gotten him more or less used to how the machine worked, but he would be in command of one in combat in less than two months. He’d struggled in the kadet courses for certain, but if his marks kept up like this, he’d be graduating for certain. Then he’d no longer be Kadet Duskwing, but Leutnant Duskwing.
He reached up, carefully placed a claw over his breast pocket, talons playing with the edge as he felt for the photo inside. Had it really been six months since that night in Temsoar? Paige’s letters took even longer to reach him now. Things kept changing so fast. The last four years had been nothing but endless chaos and turmoil, both for them and the world at large. As his crew were occupied speaking with Viers, he gently undid the pocket, tugging out the photo. True, it was a little warped, and the edge was singed slightly. When Sabine had brewed up, he had lost all her letters and books -again-. Nothing left but memories. And with the way the war was going, he was started to doubt he’d replace them all in a hurry. But there she was, in her pilot’s gear looking a level of eager and energetic he was uncertain he could ever get to again.
He’d been having bad dreams lately. So much so that his roommate Magnus Torrigen had requested a transfer. Stuffy, uptight noble brat. But everytime Cyril thought back to that night, he remembered the fire, the despair, the pain and then darkness. Looking at Paige’s photo used to restore his faith in this strange relationship they had. Now, he was filled with doubt and uncertainty, and not a little bit of dread. He quickly stuffed the photo back into his jacket pocket.
“Kadet Duskwing! Cyril!”
Cyril turned, eyebrow raised. Not many here addressed him by his first name, but he had an idea of who it might have been from the first word. Sure enough, sprinting towards him, attempting to take to wing every few meters but failing and resuming his run, was none other than Morgend Longpaw. He looked especially flamboyant today, flat straw hat held on his head with a claw as his white and red pinstriped shirt fluttered in the breeze. Pursuing him was a Landwehr MP, looking for all the world like a griff who did not want to be lugging a rifle after a crazy drake doctor halfway across a field.
The item keeping Doctor Longpaw from taking flight, however, was a large metallic case that flopped around in his claw. How strange, Cyril thought. If the doctor had another prototype for him, he usually waited at the Offizier-Jungeschule dorms. Normally civilians weren’t allowed anywhere near Korinna for obvious reasons, but the good doctor must have a few important voices on tap. The whole crew watched as the doctor and MP approached, muttering to each other in confusion, but Cyril ignored them. Longpaw’s reputation often got ahead of him, and through the separation of the trials and the prototyping process, they had never met him personally.
As the two finally reached the waiting crew, the MP pulled up alongside Longpaw, nodding to Cyril. The Knight notably had a claw on the hilt of his sword, watching the intruder behind his blank-beaked visor.
“Apologies, Kadet. I tried to stop him, but he threw some signed form in my beak and took off. Do you want me to escort him away?”
“Nein, danke Truppen,” Cyril replied, feeling for the hapless soldier. When one was unused to Morgend’s eccentric nature, it tended to come off grating and over the top. Cyril turned to the good doctor, who was about ready to bounce out of his feathers and fur, twisted mustache quivering excitedly.
“Doctor Longpaw, we’re about to start testing this prototype. I can’t stop for more measurements.”
“Measurements? Thing of the past!” Morgend waved a claw derisively. “I have finished my final product!”
The businessdrake dropped the case, spinning it around and popping the catches, quivering so much in excitement he almost missed the latches. Cyril glanced over at his crew, not quite conscious of their opinion of Longpaw but also a bit concerned. He’d learned it was always prudent to keep a handle on the attitudes and discipline of the crew, and while he wasn’t worried about Eihol or Spotsley, Eisenwing and Brightclaw were still new, and as such he needed their respect and obedience now, or he risked not having it later. Was this what Sergeant Hellseig went through all those years campaigning together?
“Voila! I present to you, the Edelstahl Flügel!”
The name was deceptive, as it was neither completely made of stainless steel, nor was it a pair. But the sample removed from the case was immensely impressive, and Cyril noticed immediately that it was indeed the exact same size as his still present wing (hours of measurements and stretching had allowed him to memorize the dimensions, and as such he was fully aware of what it was supposed to look like). While the metal ‘feathers’ were indeed stainless steel, the struts and hinges were a different metal, either steel of another alloy or maybe even aluminum. It was also a basic shape, as instead of a full weave of feathers and skin, the prosthetic was mostly just frame and long struts. This was a drastic departure from Longpaw’s other ideas, which had involved using canvas to replicate an almost batwing like design. None of those had really worked the way he had wanted, however, so Cyril assumed this drastic change was inspired by previous failure.
“Okay, Doctor. How does it work?”
“Arcane crystals!” Longpaw cried, pulling the prototype out fully and laying it out on the grass, flipped over to reveal the contact point and harness where it would be mounted to Cyril’s back. Popping a small latch open, Longpaw revealed that under the small hatch it held inside was indeed a small blue crystal, which pulsed with arcane power. Even the MP looked impressed. “The military industrial complex is going crazy over these, and their price hit rock bottom with the new mines in Crownspike opened up! The best part is it carries a minor enchantment, which allows it to not only act on your muscle movement, but also project a field to act like a real wing! If these crystals had not become so abundant and affordable, I never would have gotten enough to test on!”
It was a grand solution, and Cyril knew of the military desire to marry time-tested enchanting techniques normally used on metal to the new arcane crystals being dug out of the earth and experimented on, now the industry and science had caught up to the magic. Paige would have been ecstatic over magitek like this.
Thinking of her again, he almost reached for his pocket. Almost.
Once again, Cyril cleared his throat. “Doctor, we can’t do this testing here. I have-”
“Not to worry!” Longpaw waved a claw again, as if brushing off trivialities, chuckling earnestly as he did so. “I have no intent to delay longer than necessary! I just want you to try it on. Get the fit, see how it feels and I’ll let you return to your testing! Gives me more time to make adjustments!” The pause afterwards was awkward, and upon realizing he was still in danger of losing his test subject, Longpaw played his trump card.
“I have a letter for you.” He fished into his coat, his smile still brimming with energy but now more like smug in victory as he pulled out the envelope. “I went to your dorm to wait for you, but you weren’t there. This was on your bed, however. You can read it while I do the fitting!”
“How did you get in if the door was locked?” Cyril asked, feeling he already knew the answer of how a doctor and arcane engineer would find a way past a simple door.
“It’s from that mare you’ve been writing!” Morgend declared, thrusting the envelope out, pretending not to have heard Cyril’s question. “Go on! Read it, and I’ll take the time to fit the prototype!”
Cyril, feeling more and more like he was being backed into a corner with every word, attempted to pull out of this nosedive as he took the letter, then glanced over to his crew.
“I really should-”
“Read it Cyril,” Spotsley said bluntly.
“Het is al weer eventjes geleden...,” Eihol shrugged, scratching idly at his burn scars.
“Lots for us to do while you get this all wrapped up,” Eisenwing smirked, glancing to Viers.
“The gods clearly want this, for it all to come together at once,” Brightclaw mused, claw straying to his medallion again. “How strange, the ways of the divine.”
Viers, for his part, stayed quiet, but glanced back at Eisenwing and had to suppress a smile of his own.
Cyril growled aloud, realizing he wasn’t going to get any support from his crew.
“Filthy traitors,” he muttered before unbuttoning his black panzerwaffe jacket and tugging it open. The cold air rushed in, and he blew out an involuntary breath. “Let’s get this over with.”
“Splendid!” cried Morgend, who immediately picked up the prototype and guided Cyril into a seated position on a nearby bench, already chattering about trials and tests that this success would mean for future development.
Not paying the good doctor much mind, Cyril open the envelope with a talon, tugged the letter out, and finally starting reading Paige’s response.
Sent November 23rd, 1011
Dear Cyril,
I’m writing you this as soon as I can get it out. The time until I hear back from you gets longer, and I find myself almost regretting sending this out, as it's so long until I read your respo se. The war at least has me distracted enough from the time, in a strange positive way.
I know you said you didn’t want to talk about your missing wing, but I hope by the time this gets to you it might be a little easier to open up about. If it makes you feel better, by the time I get it such a long time will have passed anyway. I have met many pegasi in both the Riverlands and Equestria, but none of them could have ever imagined being robbed of the gift of flight. It’s such a core piece of our identity, our magic. So believe me when I say I have no sense of comparison or sympathy. Regardless of that, I will still be here for you to hear whatever you may need to say. Or, more accurately, to read what you have to write. Point is, I’m willing to be there for you, when you’re ready.
I’m glad to hear your mother and sister are (the words ‘well’ and ‘safe’ are scratched out) good. I’m well aware of the devastation air raids can inflict on cities. The good news is their chances of survival have gone up if they have established safe methods of shelter in Griffenheim. While you’re right to be worried, I think they’ll be fine. I am especially impressed by your mother volunteering. It’s an incredibly brave thing to be doing, putting out fires and searching for the wounded.
If my parents are going to be fine, your family will be as well.
I think we can safely leave politics by the wayside. It’s no longer interesting, I feel. With us both now swept up into world events, debating governmental actions is no longer a pastime worth the limited time we have to speak.
While I understand your desire to go out and be in the fight, a part of me wishes you never have to go again. I have seen too many good ponies go out without rhyme or reason, and that selfish piece of me wants you to never be placed in mortal danger, though it seems my own safety is less and less a concern of my own mind.
(The letter is folded, some of the ink smeared, as if the paper was folded up and tucked away).
I’m sorry if I seem distant and gloomy. It’s getting hard, over here. I won’t bore you with details I likely shouldn’t even be telling you, but we seem to have the changelings held in place for now. A good thing, I think. Winter is a bad time to be facing them, with the appalling conditions they’re acclimated to at home. In between long missions and watching stretchers take away pilots and crew a bit at a time, I’ve found myself wrapped up in my own head. Remember that bit above I said about airing our problems and me being there to read them? I think I need to do it first. I’m so damn tired all the time. I wake up, start my paperwork, get out to No. 83 and I’m exhausted by lunchtime. I don’t know how you do it, when you’re stuck in the mud all the time. No, I suppose you’re just as tired. I remember a lot of your own letters saying the same thing. Everytime you’ve gone out on campaign, exhaustion and weariness always seem to follow. It’s a sobering thing.
I still have your photo. And your medal. And as many of your letters as I could bring with me, though I regret to say a few of them have been lost from the shuffling. One or two perhaps. I know they carried a lot of information. But when I am tired, or lonely, or as sad as I have been lately, I always gather them all up and try to hold on to the memories I have left of you. I take comfort in the fact that not only are we still together at least through pens, my worry for you when shut up inside an academy is poorly placed. Then, I have a small laugh at myself like I imagine you would do at realizing you’ve been acting stupid, pick myself up and I’m good for a day or two.
The days go by mostly the same. Take care of the aircraft, take care of the base, train when we don’t have a mission, relax when we don’t train. Sometimes we take trips into Bales or Canterlot, but I stopped going to the latter. It’s all different now. It’s not the beautiful, white-walled and impossible place I remember seeing years ago. It’s covered in barbed wire, sandbags, anti-air guns and soldiers. The civilians wander around in the same worried stupor I’m sure you’ve seen before, while the unicorn nobles go on like nothing has changed. Oddly, it reminds me of stories of Griffenheim, as the poor suffer and the rich keep their lives. A strange turn of pace, isn’t it?
I started checking out what books I can on arcane crystal power and generation. My thesis may no longer be able to be written, and I may no longer have my project materials, but I don’t want to lose my edge. Someday, I tell myself, this war has to end. And when it does, I have to be able to pick up and move on. And I will, I tell myself. So, back to what studies I can.
By the time you get this, Mondstille will have passed for you. Did I ever tell you they call it the Blue Moon Festival out here? I know that’s essentially how it translates, but Equestrian ponies never use its Herzlandisch name. I don’t even think they know it. Back in Rijekograd, those who knew had the courtesy to say it. But regardless, it will be gone and so will the New Year. Hearts and Hooves Day will be the next, by my reckoning, and I can’t remember the last time I wished you a happy one. While I don’t have any chocolates or flowers or cookies this time, I can tell you that my desire to be by your side again and have both of us out of these stupid wars has not waned.
Write me as fast as you can. I’ve lost friends, my brother may as well be dead, and now my own home is burning itself down. I have received a tip regarding my parents’ safety, but for now that still leaves you as all I have left aside from Static, Ace and the others I fly with. I need to hear from you, for you to tell me you’re alright.
Iako bi nas vjetrovi i mora mogli razdvojiti, ja ću se vratiti na jakim vjetrovima.
Told you to work on your Rijekan. Your loss if you haven’t.
Love,
-Paige.
P.S: I miss you, in case you couldn’t tell.
“Done!”
Cyril started, dragging the eyes from Paige’s letter. Sure, it had been some time since he’d last heard from her, but the tone in her writing had changed. Even when things had gotten bad over there, she always had managed to pull a tone of positivity into her messages aside from the odd exception. This time, the letter was practically…morose. Like she was trying to pull her head up from her misery and at least act like things were fine, even when they weren’t.
But the kadet was distracted just as he’d reached the post-script to find Morgend standing back, claws spread outwards in a very showgriff style, as if to declare his work for the crowd. The crowd, in this case, had been the crew going through their initial checks to get the panzer up and running, from inspecting fluid levels and testing track tension to inspecting the controls inside and asking questions of Viers. But at Morgend’s declaration, they all began clambering over, leaving their tasks to come see the supposed miracle product.
Cyril Duskwing, for the first time in six months, had a working left wing. The prototype’s support strut, attached to the remaining stump and mounted to his back, was held in place with padded straps, and as he flexed he only felt mild discomfort. After getting used to it not being there, having mass in that location was a new oddity. But as Cyril’s back flexed, the wing extended, the hinges emitting the scrape of metal sliding on metal. It stretched out to its entire length, and Cyril heard a light click and a quiet hum of some kind of energy. He gave it an experimental flap, and to his astonishment the barebones skeletal prosthetic actually caught the air, pulling him slightly upwards. It possessed at least the same strength as his old one and the flesh and feather wing remaining, and the sensation of movement ending at his stump but still having a fully functional limb was a bit unnerving.
And, as he moved around, he realized he was no longer unbalanced. The offkilter tilt he’d suffered until he no longer was aware of it was gone.
“How’s the fit?” Morgend asked, leaning in to examine where the strut slipped up under Cyril’s shirt, mere inches away. “You’re fairly average in physique, so I’m hoping to use you as a good mean. Once I present this to the Board and the Reichsarmee, I can get a larger sample size to refine my median pool.”
“It uh…” Cyril suddenly felt self-conscious, as if paraded around. He hated being the center of attention, and now he was affixed by some of the most important people in his life. But he had always been one to adapt and press on quickly, so he merely cleared his throat.
“The fit’s good. I think I’ll just have to get used to it.”
“Of course, of course. The sensation of possessing a limb once more. It must be…unique.”
Cyril didn’t like that last sentence. He knew Longpaw’s tendencies were odd, and his motivations genuinely good, but the doctor almost sounded obsessed. With what, Cyril wasn’t certain, but Morgend was fixing him with that look again, the one that told of massive mathematical calculations in that strange head, looking at him not as a griff, but as an experiment.
“Does it fly?”
Cyril not only wanted to change tact, but get the question out in the open. Though not an avid flier himself (no stuntdrake was he) the loss of something as basic to a griffon as flight had made him starkly aware of how he’d taken it for granted. Though most buildings were built for foot access, they also possessed large windows and landings for fliers, and being forced to take the long route at the Offizier-Jungeschule had etched in how different he was now. He hadn’t put much hope into Longpaw’s prosthetic allowing him to regain flight. But now…
The doctor’s smile, as hoped, went from wistful and rather scheming to warm and genuinely encouraging.
“Go ahead and try.”
Even with the encouragement, making the attempt was still daunting. He found himself hesitating, wings outstretched. He’d dove into warzones and some pretty suicidal odds. Faced down rioting crowds, armored ambushes and the certain death of taking one lone panzer straight into a regiment of minotaurs. He attempted to keep a relationship going with a mare across the sea he hadn’t seen in five years, and now he was going through the backbreaking process of earning a commission as a lowborn enlisted trooper. So why, of all these difficult and impossible things he had done and continued to do, was this what made him balk and hesitate?
His crew looked on, the veterans he had served with for years quietly encouraging, the new members optimistic but distant, impersonal, the MP and the knight stony and impassive, drawn into a drama they knew little about. Suddenly, Cyril wanted more than anything to just get on with it, and get this all over with.
So without another moment’s hesitation, he threw his wings up and then flapped down.
Liftoff. By instinct, after a lifetime of habit, he automatically corrected his rise, immediately cutting into a breeze, search for wind funnels he could use to lift him, and it was as if all those months with one wing disappeared in an instant. The prosthetic rasped and creaked as he maneuvered and flapped, metal on metal, correcting his path through the cold winter air.
On the ground, Morgend pumped a fisted talon, this victory as much his as Duskwing’s. The assembled crew didn’t cheer, they were too composed for that, but the veterans Spotsley and Eihol looked on with broad grins, quietly whispering to each other in Feathisian, pointing as Cyril cut a loop around the proving grounds. Brightclaw gasped, claws fumbling for his Trinity as he whispered prayers at the sight. Viers, for his part, had the grace to congratulate another firm’s success as an engineer, and Eisen took the opportunity to sidle closer and whisper a few things that sent the young noble’s face a flush and his eyes glancing around to ensure they were not being overheard.
“Behold…the beginning of a new age. Edelstahl!” Morgend Longpaw said quietly. For once, the showgriff tendency was forgotten, as he watched Cyril once more regain the ability of flight. Followup tests would have to be done, of course, and he needed the prototype to appeal to the Reichsarmee and Reformisten for followup funding. But for a first test, the result was overwhelmingly successful.
The figures in the range’s observation tower nearby certainly thought so.
The griffon in question was slender for one in his stead. His coloration a rather vivid shade of purple, more in keeping with a Griffonstonian ancestry. A perpetual far sightedness had left him needing a monocle to read documents, though he didn’t mind so much, as it played into the old Herzland stereotype. He chuckled as he wiped it clean with a rag before replacing it and turning to the other two high level guests that shared the tower with him and the normal staff.
“I will admit, that is a far better first flight than I predicted,” said Oberst Heimclar, commander of the newly formed Panzer-Lehr Division. “I certainly am glad I alerted you to Doctor Longpaw’s work. Not sure it would be believable without eye witnesses.”
“Of course, Herr Oberst!” declared Ela Grimwing, the Eisen Adler herself as she watched the kadet with hungry eyes. “Such a miraculous device! You know, they’re nowhere near this in Krallestein. Then again, they’re a bit more interested in weapons and armor than prosthetics.”
“What my colleague means to say,” cut in Grand Inquisitor Erlinger. “Is that we certainly appreciate the information you provided.” The demigryph looked back out the window again, a hungry expression in his red eyes as he carefully traced the previously handicapped drake. “Who is that, anyway? The one flying the test?”
“Hmm?” Heimclar glanced back, an eyebrow raised as he watched the kadet carefully, then checked his clipboard, muttering as he went down the list of names. “Mmm…ah, Kadet Duskwing, Cyril. Set to graduate next month, assuming he passes his final exam. Good marks overall…prior servicedrake. Five, six years from the records.”
“Duskwing?” Erlinger’s eyes suddenly glowed, and he glanced over to Grimwing.
“Family is rather unremarkable aside from August Duskwing, Generalleutnant in 3rd Armee. From what we can tell, this posting was the good general’s doing after his nephew there got injured.”
“Ah,” Erlinger remarked, a sarcastic tone to his voice now. “Beatific nepotism. It’s a wonder he…hmm. No, six years service and wounded in action. The drake deserves -some- respect.” Red eyes narrowed as they tracked the movement closely. “I admit. I am…curious. Perhaps I shall watch him. Closely.”
March 12th, 1012 Operation Cloudsweeper Skies Over Blackthorn Dale Equestria
No. 83 shook and rattled, her engines roared and burped. She was a beaten warbird by now, a steed ridden into battle so many times and patched up on so many occasions it was little wonder any of her skin was what she wore out of the factory. She bore no war name, but her crew had fondly sprayed her designation on her side in bright red, declaring her identity to the enemy who had failed to kill her on so many occasions. She was here with several of her siblings, formed into hunter-killer groups with Hurricanes and Spitfires on the wings. Word was the new Beaufighters were rolling off the line, and it wouldn’t be long before the Blenheims were replaced by the more modern craft. But for now, No. 83 kept flying so long as her crew could keep her alive and the mechanics could keep her patched up.
There were a lot of Commonwealth fighters in this strike force. New Mareland Boomblasts and a few newer Mustangs ducked and titled in tight formations, their pilots ready to twist away and engage enemy fighters in a heartbeat. Although the colonials were mostly concentrated in the south and holding the Luna Line at Ponderosa, for this operation it was clear as many assets as could be spared had been brought here to assist their Equestrian comrades.
They had a simple mission. Equestria’s army had been getting the stuffing beaten out of them on the ground. Outnumbered, unprepared and with inferior equipment, they had only stopped Chrysalis' army after losing almost half the nation. But the air was where Equestria had held its own, even either brutal losses and, again, inferior equipment. But with their allies and new planes coming into experienced hooves, they had a chance to retake the skies. Operation Cloudsweeper was the codename for the renewed air superiority campaign for the allies. While the communists were taking the fight to Sombra’s Thralls over the Crystal City, Equestria and the Commonwealth would put an end to the bombing raids over the Blueblood Line as part of the new Spring Offensive. Even now, the 2nd Field Army was about to enact an attack following a pounding week-long artillery barrage. The planes here would support them and regain the air.
To Paige, it felt good to go back on the attack. Watching planes being scrapped and pilots bloodied in endless defensive flights had sapped the willpower of the Royal Air Force. Whitemane had begun to feel like a pit of depressive misery through the winter, as changeling bombers pounded cities from Ponderosa to New Horseleans, from Whinneysota to Manehatten. She’d probably seen more of the country from the air than she’d ever seen from the ground. But as the winter snows thawed and the biting storms faded, the Princesses had moved swiftly to retake the initiative. It was time to attack.
“Course, Turner?” came Ace’s voice on the radio. Through it all, likely the only one to keep his head had been Solar Ace. With his family safe and out of bug hooves, his will to fight only seemed to have doubled, and for Paige and Static that motivation had been one of the few things keeping them going.
Paige checked her charts, inspecting the navigator’s table briefly. She’d gotten good at this, reading maps and calculating travel time. While sticking with the other planes was a viable way to keep on course, it wasn’t unheard of for an entire strike force to lose their way. In less than a minute of checking a compass for bearing, the map for their predicted course and a watch to calculate time, she had it, and nodded to Ace in the pilot’s seat.
“Still on course, sir. We should be approaching intercept point in ten minutes or so.”
Ace didn’t physically respond, but a small correction in the plane itself signaled his ease of tension, paying attention to the way the escorting Spitfires moved around No. 83. She was glad their pilot was back to full form, and it showed in the success of their missions. The number of bullets they took, well…the Blenheim was not a dogfighter, and the ever agile Sv. 109s were far more able to punch holes in her skin with their rapid fire autocannons. The current E-4 was bad enough, but the newer G-6 variant in their briefings sounded like a nightmare.
“Y’know, if Celestia is the Princess of the sun, you think she could have dimmed it a bit to let us see what we’re doing,” Static griped from the turret in classic fashion.
“Right, so we can turn the light down on half the world,” Paige shot back, making a small note on her pad, clipped to the table.”
”Wonderbolt Leader to all Strike Elements. Enemy spotted. Prepare for intercept, course bearing to follow.”
The fact that they had a trio of Wonderbolts, in their gloriously painted blue Spitfires, as the leader of this strike showed both how important this operation was, and how desperate the generals were. Wonderbolt losses had been covered up since the start of the war, but rumors filtering back were saying it wasn’t good. Scuttlebutt’s estimation said that of the original squadron maybe a dozen were left, and they were hurriedly trying to get their replacements up to scratch.
From here, Paige could see the three fighters as their blue forms spun and dove, descending on the target they saw below them. With the momentum and grace of a spinning hammer, the rest of the strike group dove as well, clumsy whalish Blenheims and Beaufighters paired with the agile darts of Hurricanes, Spitfires and Boomblasts. There must have been at least fifty aircraft in this single force and they descended in a rippling wave of tans, greens, blacks and blues.
No. 83 twisted, straightening out into the dive, and as they emerged from the clouds Paige could see them blow, black shapes so reminiscent of the changelings who piloted them. The bombing fleet was big, but not the biggest she’d ever seen. The wide expanse of Fv. 200 heavy bombers, likely on course to keep hammering Canterlot, flew in extended diamonds. They were joined by their newer more advanced sisters, the Fv. 177. In smaller clusters around them were packs of UWA 111s and Vs. 88 A tactical bombers, outnumbering their heavier cousins and likely meant to attack garrisons, roads and supply depots. Flanking these heavy hitters were scores of Sv. 110 and 410 heavy fighters, escorts meant to punch through the Equestrian air pickets around Canterlot. And there, flying sharks among the armada of death, were the silver forms of the Sv. 109s, though it was too far to see if they were the 4s or 6s.
And the Equestrians had the jump on them.
”All Strike Elements, descend and engage! Priority targets are the heavies, eliminate the mediums as opportunities! For Princesses and Country, lads!”
And they were off.
Hurricanes, Spitfires, Boomblasts and Mustangs opened their throttles, leaning into the dive as they scythed down on the bombers like knives, machine gun tracers flashing through the air. With even just the first strike, half a dozen heavy bombers shook and rattled, smoke roiling off their engines and fuselages. Two or three detonated in mid air, spinning out and towards the ground aflame. Defensive turrets began slashing back at the attackers, but the first wave was already passing by and the second hammering from above to finish the work the first had done. More bombers twisted away, some fully crippled and diving to death, others wounded and turning for home. A few medium tactical bombers joined them. The rest, however, kept plowing on.
The sharks were among them now. Sv. 109s chased after the Equestrian fighters, while the 110s and 410s began shuffling around their charges to intercede the attack craft. Fighters from both sides spun out, engines smoking and cockpits aflame, wings twisting and both red blood and green ichor spattering on glass. The vicious attack had turned into a chaotic melee, shapes twisting and plunging. No. 83 descended on another 177, Paige pinning the triggers down with Ace and Static’s guns. Together, the six .303 Nickers guns ripped through the bomber’s aluminum hide, and one lucky round must have found the payload because the black craft detonated spectacularly, a rippling wave of explosions tearing the changeling craft from inside out. When it started dropping, it did so in flaming pieces, the wings sheared off and tumbling away, the cockpit a torn wreck and the fueslage perforated like a tin can.
“Scratch one!” Paige called, punching the roof in celebration.
“Stay focused!” Ace snapped, twisting to pull clear of the bomber’s debris. “There’s more where that came from.”
“Yeah, like that!” Static’s voice, normally sarcastic and laid back, had suddenly taken a panicked edge. “Battleshifter, four high!”
It was as she’d said. Twisting out of the side door of one of the 410s, a single black uniformed changeling had taken flight. Under normal circumstances, no flier (be they pegasus, changeling, griffon or hippogriff) could keep up with the slowest of monoplanes. This ‘ling, however, was no ordinary flier. Midair, they’d twisted and flashed, a burst of green light obscuring their form before the twisting, serpentine form of the insectlike Neverwarm Sky Viper took their place. Long as a bomber, with massive scything claws and vicious mandibled jaws, this forms four dragonfly wings were more than capable of keeping up with the bomber fleet, and within seconds the Queen’s Guard battleshifter had spun in the air, destroying two Boomblasts and a Hurricanes merely with its bulk before a scything claw lashed out and bisected a passing Spitfire.
But this was why the RAF had sent Blenheims and Beaufighters.
“Wonderbolt Leader, this is Heavy 4-2!” Static hollered on her radio set. “Engaging Battleshifter, requesting support!”
Copy, 4-2. All heavy victors, reorient and acquire Queen’s Guard, over.”
“Wonderbolt Leader, Strike 3-3, interrogative; what is the form of the Battleshifter, over?”
“Just look up, 3-3. It’s the big bucking flying snake, over.”
“Ah…I see it. Many thanks, Lead. 3-3 engaging, out.”
The Battleshifter spun, howling into the sky between fanged and dripping mandibles, only to find his prey scattering. Spitfires and Boomblasts twisted and bolted away, throttles pinned open in any direction that was clear. Instead of the fragile interceptors, a dozen Blenheims and four Beaufighters were sweeping in from two directions to pinch him in a vice. Roaring, the Queen’s Guard moved to the attack. But he had made a critical mistake. The Blenheims chattered, their .303s spattering off the Sky Viper’s carapace with little impact (aside from distractions, that is), but assuming the Beaus were just as poorly armed was a lethal slip.
The Blenheims twisted around the Battleshifter, their guns chattering as they scattered. For a moment, the massive form of the Sky Viper seemed confused, trying to figure out which target to go after first before lashing out at the last minute, tearing a Blenheim’s wing off. As the heavy fighter spun around, the side door opened, and two winged figures leapt out into the air while a third fell before the white circle of a parachute marked their descent. But they had opened the approach for the Beaufighters.
In the RAF, the Beaufighter was still relatively new. Available in small numbers at the start, the war had spiked production levels. Now, they called them just Beaus, all armed with a brace of four 20mm Horspano autocannons. Specifically, if they were fitted with torpedoes to attack ships they were known as Torbeaus. Developed with these, a new variant had come onto the scene which crewponies called Rockbeaus.
They were armed with a rack of RP-3 rockets. These were originally designed to dive onto tanks. But the RAF had found another use for them.
Almost in volley fire mode, the four Beaufighters let loose their rockets. A great sheer of explosive ordnance streaked away, leaving plumes of exhaust in their wake as the payloads detonated on the Battleshifter, causing the creature to twist and shriek in pain and agony. This, of course, was followed by the chattering of great guns as the 20mm cannons sent a fusillade of rounds down on him. No mere machine guns were these. Within twenty seconds since the bombardment had started, the battleshifter’s lifeless corpse fell from the cloud, a muted green flash having returned what was left of his remains to his changeling form. He fell from the sky in chunks of black carapace and spatters of green ichor.
Onboard No. 83, cheers went up between Paige and Static. Even Ace smirked behind his oxygen mask. Aerial battleshifters had been a nasty thorn in the RAF’s side, something able to absorb machine gun fire and twist and maneuver like no aircraft alight. Now, they had evidence the hunting pack technique, still new and only recently being tested with the Beaufighters’ heavier armament, could work. They had developed a counter.
”Wonderbolt Leader to all heavy elements, dang fine work ponies! Now let’s clean up the rest of these bombers and we can-”
Abruptly, the call was cut off with a short scream, a nasty radio squeal and a burst of static. Paige looked up, searching the sky furtively, hoping to see that the problem was merely some errant cloud drifting in. But to her horror, a nearby cloud of smoke and fire was raining blue fragments, shards of wing and pieces of broken engine, all on fire in some way or form. The slashing form of an Sv. 109 sliced past, twisting in the fastest and tightest Immelmann Paige had ever witnessed, and she spotted the one thing that adorned its fuselage, separating it from its fellows; a red spider icon, painted just under the cockpit with a black hourglass in the middle.
This was an Sv. 109G-6, the most advanced fighter flying above Equestria today. And it was the Verfolger, being flown by Major Verkut, one of the deadliest ace pilots in the sky. Nopony knew his full name. What little was known had mostly been through recovered Queendom propaganda. But all knew him by the red trapdoor spider that adorned his plane, the only decoration he had aside from his kill tracker. If Paige had spotted it right, that was up to twenty-one now.
The radio net went ballistic.
”Holy buck! Lead is down, I say again, Lead is down!”
“Where in Tartarus did he come from?”
“There! From abo-”
“2-3 is down! And I’ve got a fire in my number two engine!”
“Where is he?!”
Verkut cut across the sky, cannons thundering as he did. And these were actually cannons here. Whereas the E-4s were equipped with 20mms later in their service, the G-6s had been fitted with them from the outset. Verfolger had even more powerful 30mm guns, loaded with incendiary cannon shells. Whenever he fired a brace, planes burned. And the unremarkable paint job and tendency to hide amongst the other Sv. 109s made him impossible to track, even as Mustangs and Spitfires tried to chase him down.
The brawl continued despite the ace’s assination rampage. Verkut’s personal squadron, the Himmelsreiniger, were also capable aces, and they slid from the other 109s they had used as camouflage, abandoning their lesser comrades to descend on the confused and now leaderless strike force. But the RAF gave as good as it got. As No. 83 turned to rejoin the fight, several medium bombers were already twisting away, heading for Queendom lines with engines smoking and trailing fluids. The heavy bombers remaining, ungainly and too bulky to evade, plowed on, either dying as they tried to carry on the mission or slowing enough to allow the crews to evacuate before being downed by an Allied fighter. They lined up on an 88 attempting to turn away, and Paige automatically triggered her .303s, letting a stream of rounds punch a line up the tactical bomber’s left engine. Smoking, the craft shuddered before beginning a slow, lazy roll and falling gently away. Abruptly, her glass viewport cracked, spiderwebs crossing it as the bomber’s final defiance sent several machine gun rounds into her gun nest. Bullet holes stitched across the aluminum skin yet again, and she ducked low, trying to avoid the worst of it. But now her view was severely compromised, and she wouldn’t be able to safely fire without knowing if she was shooting friend or foe.
“Ace!” she called out, but the Blenheim was already twisting about for home.
“I know! We’re bingo fuel and the Strike Force is falling apart! Static, signal our withdrawal!”
“Already on it, but I think we’re preaching to the choir here! Wonderbolt 2-1, Heavy 4-2 is bugging out! We’ve taken severe damage and are at bingo fuel!”
”Copy 4-2!” came the reply. The pony on the other end was a bit scratchy, young like Paige and Static themselves, but still plenty eager. ”All Heavy victors, bug out back to base, we’re done here. Wonderbolt and Strike elements, cover them!”
With that, one of the two remaining Wonderbolts twisted around, soaring off to chase down Verkut’s 109. The Spitefire’s blue Wonderbolt coloring was broken up by a rainbow stripe from her nose back to the cockpit, with the word ‘RAINBOOM’ in white over a lightning bolt. She caught up to him as the changeling ace shot the engine off a Boomblast, then made a twist to cut around and, with a quick burst of fire, shot a line of holes across the pilot’s parachute. As the form crumpled and descended towards the earth, Flight Lieutenant Rainbow Dash had no idea if he’d been aiming for the white cloth or pony pilot, but in the end the detail ceased to matter. It still triggered the same response in her.
“I’m gonna bury you.”
At which point, her Rainboom went screaming in, guns blazing. At the last moment, Verkut’s fighter seemed to almost skip in place, dodging the streams of fire and twisting at an angle so sharp it would have broken a pony’s neck. But this didn’t dissuade her in the slightest. Instead, she grit her teeth in a vicious grin, jamming the control stick forward as she tore down into the deepest dive of her life.
Whitemane RAF Airbase Bales, Equestria 6 hours later
Once again, No. 83 sat, miserable and beaten in her hanger as the mechanics poured over her. A bit of aluminum bolted on here, a patch applied there, damaged parts removed and replaced. It was a wonder she was still flying. Unfortunately, there were too few Beaufighters to go around, and plenty of eager hooves wanting to fly them. So, the old Blenheims stayed in flight, despite being rendered largely obsolete in their original role. Paige wondered how much longer that would be a reality. Which would happen first? Would No. 83 become so torn apart that one day her airframe was unable to cope with all the patchwork repairs done to her, or would she get replaced with a newer model? The latter was most preferable to be sure, but she found herself saddened by the thought. Then again, they might just get shot down before either of those happened.
Ace and Static were next to her, watching the work being done, no heart for the mountain of post-flight checklists and after action reports they needed to be filled out. The papers abandoned on a nearby worktable, they simply watched the mechanics, mugs full of coffee steaming in the brisk spring air. From all accounts, Operation Cloudsweeper had been declared a success. For a time, they had taken air superiority from the changelings and destroyed several bombing groups, both their strike force and others. The Luftwaffe appeared to have delayed the next wave, likely considering their losses and how to proceed. But the losses were staggering. It was especially high among those flying older Hurricanes, Boomblasts and Blenheims, while newer craft were at least able to draw even. But the changelings were pumping out more and more advanced aircraft. Designs which had been confirmed to have just been approved the year before were already popping up in huge numbers, likely a product of the changeling drones and their work ethic in massive manufactory blocks inside the hives. For the Allies, drawing even might not have been enough.
“Rough day,” Ace finally said, sighing as he stopped pretending to even try to work at his checklist. He’d opened his shirt collar, officer’s cap askew on his head, tie loosened. He looked to be absolutely beaten into the ground. Static, normally unflappable, bitter and flippant, had no words in reply for once, merely nodded in agreement as she smoked her latest cigarette (despite the nasty looks a nearby mechanic shot her).
Paige, meanwhile, drummed her hooves on the textbook she’d brought out. Knowing she had no head for paperwork right now, she had grabbed her dogeared copy of 'Fundamentals of Crystal Matrices, Vol. 1’. But even that held little appeal for her.
“Who was that Wonderbolt? The one who took over at the end?”
“Hmm?” muttered Static, glancing Paige’s way in confusion. “What? You mean Lieutenant Rainbow Dash?”
After living in Equestria for four years, Paige at least had heard the names of the Elements of Harmony, though she had a harder time understanding their role in society. Apparently, they were all blessed and chosen mares who were granted gifts by an ancient magic exclusive to Equestrian society, powered by the very Princesses and the emotional stability of Equestria itself. It was…a bit like a fairytale, and didn’t explain why, if these mares were so important, they all lived such simple lives. Well, all except Princess Twilight, it seemed. But with the war on, perhaps all these mares had received positions to reflect their blessings? Paige wasn’t sure, and while she was curious she had no serious way to ask.
“The Element of Loyalty? So she’s the leader of the Wonderbolts?”
“Oh, no. That’s still Group Captain Spitfire. Who do you think the fighter is named after?”
“Wha-that doesn’t make any sense!” Paige was absolutely flabbergasted. “In the Riverlands, you run for a position! Well, most of them…but in the Empire, and a lot of monarchies, you get appointed to a position by nobility.”
Static blinked, clearly not understanding the statement. Her cigarette burned furtively in her magic field, forgotten for the moment.
“Okay…and?”
“So, if Lieutenant Dash is an Element of Harmony, how come she doesn’t have the power to go with it? Why aren’t all of them in government or something?”
“Because…they never asked for it?”
Paige just stood there, gawping at the simple statement. The idea that ponies with so much magical power would simply not wish to do something more with their lives when they likely could have at the drop of a hat was such a foreign concept to one as lowborn as her. If such an opportunity had been handed to her like Luna Nova had, she would have snatched it with both hooves and flown off at the speed of sound.
“They never…asked?”
“Well, I guess Princess Twilight kinda got handed the job when she became an alicorn,” Static remarked, shrugging again before taking another drag on her cigarette.
Paige was…unsure how to handle this. In her experience, she knew about gracious ponies, and greedy nobles, and political backbiting and competition. But never had she heard about individuals with such gifts -not- taking advantage of it every opportunity they got. Her reading on the Elements had never mentioned what they did in their day to day lives. The idea that they’d done -nothing- with this influence was…anathema to her and everything she knew from Griffonia.
“Wha-”
“Just an Equestria thing, sweetness. You get used to it.”
Static shrugged, taking a last tug on her cigarette before tossing the butt into a nearby trashcan. For a few minutes, the three continued watching the crew work before Ace, of all ponies, sighed and said “Fresh air. Let’s get out there.”
Static and Paige glanced to each other, a bit surprised. Normally the stiff-backed pilot didn’t concern himself with little pleasantries when there was a job at hoof, and he certainly didn’t leave a job waiting to be done like with the paperwork just now. But the crewmares followed him out, Paige shooting one last glance at poor No. 83, sparks flying off her from the welders working to save her skin one more time.
Outside, the Whitemane airbase was still kicked into activity, despite the sun having set more than an hour ago. The winter snows had mostly melted away, naturally this time as the war had led to a cancellation of the magical festival Winter Wrap-up. Aircraft descended onto the runways, being taken into the maintenance hangers or over to the staging areas. There were a lot fewer after Operation Cloudsweeper, but the level of activity and number of Spitefires and Beaufighters on the taxiways was a good sign. Experienced crewponies guided planes down with capability, pilots guided their craft with hard earned veterancy. Pegasi reconnaissance and strike forces prepared for night patrol, taking off in squads while fitted with lightweight submachine guns, carbines and specially made explosives, and the nighttime CAP buzzed overhead, invisible in the dark aside from small black shapes moving on blue-black sky. Anti-air turrets sat ready on the edges of the airbase, their operators in small dugouts nearby as they tried to distract themselves, not thinking about the call to stations that signaled the worst.
For now, Paige, Static and Ace joined the small cluster of pilots outside, studying the announcement board, looking at the duty roster or chatting about the war or things at home. They were all trying to avoid the ready room. There, squadron command was constantly updating the blackboard with the roster, crossing out names and adding notes like MIA and KIA to friends and comrades. Looking around, most already knew if they’d lost somepony.
Moving through the small pack of pilots, another mailpony was shifting around, bulging saddlebags draped over his flanks as he called out names to those pilots and crew who had missed mail call this morning due to the missions. Several times, he called out a name, only to be met with absolute silence. After an awkward pause, he moved on to the next name.
“Turner, Paige!”
Startled, Paige glanced up, previously caught up in her own thoughts. The mailpony was tugging out not just an envelope for a sheet of paper, but a small package, tied off with string. She trotted forward, silently accepting the package as she held her breath. She hadn’t heard from her parents since they’d told her of their flight from Rijekograd, and that strange emblem hadn’t spilled any more secrets about their fate. Cyril she hadn’t heard from since September with the two wars screwing up mail and supply lines on both sides of the Celestial Sea. But she fumbled with the package as she returned to Static and Ace, finally ripping the paper a little.
“No fanmail?” she asked Static, and the radiomare shook her head, smiling sadly.
“It’s kinda been trickling off anyway. ‘S okay. Once I get back on air, it’ll all come flooding back. What’s that?”
Paige flipped the package over, showing off the address written on the paper.
“Package from Cyril. Not sure what-ah!”
She’d finally gotten the package open, and out fell three candy bars packaged together, bundled up with a folded piece of paper. The three candies she recognized as a Flowenan brand, luxury chocolates under most circumstances. Cyril’s words about not having much to spend his idols on came back to her, and a small warmth kicked in her stomach.
“Sretan Dan srca i kopita, draga.”
“Sorry, what was that?” Static’s magic had already snagged two chocolate bars, and Paige ignored the kleptomaniacal behavior. Most gifts from home were often pillaged in similar fashion, whether they be baked goods, tobacco or pinup posters.
“He got it back to me,” she replied. A month late, on this kind of delay, was a minor miracle, and she felt the giddy buzzing as if he had gotten them to her on Hearts and Hooves Day proper. It didn’t matter the particulars. He was still out there, though she was certain they wouldn’t send him to the trenches from the akadamie (fairly certain, but the Empire had a reputation for ruthlessness after all).
And so it was, as she took a bite of the chocolate, in the cool spring air, she began to read a letter penned two months ago.
Sent January 12th, 1012
Dear Paige,
I can fly again.
You were right to idolize Morgend Longpaw. The drake gave me back my wing, and I have to say my previous reservations about him have mostly disappeared. Sure, he’s a bit odd and has a hard time connecting to people around him, but having gotten to know him and with what he’s done for me, I’m willing to overlook a few quirks. Never let it be said I am unwilling to change my opinion when proven wrong.
I want to tell you all about it, but I’m told I’d be breaking about a dozen laws if I did. Suffice it to say, your studies on crystal power are probably going to dictate science for the next decade at least. Don’t give them up, for anything. I want everycreature to know you were one of the first to get it right.
Longpaw’s got me doing demonstrations for military review boards. This on top of my kadet courses and the prototyping at Korinna. Needless to say, my schedule is rather packed. When I’m not testing the wing’s function or ordering a heavy panzer around, I’m desperately trying to remember the difference between the radio call for a creeping barrage and the signal that my position is overrun. It’s a lot. I don’t know that I can keep up with it all. But I have no choice. The final exam is in a few weeks. Then, if I pass, graduation and official commission. I’m really worried. We’re supposed to deploy into combat right after this. Back into the fray. And you know what’s strange? I’m dreading what will happen if I -don’t- go. After all I’ve been through and all the misery I’ve seen, the friends I’ve lost and the separation I’ve endured, the knowledge that it's happening and we’re going back actually puts a lot of relief in my mind. Like a reassurance, almost. Though I’m not comfortable with what that says about me.
Exhaustion and misery in a combat zone isn’t uncommon. Your body runs firing all pistons at full throttle so long, you get used to that being the norm, then when it isn’t you feel run down. And, of course the dark thoughts and depression. Believe me, it's normal. You’ll be fine. Find little things to keep yourself occupied in downtime, distracting things. Getting back into crystal studies is a good step.
It’s almost Hearts and Hooves Day here, so Happy Hearts and Hooves Day. Imports are picking up here, and I got some more Flowenan chocolate for you. Just some candy bars, though. The good shit is still back in the big cities, not an akadamie sweet stand. But a clawful of bars is better than nothing. Share them with your crew, that’s one thing I can understand and relate to, at least.
I got into sketching again. Been some time since I did one last, so I wanted to pick up my pencil. It’s mostly mountains around here, but the train to the Proving Grounds gives me some good sights, wide open fields and small hamlets. It’s the planting season soon, when the farmers will plow the soil and clear their plots of stones, weeds and debris, getting rid of the frost and winter junk to make way. In a few months’ time, they’ll be sowing seeds for wheat, barley and potatoes. I won’t be around for that, but I like to imagine what that’ll be like. I sent you a few of what I have. They’re all winter scenes of course, and still early, still rough.
My mother got back to me. Sophie is off in the north, where the bombers can’t reach her. She and my grandparents stayed in Griffinheim. I don’t mind telling you I’m dreading it. It’s like you all over again; long periods of silence to do nothing but worry. At least I can get a phone call every so often.
A few ponies from Wittenland showed up in town. The rumors were buzzing about it, actually. Apparently, they have to go through the Hillpony territory or Kosakenland to get out of the Riverlands. And if this many are getting through, your parents must be as well. Don’t lose hope. They probably have to figure out how to contact you.
So strange, with so much time to write I find I have so little I can put down. I can’t speak of the war as I’m not in it yet, and besides you are already in one. I can’t talk of my training as it’s mostly classified, and I can’t describe what I do in my offtime as that is absolutely classified.
If by some miracle I manage to graduate next month, I’ll be put on a train heading west. In a way, that much closer to you again. If nothing else, the mail system might be a little more forgiving if it doesn’t have to go as far. I can’t give you a specific date, of course. That’s not going to go well with the censors, but I can tell that hopefully by summer I’ll be back closer to home. Might not be under the circumstances I preferred, but I’ll take the little I can get.
Write me as soon as you can.
Love,
-Cyril
“He can fly…” Paige said quietly. The fact that Morgend Longpaw himself was working with Cyril always slipped her mind until she went back to keep writing, but this realization was a stark bombshell. A prosthetic powerful yet intricate enough to restore flight to an adult male griffon was absolutely unheard of. If Cyril’s hints were correct and this had to do with arcane crystal power sources, it meant her theory had been correct! Her theory, used by others…
“What the hell am I doing here?” she mused, wondering on how her life had been derailed the past few years.
“Mmf, kind of what we’re all asking ourselves, sweetheart,” said Static around a mouthful of Flowenan chocolate, muzzle covered in melted candy as the bar in question hovered in front of her. “Can your coltfriend keep sending candy? Cause I might steal him out from under you.”
“Bad,” Paige said shortly, taking the thick envelope and smacking Static on the flank. “Away with you and your lecherous thoughts, you drake-stealing wench!”
Static shrieked as she juked sideways to avoid the next blow, accidentally running straight into Ace who, upon glancing up to check what had impacted him, merely shook his head before going back to reading his own letter. Mellowed out, the two mares went back to giggling and shoving each other around, helping themselves to the chocolate bars as they looked over the sketches sent in the envelope as well.
All things considered, for the short time Cyril said he put into them, they were quite good. Rough, unfinished and drawn by a claw without practice of course, but still good. He was much better at landscapes and scenery, the griffons and ponies that did make appearances little more than rough outlines or stick figures. But that was clearly the akademie, there was a plaza with a fountain, benches and a flowerbed in the back, the view of a field out the window of a train (and the detail of the train compartment itself), a pair of armored knights standing outside a gate.
“How come he sends you these?” Static asked as she looked over the one of the plaza. “He doodles these in his free time, right? Betcha if he stuck with it and gave them more, they’d turn out really good. But these are just outlines.”
“He doesn’t think he can,” Paige replied plainly. “He’s humble to a fault. A sharp fault. I don’t know if it's some confidence issue or whatever else, but he doesn’t think he’s smart. Or capable. Reading some of his letters and the way he describes himself, you’d think he just sort of a gray blur. Like he's just there in the background. He’s got a head for quite a few things, but somewhere along the line he just decided he’s only fit to be a soldiergriff. Ne znam, I honestly don’t know how to handle him. I’ve tried encouragement, suggestion, directly contradicting his own criticisms. But he always finds a way to play down his own ability. The eternal pessimist.”
“Well, what was he doing before he enlisted?”
“Factory work, I think. He mentioned that after his father died, he had to pick up the slack to keep the family going. Though Margot-”
“Who?”
“Cyril’s mother.”
“Ah, right.”
“Margot’s a hard worker too. I guess Cyril’s always just been…going. Working. No one told him he -could- do anything for so long. Maybe he just forgot he was able.”
“Huh. Maybe.” Static paused, looking up at the night sky above them, studying the stars under the fresh, cloudless sky. “Didn’t know you took psychology classes.”
From the ready room, the echoing call of “Dead List Up!” caught their ears. That was the updated list of casualties for Operation Cloudsweeper and the Dale Offensive on the ground. The cold, sobering reality of their war splashed and washed away the musings of a griffon on the other side of the world, and Paige felt the same tired resolution that had drained away upon getting Cyril’s package return.
Ace nodded, glancing to the other two before silently turning, heading towards the ready room. Paige took another bite of chocolate to discover it was her last bite. She considered it before popping the last piece on her mouth. It had lost much of the richness in flavor, no longer as sweet.
How fitting, she thought bitterly, as she turned to follow Ace and Static and find out just how many ponies had died this time.
The first day of fighting in the Dale saw thirty-thousand casualties dead, wounded or missing. Of those, nine thousand were confirmed outright dead.
February 15th, 1012 Starry Sea Dreki Approaches, 40 km south of Smaug Island Kriegsmarine U-bootwaffe U-317
Pong
Another contact. The sonar operator signaled it as yet another merchant vessel. That made thirty, just as U-96 had stated.
Pong
This one was a destroyer, said the operator. That made six.
Pong
One of the few aspects of war the changelings didn't borrow from the griffons was naval warfare. When High Queen Chrysalis had struck the Exchange, copying and adapting the Imperial model for her new Queendom Heer (down to even mimicking uniforms, ranks and language), the Imperial navy had been in a sorry state, the once grand fleet practically nonexistent after the collapse during the Revolution. To griffons, submarines were useful tools that played second fiddle to cruisers and battleships, the true heavyweights of battle (they thought). To changelings, it was the other way around. The naval yards at Ditrysium had worked around the clock for years to assemble the Kriegsmarine, but the pride of the fleet was Admiral Mimic's U-bootwaffe, the greatest undersea armada ever assembled, even outshining the seaponies of Seaquestria. The icy waters and tight channels of home had encouraged smaller craft, but coupled with powerful engines and imitation of ocean predators and sea monsters, they could travel -very- far. Oberleutnant zur See Eala Pyrestalker believed that, if the changelings hadn't evolved on land, they would have found a suitable home under the sea.
The command section of the submarine was silent, not wanting to give themselves away. For all their unpreparedness before Alicorn Sunset had launched, Equestrian radar technology was surprisingly top notch, advanced and widespread. The fact it was mounted to so many ships meant the Royal Navy had the capacity to be great subhunters.
A shame, then, that they had not yet caught on to their capability. Equestrian sonar was woefully neglected compared to their land based counterparts. Kriegsmarine u-boats had been responsible for breaking the back of the Lunar Fleet, sinking two of their precious carriers and driving the Equestrians out, the mighty Royal Navy cowed by a fleet half their tonnage. Now, the U-boats ranged out across the Celestial Sea, preying on enemy craft at their leisure, silent killers hunting in wolf packs for easy kills, dancing around the stumbling and scared Royal Navy. The addition of the Commonwealth vessels and communist fleets, even more behind, did little to slow them.
Pong
The sonar operator finally looked up, nodding at his captain.
“That’s the last one, ma’am. Thirty-two merchant ships, six destroyers and a light cruiser on escort.”
Pyrestalker turned to the radio operator.
“Are the rest in position?”
The changeling at the bench checked his log, then nodded as well.
“U-96 and U-13 signaled their arrival about twenty minutes ago. Uh…U-66 signaled affirmative, but that was an hour ago and she was on the other side of the convoy. I don’t know if she can break radio silence to signal us again, ma’am.”
Pyrestalker grunted. Three of four confirmed, counting her own of course. Imitating changeling swarm tactics, the u-boat wolf pack was to strike from multiple angles at staggered times, confusing the escorts and dragging them off in different directions. Once the convoy vessels scattered, it would only be a matter of time before a large number of them were hunted down and sunk.
Equestria had a bevy of natural resources. It didn’t have to rely on international trade in order to function, and mostly participated to generate wealth and stimulate the world economy, a luxury most nations envied. But on a war footing, it was clear they were suffering shortages, especially with how much of the nation had been lost. The bevy of natural resources, ponypower and industrial capacity, all in changeling hooves. The United Kingdom, Equestria’s hippogriff allies to the south, and the Commonwealth of New Mareland were both sending large amounts of supplies to beleaguered Equestria, shoring up their arsenal while the pony industry caught up to the demands of the war. No ‘ling was under any pretenses; given enough time, Equestria -would- start fighting back effectively.
But if the convoys carrying weapons, rare goods like rubber and now desperately sought crystals, as well as fuel and reinforcements from New Mareland were sunk in enough numbers, it would be an enormous hamstring to the alicorns’ ability to resist.
Pyrestalker finally nodded.
“Signal the attack,” she said plainly before turning to her helmsman. “Line us up on that cruiser. Let’s see if we can bang her up good before getting into the fight.”
“Aye aye, ma’am.”
February 19th, 1012 “Welcome back again, listeners, to ‘Der Reichswehr Rundfunk Herzland!’ Your armed forces radio service, reaching out across the Kaiserreich!”
-Across the Kaiserreich!-
*a few bars from Der Königgrätzer Marsch plays*
“I’m your host, Vizefeldwebel Hans Whiteclaw! Reaching out from the Grenzwald to the Western Front! And unless you've been living under a rock, we have about three of those.
Now, I know you're all not here for my dulcet tones, so let's get on to the news!
Revolutionary forces continue to besiege Rottendedam, cutting the roads and rail lines into the city. While the Kaiserliche Marine is still able to force the Entente blockade, Rottededam is essentially encircled. General van Voorst issued us a message over telegram, assuring us that morale and supplies are still high, and the enemy has not advanced past the outskirts. I'm sure we'll all be hearing about the inevitable breakout any day now. Scattered fighting is reported from the Whitetails, though our embedded reporters tell us the Bronze Legion is holding strong.
The Southern Front's got good news too, I'm glad to report. Reitscheid, Luxwingburg and Allwerder are firmly back in Imperial claws, and our troops are pushing the Entente south. The offensive to retake Greifenmarsch is well underway, and Imperial panzers are reportedly on their way to Oldwingburg as we speak!
And now, today's Force Identity entry is the L-39 Vipere, an Aquileian fighter design! Only began mass production a few months ago, and reportedly a step up from their old Faucon designs, but Luftkommand assures us this still puts them miles behind our own Adlers and Habichts! Keep your eye on the sky, and if you see any of these, report it to your local Luftverteidigungsmarschall, preferably with a location and time. Remember, every griffon must do their part for Kaiser and Empire!
Dateline: Bronzkreuz! The site of the infamous Childrens’ Evacuation from Griffenheim and other major Herzland cities, we have reports that everyone’s chicks, foals and pups are doing just fine! An initiative amongst the shelter’s older children has seen hundreds join the Reformisten Youth Pioneers, headed by Generalmeister Beekyarov (Left claw of the Black King himself) to teach them order and discipline, and give them a purpose while away from home! Rest assured, your loved ones are not only safe, but doing their patriotic duty even when times are tough, all courtesy of the Kaiser’s own coffers!
In international news, the warfront in Equestria has slowed to a slog! While the changelings’ march on Canterlot has been stalled, advances in north and south are underway, and from insider reports, the town of Appleloosa now flies the Queendom flag! In the north, the Imperium’s forces march through the city of Snowbury, though King Sombra was unavailable for questioning, and none of his soldiers and commanders were permitted to discuss their plans to Rundfunk reporters. No matter! At this rate, we are certain the war in the west will be over by Mondstille!
This message goes out to all those not currently serving, but still tuning in to our fine station; are you between the ages of sixteen and thirty-five, in good physical condition and possessing the desire, faith and moral fervor to serve your gods and Kaiser? Report to the nearest recruitment office and sign up! All branches have openings! Do -your- part to end the Revolutionary menace! Minor criminal offenses will be overlooked, and all recruits will receive a one-hundred idol sign-on bonus should you be accepted. Don’t wait, enlist!
That’s the news, Soldaten! Join us later as we secure an interview with none other than Doctor Adraste Shadowing as we discuss the latest technologies developed by Castle Krallestein, and later we review all the various common household scrap that can be donated so you may do your part in gathering war material! Every little bit helps! Remember, destiny is on our side! Victory is inevitable! And now, back to the music!”
On the north side of the akadamie was a resplendent plaza, expansive and majestic. It had several large flower gardens, a few smaller statues and a single plaque, dedicated to the Restoration of Hellsword. On the far side were two howitzers, museum pieces from the time of the Revolution, with their barrels elevated and crossed, filled with cement to act as ornaments. The plaza had hosted several events, many ceremonies and speeches, formations and even once a small parade. But here, today, would be the first time it witnessed a graduation.
In front of the steps to the akadamie, a stage had been assembled, where a podium stood, chairs lined out to either side. Arranged on the flanks, shooting out in a V from the stage, were several more chairs set in rows. These were for the families of the kadets, griffons and ponies from all over the Grenzwald and some from the Empire proper. Though not as large or prestigious as the akademies in Helheim, Osnabeak or Rottendedam, the Grenzwald Offizier-Jungeschule still had a graduating class of two-hundred and ten, a full kompanie. Quite a notable achievement for its first, after those unable to stomach the grueling course had been dropped.
Kadet Cyril Duskwing looked over the plaza from afar, resplendent in his dress uniform. Right now, he was supposed to be in the dining hall for breakfast and then preparing the final rehearsal for the graduation ceremony. But an equal half nervous anticipation and half unbelieving numbness had settled over him, and he had found his appetite abandoned. Instead, he had a mug of coffee and quietly sipped at it as he contemplated the events of the past few weeks, an unlit cigarette in the other claw. His decorations clinked quietly on his chest, almost alternating with the light scraping of his prosthetic wing folded along his back, breaking the uneasy silence. He’d taken up residence on a bench in an open corridor between two buildings, one that gave him a view of the plaza without being noticed. His officer’s beret sat next to him, the kadet pin in it gleaming bronze, shined to as mirror sheen a soft metal like bronze could be. Regulations stated he was supposed to wear headgear at all times outside in a non-combat zone, but right now he didn’t care too much about that.
Forty-ninth out of two-hundred and ten. In his graduating class, his final exams and total marks had placed him forty-ninth. Well behind the schooled nobility and knightly kadets who had likely been bred and groomed for such a position their entire lives by one order or another, but past that he was on the high end of average above the common kadets, perhaps even the very bottom of the upper tier. He wasn’t sure how to process that. He had struggled so hard with the battery of lessons and his other tests and demonstrations, certain that his place was only to be a simple enlisted drake. He thought he’d never earn this kind of commendation. But here he was, on the other side of exams, about to be commissioned in the Reichsarmee as a full leutnant.
It felt undeserved. Like he had simply stumbled into his good fortune somehow. He’d been so sure that if he got by he’d have only scratched the bare minimum. But the paper had clearly told him otherwise.
The prosthetic was cleared for field use. The one he wore now was a Mk. II, a slightly modified version from the one he’d test flown to account for greater wear in rough terrain, a last minute adaptation Longpaw had fitted to him before his deployment. The Gryta was cleared, and they would be shipping out soon with a finished model, the very same pattern to be mass produced across the Empire. The crew would have to pick a name for her. Then would come the long drive back west, to bring the fight to the Entente. After everything he had seen and done, this felt a little unreal. A talon idly came up to his decorations, tracing them all until he came to the slot where a certain medal was supposed to be. He hadn’t replaced it yet, and those who called him on it accepted his excuse that after losing it, he didn’t feel right wearing it (only half lie).
His discomfort grew deep in his gut. His mind was spiraling a mile a minute, trying to process the information of the past few days. He couldn’t tell his mother, not yet. She was in besieged Griffenheim, and the phones were unreliable at the best of times. Better to wait until he heard when she would be able to take his call. He couldn’t tell his friends, they were already on the crew with him. And Paige…sure, he could write to her about it, but the letter would likely pass her last reply somewhere over the Celestial Sea, assuming the mail ship wasn’t sunk. Somehow, they’d managed to avoid that happening, but it took so long to hear back he sometimes wondered.
So for now instead, he stewed and wondered, contemplating as he watched the akadamie staff set up the plaza. The overcast skies kept toying with the idea of snow, which would have certainly been detrimental to the ceremony. But, knowing the knights and instructors, they would have pressed on regardless. The kadets had trained in far worse conditions than standing around in light snowfall for an hour or two.
When the figure came to stand next to him, Cyril wasn’t quite sure. Fortunately, years of combat experience and a general level of awareness kept him from being completely surprised by his unexpected company at his shoulder. For the moment, they weren’t speaking, so it wasn’t pressing. He took another sip of his coffee, eyes specifically fixed forward. The urge to go for a pistol that was not there was intensely strong at the moment, and he cursed the limitations on personal arms for students. Then again, his life wasn’t quite in danger, was it? He needed to stop expecting attacks from all quarters like this, and he tried to even out his breath again, waiting.
Finally, the figure spoke.
“We can only hope it won’t snow.”
Cyril looked up, away from the plaza and the scene he had been so tightly focused on, to spin his head around and behold the stallion next to him. There, as if conjured out of the mist, was Long Haul himself. While he wore blacks like Cyril, these were not the uniform of the Grenzwald Offizier-Jungeschule kadets. He wore a silver braid under one foreleg, and the pins were all completely different. His cap, an actual officer’s cap, had the emblem of an eye staring out, the symbol of the Integralist Geheimstaat. But his face was the same, that self-satisfied and confident smirk stretching across his blue-gray muzzle, the same Cutie Mark of an artillery shell on his flank. That same scar he’d acquired when he’d hauled Cyril out of Sabine, before disappearing into the military machine at the hospital.
He couldn’t help it. Cyril grinned, then threw his arms around Haul’s neck. Having a younger sister and a pony for a significant other tended to soften you up a little.
Haul, for his part, was caught off guard by this display and although remaining stoic like any Reformisten he could not help but return the gesture, the facade cracked a tad. These two had served together, bled together and Haul had saved his life. There was no reason not to greet each other as such. After the moment’s hesitation, Haul threw a foreleg around Cyril’s shoulders, careful to mind the wings, both organic and artificial. The two brothers in arms embraced like no time had passed. But eventually, the moment returned to them, and Haul cleared his throat to regain Cyril’s attention. Reluctantly, Cyril let go of his former loader, brushing himself off and also coughing, trying to shrug off the awkward discomfort of the moment, eyes still locked on the pony whose smile felt out of place on someone with his uniform. He’d acted without thinking, so relieved to see his friend still alive and alright, and he slapped the pony on the shoulder as a last moment of solidarity.
“Gods’ wounds, what happened to you? You vanished at the hospital, left no word, no hint, nothing!”
“I know, and I’m sorry. But I had my orders.” Haul gently reached up, placing a hoof on Cyril’s shoulder with a soft smile. Oddly, this felt more like the pony Haul had always been, no mask or cover in place. “Congratulations, Leutnant. You deserve it.”
“Not yet,” Cyril replied, gently slipping the hoof down so he could pick his coffee back up again. “Graduation’s later today. It’ll be official after that.”
“Bah, semantics.” Haul shrugged, his own medals clinking, and Cyril saw plenty that weren’t on his loader’s chest beforehand. He narrowed his eyes in suspicion.
“So what orders were you given exactly?”
“Well, I’m not Reichsarmee like you. I was recalled to the Ostheer by the Order. The Geheimstaat has been working with the Border Force to process all the Riverlands refugees and integrate the new territories. That was where I did most of my work, until my prior experience with panzers caught someone’s eye. Now I’m here.”
“So, you’re a spook.”
Haul raised an eyebrow. “I’ve always been a ‘spook’ as you refer to me. When the Reformisten came back to the Empire, it was just after the Herzland War. Angriever’s deception, the Barracks Revolt, the threat of the Revolution resurgent. A solution needed to be found.”
“So the answer was to put spies into panzer crews?” Cyril quipped, sipping at his coffee again, suspicion crawling back into his voice once more.
Haul sighed, as if attempting to keep his patience. “The Empire was, and still is, one of the most mechanized forces on Griffonia, if not the world. Panzers were a precious resource back then. Aquileia and Wingbardy are catching up, even now. Imagine if the Republic had gotten their claws on working Imperial panzers as far back as 1008. If Wingbardy had heavy panzers in Temsoar. If it makes you feel better, MfÖS were just as suspicious. There was a long period where both sides were carefully monitoring each other. Shaking claws with a pistol behind the back, as it were. I was supposed to be a part of a monitoring program over what was, then, a rare and valuable asset.”
“And at the hospital?”
“Well…panzers are no longer so rare. There are so many in Imperial service, it has become far too impractical to watch each one. And I was needed at the Frontier.”
It was finally clear to Cyril, all the pieces sliding into place with this last bit of data. Haul’s loyalty to the Black Knights was blatant and obvious, and the periods where he kept to himself made much more sense knowing he was a spy. How many notes had he made, how many reports, how many infractions passed on to his superiors? He chuffed, annoyance and disbelief rising in tandem.
“So what? I’m just supposed to be okay with all this? Because it all wound up so well in the end?”
“Well, not so well for some of us.” Haul’s words were grim, and he’d lost what cheer his voice had carried. The two of them fell silent, watching the plaza carefully. A full military band kitted in military regalia were taking the stage, examining their sheet music as they began preparing for the rehearsal. Two officers, one in Reichsarmee gray and the other in Reformisten black, were conversing quietly as they pointed, gesturing to various places across the plaza, a gaggle of aides standing nearby both, their own uniforms telling of their affiliation. Both of them had to be at least majors to even be planning this ceremony.
“For what it was worth, Sergeant Hellseig was an amazing leader,” Haul commented quietly. Cyril glanced over, coffee halfway to his beak, but didn’t say anything. The earth pony continued. “His bravery inspired me. I was raised on stories of the backbone of the Empire and the bravery of its soldiers. I would have followed that drake to Tartarus.”
“We did,” Cyril quipped, his wing twitching.
Haul chuckled, smiling sadly. “We did.” He glanced over at his one time crewmate. “I never reported anyone. The crew was exemplary.”
Cyril snorted, almost spitting out his coffee.
“We were not! I had a long-distance relationship with a harmonic pony in a foreign nation, Spotsley constantly overreached herself, Eihol’s a bloody alcoholic at the best of times, and Hellseig mocked the high brass for entertainment.”
“Who do you think monitored your mail, I should know,” Haul nodded in agreement, glancing back out at the plaza. “But that was all minor things. It all stopped mattering. After we saw combat…I knew I could never turn any of you in. Not after what we all went through, with what we fought, a bit of insubordination could be overlooked…I’m a pretty terrible information agent, truth be told.”
“Kinda shit yeah,” Cyril agreed, finally smiling again. “So…what will you be doing now?”
“Well, as you can see, they’ve made me Vollstrecker instead,” Haul admitted, smirking with barely concealed pride. “Geheimstaat panzer attache. You’ll absolutely be seeing more of me. We’re no longer exclusive. Reformisten units will start getting their own detachments too, getting rid of the lines between Reichsarmee and Grenzwald units. Not all Ost-Griffonian recruits are from Hellsword, after all. They’re gathering up the few of us with panzer experience and even if Kampfgruppe Lehr is meant to be the cream of the crop of panzer forces they would still need a Vollstrecker for the job. I suppose you can guess who that would be.” He reached up, tapping his collar with a hoof. “I’ll be trying out the command side once more…though I miss the days of the Herzland War if I am honest."
And there, shimmering in the passageway lights, were the pins of a Rittermeister, the same as those used by Reichsarmee captains, merely with a pair of cross swords added beneath. Cyril had been so focused on getting Haul's story that he had slipped and missed those pins. He paused, wondering if he was about to be grilled on formality, when Haul made a face.
"It's taken a while to readjust, I'll admit. This is not the first time I have been in command. But I'm giving it the best try that I can when it comes to the panzers and my new crew.”
Silence once again. Truth be told, they hadn’t run out of things to say. Almost a year apart had left them with plenty stacked up, but the air of the past few minutes had made things too awkward to air out. Cyril caught Haul glancing at his prosthetic wing a few times, and everytime he realized he’d been caught, Haul looked away. It was he who had cut Cyril out of the burning wreck of Sabine’s gun assembly, after all.
“Hey,” the young tanker said, getting the stallion’s attention. “Thanks for…y’know.”
He twitched the missing wing, attracting Haul’s eyes up to it, showing him it was okay to look. The former loader turned spy stared a moment at the steel feathers, eyes full of something Cyril wasn’t sure he recognized. Then it dawned on him, and the realization broke; regret and a little bit of fear.
“You look good Leutnant,” Haul said quietly with a faint smile. “The uniform suits you.”
“It does, doesn't it” Cyril replied, a quiet acceptance for the first time of his new status.
With that, the two looked at the plaza one more time, watching the preparations for the ceremony in silence until Spotsley (bussed up for the ceremony as part of his crew) came looking for Cyril, demanding to know where the hell he’d been and how he’d allowed snow to get on his uniform.
Truth be told, the ceremony passed in such a rush that, years later, Cyril almost couldn’t even remember the proceedings. Flashes, mostly. Standing in the fresh snowfall as the Black King Wingfried made his remarks with his wife, the Countess Taillow by his side. Being called up to officially receive his commission, Wingfried giving him a slight nod as the oberstmeister pinned the leutnant bars to his collar. Glancing over at the assembled crowd and being greeted by the applause, but knowing his mother, sister and Paige were not there.
No, he didn’t remember all of it. But in the years that came, the few moments he could recall would be all he needed to carry through dark, lonely nights where the good memories were all he had left.
Especially considering what came next, which would never leave his memories be.
6 hours later Miklaus’ Sala de Bere Zeldstadt
"PROST!"
Steins smashed together, beer fountaining up in small geysers before being pulled back, bottoms raising to the ceiling, the contents flowing out into eager throats. Hooves and claws banged on tabletops in celebration, cheers were raised and dejected howls rang out as winners and losers of various drinking contests were decided. Pretzels and sandwiches were sent flying, ignored on tables or gorged on in equal measure, and more than one figure in uniform was splayed out on a bench or dumped into a corner, having already drunk their fill. This tavern being out on the frontier was a strange mix of the old and new, the stones and wood not looking out of place in a scene from when the territory was first settled, but the lights were electric and a modern record player in the corner was blasting out Herzland pub songs at full volume. A full stone fireplace roared in the corner, with steins and decorative plates along the mantle. The tables were room length affairs, the seats little more than benches, all of them crammed together with new graduates and the bar patrons who had not shuffled out in the face of the crashing wave of uniforms.
The first graduating class of the Grenzwald Offizier-Jungeschule had been unleashed on the city of Zeldstadt, two-hundred and ten eager junior officers who had been deprived of true relaxation time in the intense training hell they’d been subjected to the past few months. Most already had their orders cut for leaving within the next few days, trains taking them off to the western front, where they were desperately needed. Kadets no longer, they were leutnants now, commissioned officers in His Majesty’s Imperial Panzerkorps. Grenzwalders and Herzlanders both drank and sang and celebrated with each other. Come what may, they would have tonight. The graduating class had piled into the taverns and cafes, catching dinner and drinks and seeking pleasurable company amongst the mostly willing locals. Some went to the new movie theater to watch the latest flicks the east had gotten (prefaced by war propaganda, of course), others went to the local cabaret where it turned out a kirin singer to rival Octavia Melody had come to perform, her silken tones breaking hearts one and all. Many placed telephone calls at public booths or in lobbies, now unregulated by instructors or their peers, and some checked out hotel rooms for the night, happy to be away from the restricting nature of the akadamie or wishing for some personal time with a lucky catch.
For Leutnant Cyril Duskwing, it was about reliving his enlisted days with his panzer crew, joined by none other than Rittermeister Long Haul. Spotsley and Eihol had been justly dubious about just accepting him back in after his long and unexplained absence and the Vollstrecker pins on his collar, but once the Geheimstaat operative had offered to buy the first round, reservations fell by the wayside, assuaged by the universal lubricant that was alcohol. And truth be told, the beer produced in the Grenzwald was some of the best in the Empire. Something about the grain, it was thought.
“To Cyril Duskwing!” called Spotsley, standing up from her seat, stein raised above her head as she swayed a bit. While no lightweight, she had been eagerly putting down one after the other, and a bit of foam still stuck to her eyepatch from her last mug. “Poor bastard turned to the darkside and gave up his right to call himself a real soldier, and we’re the luckiest bunch of dumb fools to have him around!”
A round of cheers rose from the crew along with some laughing at the roast. Cyril himself was guffawing with them, a lit cigarette in one claw and a sandwich in the other, alternating with the stein at his elbow. Had he been a bit more sober, he might have realized the barmaid had fixed him with some pretty, fluttering eyes, but as it was the beer and long-neglected joy had fixed themselves as goggles over his vision, and he was oblivious to the formel’s attention.
“To the best panzer gunner in the Reichsarmee!” called Haul next, raising his stein for a toast as well. “His skills will be sorely missed!”
“The best until now!” countered Eisenwing, and a new round of laughter cut the air from the crew as Cyril made a gesture with his talons, pantomiming watching his new gunner closely, who did her best to look innocent.
“To you, Herr Dumkopf!” hollered Eihol, likely the most functional of all of them thanks to his much higher tolerance. “We all lost a piece together, and now it’s your job to save the rest of us!”
“Don’t look at me, Sergeant, I think you got an improvement!” Cyril crowed back, to which the laughter was interrupted as the driver made mock threatening gestures. The entire table, and admittedly a few nearby other patrons in uniform also laughed. It was time to release the tension and worry they all felt, as most they knew would be off to war. Many of their fellow kadets would not come home.
Finally, the laughing at their table died down as the crew turned their attention back to their cups and plates, stuffing down food and drink all the same and calling for refills to satiate their need for alcohol. Tonight, they were the conquerors of Zeltstadt, having participated in the small army of graduates that had, in essence, taken over the city.
Eihol turned, holding up his stein as he called out “Meer, alstublieft!” The nearby barmaid, already overworked with an entire serving platter stacked with steins both full and empty, worked her way over towards their table, picking her way through and cursing as well as another drunken graduate toppled over in front of her. More than one uniform would have to be specially cleaned tomorrow. But a critical mistake in approach was made. As the barmaid approached, Cyril tried to stand up for a toast of his own. Though not thoroughly soaked, he was inebriated enough to suffer lack of control, and his wings flared periodically without his meaning to. This time, the prosthetic extended at the wrong time, smacking the poor formel over and smacking into several graduates at the next table over, to the response of much cursing and hollering, squawking and startled fluttering of wings, steins clattering out of control. Cyril, sober enough to realize his mistake, cursed under his breath as he quickly stubbed out his smoke, dropping the beer to try and correct the disaster.
But the damage was done. Even as he moved to the table, he suddenly found himself looking up. And up. And up. And…godsdamn, that was a big griffon glaring down at him. Cyril glanced over his shoulder to compare and check and, yep, this Reformisten graduate who was now covered in good Grenzwald beer and glowering daggers at him was even bigger than Brightclaw.
“Where’d they dig you up?” Cyril blurted out before he could stop himself. “The Dragon Isles?”
It was, unfortunately, a joke that made little sense outside his head. In the immediate surroundings, all had fallen quiet as most had spotted the sure ingredients for a disagreement. The fact they were all now officers made little difference to any of them. Only a few months ago, they had been common enlisted, and had been treated as little better than dirt at the akadamie. Here, officers’ conduct went out the window.
The big griff growled at Cyril, his feathers and fur a coaldust gray, black splotches around his eyes. His massive wings flared, and his ears were pinned back in annoyance. Claws clenched and unclenched in barely contained fury. Behind him, Cyril heard the quiet preparation from his crew as the alcohol was quietly put down. They carried no weapons here, but a stein could still club like a trench mace, plates still hurt on impact and the chairs and benches had plenty of mass.
“Reichsarmee,” the massive drake snarled, recognizing Cyril’s veterancy pins and decorations, his tone clearly that of disgust. “I should have known. No discipline, the lot of you. Where’d they draft you from, peasant? The Scheißwald?”
Cyril, naturally proud of his long years of service and no longer held in check by sobriety, felt his temper boil under his collar. His eyes flitted down as he spotted the other Reformisten graduates behind the massive one, eyes narrowed and claws also reaching for improvised weapons. The barmaid in question, forgotten in the exchange, scurried away as she recognized the obvious signs of a clash brewing. Across the now silent pub, Reformisten and Reichsarmee graduates sober enough to catch on quietly began drawing lines and making battlemaps. Sure, they were one fighting force now, but honor had been called into question, and unity was now more dependent on prior service, the good spirit of earlier abandoned.
Cyril finally straightened up, feeling his wings straining to flare and just managing to keep them under control as he replied.
“Yeah, they said they needed soldaten that weren’t braindead fanatics whose only combat experience was hunting ponies.”
Behind him, Cyril heard Haul groan into his mug. That might have been taking it a bit too far. But it had the desired effect, and the massive griff also lit into the beginning of a frenzy, though whether he was about to start howling to defend the Black Knights or just light into Cyril with a vicious right hook would forever be a mystery, as Cyril moved to the side just as the beer bottle Spotsley had chucked sailed over his shoulder, smashing into the big graduates’ beak. It didn’t shatter, as they still made glass the old fashioned way out here (also known as thick and more secure for transport), but the impact was enough to stun him and send him sprawling before Cyril swung the chair he’d grabbed and swung his own vicious attack, obliterating the chair to splinters and sending the Reformisten graduate to the ground faster than an anvil dropped into the ocean.
And with that, the brawl was on. Reformisten shrieked battle cries as they clambered over the long tables, Reichsarmee banded into a solid line to take the charge as they flipped another table over to slow their opponents, a few of the more drunk brawlers took to wing and ended up smashing into the ceiling or hanging lights, plates and steins went flying as utensils clattered to the floor, chairs splintering and one window even getting blasted out as one graduate threw another out through it. Within seconds, the pub descended into pure chaos, graduates who had hours earlier stood in perfect lines as models of discipline and unity tearing at each other like they were on the front, factional lines drawn.
Cyril was in the middle of the action, having been rushed by two more Reformisten griffs and slammed against the same table he’d been eating at, barely fending off their blows and returning his own sloppy strikes. This kind of fight was like nothing in the nickel shows or on the motion pictures; it was brutal, it was formless and it honestly came down to who could avoid the most damage while cutting their opponent down to size. In this instance, it was Cyril, who caught a fist at last and pulled the drake in before delivering a vicious headbutt to the beak hinge and extending his steel wing to smack the formel graduate, stunning her long enough for Spotsley to leap off the table and tackle her. Cyril managed to wrench his opponent off long enough to get an appraisal of the skirmish, Eihol having smacked a Reformisten dog over the head with a bottle, Brightclaw hollering some invective about the claw of the gods as he blindly swung the chair he wielded, Eisenwing escaping another pursuer behind the counter where the staff were sheltering, the bartender yelling at her to get out and brandishing an ancient looking rifle before the massive graduate was once more upon him, claws wrapped around Cyril’s throat and hauling him up and off his hind paws. Boy, he looked mad, blood spraying from several facial wounds and spilling over dark feathers and his black uniform. He was going to need a whole new jacket. Before Cyril had time to voice any sort of regret, he was slammed into the bar, the wind knocked out of him before he was spun around and led towards the fireplace.
“We’ll see how you like a little more seasoning, Conscript!” the graduate was yelling, clearly intent on turning him into poultry. “Maybe then I can take you seriously after you’ve been cooked!”
This unintentionally sparked a visceral response in Cyril. Immediately, memories of being trapped in a burning panzer flitted through his mind, and his eyes went wide in panic. Inebriated and pumped on adrenaline, he had no defense against the sensation, and his response was no longer controlled. Immediately, he lashed out, a booted paw smashing into the Reformisten graduates’ solar plexus and causing him to double over, huffing and hacking in astonishment, before Cyril’s claw closed on a beer bottle and, with little hesitation, smashed it on a table and jabbed the broken edge into the drake’s arm. With a howl, the graduate released him, stumbling away as blood spurted anew from the fresh wound.
The noise was abruptly cut by the shrill blast of tin whistles, accompanied by flashing lights outside. Another way this town was a strange combination of old and new were the local polizei, ridiculous in their traditional high hats with feathers attached, but using new equipment such as patrol cars with attached sirens shipped from the west. And they were banging on the door right now, a half dozen of them swamping in with batons extended, swinging at the drunken brawlers and blasting their whistles up close and personal. A few fought back, but their inebriation and panic stunted their swings as the polizei clubbed the resisting graduates to the floor with little mercy. It wouldn’t be long before the Feldjägers were on their way as well, and judging from the sirens in the distance they were already out in force tonight.
A claw appeared on Cyril’s arm, revealed to be Eihol tugging him along.
“Come along!” he called as they ducked through the destroyed pub. “Better to only be suspected of being here than spending a night in lockup!”
Ahead, Spotsley shoved another Reformisten graduate out of the way as Eisenwing gestured wildly by the kitchen door. Of Brightclaw or Haul, he saw no sign. As they fled, the brawl seemed to reach a fever pitch as several other graduates came to the realization of what was happening too late, some reaching the same escape route and others too late or too far, being knocked over and pinned down by very angry city watch griffs, hollering and shouting some Grenzwald dialect that was definitely not Herzlandisch. Cyril, Spotsley, Eisenwing and Eihol tumbled through the kitchen, past a pony cook who threateningly waved a cleaver in their direction as he too shouted at them in that same language, and then they were piling out the back door. Brightclaw was in the alley on the other side, but was rushing back the other direction.
“Feldjägers!” he called out by way of explanation, and the crew stumbled away in pursuit, not bothering to warn the other graduates who were escaping the scene as well. Let them get hauled in by the military police instead, slow down the chase and allow them to escape. As Eihol had said, better to be accused of being there and not cooling their claws waiting for the instructors to come get them. They ran down one alley, then the next, trying to stay one step ahead, but the tin whistles and flashing lights seemed to be at every exit. They blasted through a yard, startling the pony who had seemingly stayed out late to tend to her garden before she too started hollering at them, setting the law on their trail once more. No use flying, they’d have to leave Spotsley behind and they’d be spotted in a moment. They tried another exit and nearly wound up run over as another polizei car plowed into the alleyway before them, sending them to light again.
Finally, they found themselves caught. Not quite in irons yet, but the whistles and lights were just behind them, and as they rounded another corner the crew suddenly found themselves up against a wall of black uniforms, quietly standing in front of an armored van, marked with the emblem of a staring, open eye.
“Aw, by Tartarus…” Brightclaw quietly blasphemed. “Vollstrecker!”
Indeed, by trying to escape the polizei and Feldjägers, they had instead run straight into the disciplinary unit known to use summary execution as a strong suggestion to restore discipline, and facing them were no less than two ranks of griffs, ponies and dogs wearing the peaked caps and black jackets, riot shields in one limb and pistols and clubs in the other (in the case of the ponies, they either bit the clubs Earth pony style or used their magic to ready their pistols, but it was just as menacing).
Cyril sighed, finally given over to the end of the chase. He had to have broken a record for the shortest time in a commission. The destruction of the pub, seriously injuring a fellow soldier (now he was more clearheaded, the memory of -that- reaction made him wince as he considered the drake’s wounds and hoping they got him to a medic in time) and the serious effort they’d made in evading arrest…maybe he was still thinking drunkenly, but there was no way they’d walk away from this scot free.
And then, a single figure pushed to the front of the ranks, also dressed in black but certainly no high peaked cap or jacket. This was the more subtle uniform of Vollstrecker Panzertruppen. Cyril let out a sigh of relief.
“Haul. Mein gott, I didn’t know where you went.” And then suspicion and worry entered his mind once more as he glanced past the former loader pony at his companions. “You uh…knew where we going?”
Haul, looking a little sheepish as he approached, shook his head. “Mostly, we just cut ahead of the noise. It was a lucky guess.”
Okay, that did make sense, and their ability to intercept their flight was quite impressive. Abruptly, the reunion was cut short as, with a clattering of claws on tiles, two polizei griffons descended from the wing, landing on nearby rooftops and shining electric torches down at them in the alley.
“Halt! Do not try to escape!”
As a few more watch griffs piled in, Cyril felt his heart sink once more. His hope had risen with Haul’s reappearance, but the trap was clearly sprung, and they were in it. Maybe Haul’s connections could get them out with just a slap? It was a long shot, but still more likely than evading punishment altogether. Startlingly, however, two Vollstrecker stepped forward and pulled Haul back, the former loader having the presence to at least act startled and giving a quick wink towards his comrades. Catching on, Cyril played along as two Vollstrecker pinned his wings down, wrestling him away as well. Eihol and Spotsley saw the cue themselves and mostly put up token resistance to being ‘arrested’, and Eisenwing adapted to the role far too naturally. Brightclaw, the young fool, hadn’t realized the game and was frantically praying that his church-appointee father would never hear of this indiscretion as he tried to bargain with the silent Vollstrecker hauling him away. It was actually kind of amusing.
They were loaded up in the back of the van, and just before the door shut, the Vollstrecker pony securing them turned to Haul and said, quietly but not so hushed Cyril couldn’t hear him, “Herr Rittermeister, we will cover for you. This time. They’ll take the irons off at the akadamie, but try to keep Longpaw’s golden boy out of trouble. We can’t have this happen again, sir. All due respect.”
And with that, the armored truck doors slammed shut, and the vehicle began to rumble away.
A minute after that, they all slumped in their seats in relief, laughing and cackling at their unlikely escape as Brightclaw glanced around, confused and ignorant to how closely he had just escaped arrest.
In the morning, the parade of graduates streaming back to the akadamie were greeted by their instructors in the same plaza they had been awarded their commissions, watching stone-faced as the griffons, ponies and dogs of the Grenzwald Offizier-Jungeschule’s first graduating year came back like conquerors after the sack. A few even returned striding in ragged formation, one graduate calling out a drinking song to mark time for the sloppy march. Those who’d possessed the sense to return last night were showered, in clean uniforms and looked as though they were only partially hungover. Those who had kept out of trouble or gotten drunk and tottered off to a hotel (alone or otherwise) just looked a bit rumpled. These were, gladly, the majority. But those who had clearly spent the night in lockup for drunk and disorderly conduct or had an even wilder night stood out, uniforms ripped or stained or even missing a piece or two. Though the minority, they drew the most stares and disapproving glares, from fellow graduates and the instructors as well.
First formation was assembled right there, in the plaza with the new arrivals coming in. A patchwork of clean, orderly uniforms, rumpled but still neat were lined up with those who were absolutely disgraceful, torn or stained or even missing some articles. At the head of the formation, Oberstmeister Heimclar himself watched with a sigh of bitter disappointment. They were soldiers, after all, many of them combat veterans instead of the teenagers and young adults akadamies were normally furnished with. Behind him, he could hear some of his officers, instructors and veterans themselves, shifting in embarrassment, though he knew at least a few were working hard to keep their smiles to themselves. The Reichsarmee, for all it had grown in the past decade and worked to restore itself to the status its legendary reputation carried, had been formed out of several successor states, many of them once disloyal. The Reformisten, for all they worked to bring the Grenzwald into the fold, were experiencing the same issues of recruit quality, as most of the Frontier recruits did not possess the same dedication and discipline of the Hellswordians. Many didn’t even possess the discipline of the Reichsarmee. But Entschlossenheit was the byword for the Kaiserreich; determination and perseverance, qualities not just of the Reichsarmee, but also those the Reformisten sought to proselytize. And so, instead of losing his temper on the crowd of kadet graduates in front of him (thank the Gods they had proceeded with the graduation BEFORE letting them loose on leave) he took in a deep breath, counted to ensure the formation properly filled in and then nodded to his senior NCO. The stabsfeldwebel nodded back before chuckling as he watched the oberstmeister take the stand.
“Guten morgen, Graduates,” he began stiffly. Normally, such a greeting would be met with a reply from the assembled formation, but a wave of apprehension swept across the assembled griffons, ponies and dogs like a plague, as many caught on to the icy tone in those simple three words. Not a word was spoken back. Good. He had their focus.
“I trust you all had an enjoyable night’s leave. Sehr gut. It is important for soldiers in His Majesty’s Army to let off steam when they can. Combat is no place for such frivolous things.”
More uneasiness. Some graduates were relaxing, thinking perhaps they had misread his demeanor, that they would not be harshly reprimanded after all. But some of them, he saw, were still rigid, eyes locked on his purple form at the podium, waiting for the other boot to drop. At least they were not lost of -all- their senses. He adjusted his monocle and cleared his throat.
“To those who returned under their own power, before things got out of claw; congratulations. You have achieved the bare minimum of what we have come to expect of you.”
A wave of confusion. Some graduates genuinely thought the oberstmeister pleased with those he had mentioned. Others had heard the backhanded nature of the compliment, and were puzzling it out. Some had already worked through the message, eyes narrowed.
“To those who have returned in a state, I feel nothing but bitter disappointment for. The message you send reflects poorly on these uniforms you wear.”
The casual, almost thoughtless dismissal stung on many faces, and he saw backs straighten in protest, jaws tightening in shame.
“And to those who caused such a fit of affairs last night that not one, not two but -three- departments of law enforcement had to be called in to detain you…” Here, Heimclar swept the crowd with fury blazing in his eyes, barely restrained as he hissed out his next words. Luckily, the formation ground was so silent one could hear a pin drop.
“I am so utterly ashamed of your conduct that I wonder why we waste the time on you. One night out of graduation, -one- night and you have left the reputation of this akadamie in tatters and made the city of Zeldstadt dread the uniform you wear. Shame on you! By the gods!”
Now, it was clear he had abandoned his previous self-control, launching into a barely controlled tirade that, had he not thought the words out before, would have seemed to be a descent into ranting.
“Most of you are combat veterans! The rest are students of peerage, young barons and dukes ready to inherit lands and titles! All of you know your place and decided to ABANDON discipline to fall back on the vice and lack of restraint your profession is infamous for! To you who have come from the Reichsarmee, THIS is why the reputation of the Kaiser’s armies is so ragged! Lack of control or discipline! And so you propagate the very things that make creatures point a claw and say ‘look at them, they are just uncontrolled conscripts!’ And you who were recruited by Reformisten agents! Some of you are knightley! And ALL of you should have learned the bare basics of self-control! But I find a city in chaos a single night after awarding you all your rank and prestige, many of you jailed for your behavior and many more hungover and stumbling back! In one night, months of instruction and training, thrown to the side as you all act like bandits and looters!”
The parade ground was still silent as his tirade ended, every graduate’s face set in stone. Many looked concerned, others mollified and ashamed. Some looked outraged, presumably those who had behaved marginally well or even gone out of their way to avoid causing problems. But any sign of the pride they felt at how the town had been ripped apart at their claws was gone. His eyes swept over the crowd, alighting on several he knew had been the worst provocateurs. One of those was actually a trio. There was Cyril Duskwing, a veteran of both the Herzland War and Operation Tartarus, whom he had oh so recently looked upon with favor after being granted his prosthetic from Morgend Longpaw and taking the time to personally field test his new Gryta with the crew he had brought. So much promise and Longpaw’s patronage, and yet from the reports he was responsible for one of the more notable brawls that had happened at a place called Miklaus’ Sala de Bere, a rather unremarkable pub that harkened to Grenzwalder and Herzlander alike. Well, the place had been packed with graduates and after a copious amount of alcohol, regional differences had flared up at the worst time, and the ensuing chaos had left a trail of wounded graduates and civilians behind as well as six of the local police and two Feldjagers who had responded. No deaths, but Zeldstadt’s hospital was working overtime.
His eyes flicked over at that thought to a nearer graduate, gray in color with black splothches, bandages wrapping his injuries. By all rights, he should be among the wounded, but he was presently considered fit to return to his dorm. This drake too was one of those responsible for the brawl at Miklaus’. Rozen Machinki was a Reformisten recruit drawn from the ranks of the Opinicus, and while he had certainly had no experience with panzers in Gryphus, his service in Operation Tartarus from the south and during the invasion of Asterion had seen him in cooperation with several motorized elements that had inclined the Order to petition the Reformisten for the right to apply their own candidates to the Grenzwald Panzerdivision. That one presented another problem. More conservative and from an older style of thinking, the Order was far more obsessed with nobility and title than the Reformisten, much like the style of thought the modern Empire sought to stamp out…sought to, but that would likely take many more years, the Reformisten would see to that. According to reports, Machinki’s refusal to back down had been part of the cause of the brawl, but if that was true he had come away from it for the worse. Several facial injuries, a bruised beak among them, and a broken bottle stabbed into his forearm. Though these were all bandaged now, he likely would have died if medics had not been on the scene.
Then he looked to Rittermeister Haul, off to the side with many other Vollstrecker. Attached to Kampfgruppe Lehr, they were technically not his to command. That was how the whole deal worked; Vollstrecker were enforcers of discipline in an army split along religious, societal and cultural lines. The Herzland War and the Sack of Skyfall had both shown how crucial they were to maintain order in the ranks and root out traitors and spies. But they were their own command, answering only to the MfOS, the Geheimstaat and Reichsarmee Oberkommando. Rittermeister Long Haul may have been safe from official discipline thanks to his position and protection of his comrades as well as little to no actual reported involvement in the brawl, but there was only one way Duskwing and his crew had escaped last night. But so long as he had to deal with Vollstrecker, and the stark fact that Haul had not officially done anything wrong that he could prove, there was little he could do.
He finished his inspection of the crowd of graduates. While his mind had been mired in musings, he had been silent. Truly, this process only took around six seconds, while some detached part of him ran through his observations. Any kommandant worthy of the post had to be able to do such a thing, processing multiple things at once without letting it bog him down. But the more he thought it through, the more his fury was tampered by practicality. Many of them, though well trained and combat veterans, were quite young (most under thirty) and had been awarded for a great achievement by the instructors’ own words and demands. No, this behavior could not stand, but they were doing nothing that other soldiers hadn’t done even in the past year. Any punishment to come down on brand new graduates had to keep them able to serve. A waste of desperately needed resources, to get rid of such potential after all the struggle to collect and train them.
Heimclar swiftly moved to finish his admonishing, before the logic of his mind talked him out of his anger. He knew how to address this kind of situation.
“I will not waste my breath further. Know that you were all brought here to achieve our highest of expectations. And while those standing here did, the behavior of a few reflects all. A uniform means you shrug off who you were, in becoming part of a greater whole. No one in Zeldstadt will see this uniform the same way again, whoever wears it in the future. This disaster and lapse in judgment…and discipline…will -not- happen again.”
The finality in his tone did not suggest he was looking for a reply. Or an acknowledgement. Heimclar was merely stating a fact. It did not require assent.
With that, the indigo feathered oberstmeister turned the formation back over to his oberfeldwebel, mind already soaring across Griffonia to the west. It was a nice distraction, putting together this unit, the so-called ‘elite’. But Kampfgruppe Lehr now would be put to use on the purpose they had been engineered for.
When it was all said and done, they didn’t pounce on the crew in the plaza. Instead, Cyril walked at the head of his crew to report to Oberstmeister Heimclar’s office just after breakfast. This was, he assumed, going to be the dressing down they deserved, away from prying eyes where the kommandant could let them have it. He didn’t expect to find the big, coaldust gray Gryphussian Reformisten (Machinki, Cyril thought) waiting for them as well, alone. The two glared daggers at each other, wings twitching and claws clacking as they sized the other up. Machinki had mass on him, but Cyril was clearly just as experienced, and far more canny. There was a moment, just a moment, where they might have gotten into another brawl outside Heimclar’s office, despite the bandages.
The door opened, interrupting their staredown to reveal the annoyed face of Heimclar as he adjusted his monocle.
“Perhaps before you act like juvenile thugs again, we can actually get to the purpose of our meeting?”
Cold, clinical, severe. Thin though he might have been, Heimclar cut a sharp figure, like a knife you saved just for sliding between your target’s ribs. The two Vollstrecker behind him, griffons both with pistols already drawn and ready, put weight to the question. The group all quietly shuffled in, wary of the silent enforcers. Cyril glanced over his shoulder, taking note of the empty waiting area as the door closed behind them. Haul was nowhere in sight. Wherever the stallion was, he had clearly not been invited.
Heimclar’s office was spartan in the extreme. Cyril remembered his uncle’s office whenever he traveled and Cyril either visited or got a glimpse through a photo. Spare, normally only decorated by a few choice books and a painting or two August Duskwing took with him. Other officers, particularly proud warhawks and those of noble lineage decorated theirs with trophies, paintings and even extra staff and special luxuries like wine and cigars on display to show off their status. But Heimclar had no personal books, merely texts and references, history books and military theory. His walls were bare aside from the Imperial banner (not the Reformisten one, though his uniform was resplendent in medals, flags and icons of the Black Knights) and his desk clearly only had room for his work. He had, clearly, no luxuries or extra staff. The two seats which may have occupied the space before him had been shoved aside. Clearly, as Heimclar sat, the graduates would not be afforded that courtesy.
Heimclar shuffled the documents only for a moment. It seemed he did not intend to let them stew.
“I was placed in command of the new 205th Schwere Panzerabteilung, Kamfgruppe Lehr, for my knowledge on modern tactics and strategy. I went to the Herzland to observe their tactics, their training methods. Many of my comrades agree that the Reformisten is quite possibly the best army on Griffonia, but I always caution their statement; the most disciplined, yes, the best trained. But rigid, inflexible. Overzealous. And above all, underequipped. Many forget we are not meant to stay our own nation. Rejoining the Kaiserreich and restoring its glory in the name of His Majesty, that is the dream.”
He reached out and adjusted a pen on his desk. It was less nervous tick, Cyril knew, than a calculated move to draw their attention.
“And so we learn from each other. From us, the Reichsarmee learns to draw forth the best of its soldiers. Separate the chaff from the wheat and make use of the crop’s best. Discipline, uncompromising quality. From them, we learn flexibility, the lessons of adapting to our situation and how to recover from defeat, how to be canny and crafty. But, of course, there are obstacles in the way. As we saw…as you showed last night.”
Finally, the tension snapped, and Machinki stepped forward.
“Please, Herr Oberstmeister!” he stammered, and Cyril was surprised to hear the big, proud recruit sound so utterly desperate. “I was the one who started the brawl! Over a misunderstanding, I had no intent for it to-”
“You will be silent.” The statement was even, no louder than how he had been speaking beforehand. Machinki, startled, snapped his beak shut as the indigo kommandant looked back up at him, slowly raising a piece of paper seemingly selected without even looking down at it. “I already know what happened. I have the report from the local polizei. I have the report from the Feldjagers. I have the report from the Vollstrecker.” Here, his severe gaze snapped over to Cyril. “For what good -that- does me.”
Cyril abruptly found a deep fascination with the shade of paint on the wall, just over the kommandant’s ear.
Heimclar set the paper down, bringing his claws together, the talons clacking exactly once. While he appeared to enjoy melodrama, he clearly did not prefer to draw it out.
“Yes. Leutnant Machinki here is correct. He started the brawl by confronting Leutnant Duskwing over an accidental spillage of beer. Rather than attempt to defuse the situation, Leutnant Duskwing egged him on by mocking him for the Reformisten’s past.” His eyes slightly narrowed. “An atrocious time which, I should clarify for the Leutnant’s knowledge…was -before- Machinki joined our number.”
Cyril suddenly felt that he would love nothing more than for Wingbardy to immediately bomb the akadamie, with himself there in it.
“In that moment, Feldwebel Spotsley took to a nearby beer bottle and launched it at Machinki’s face. The rest, as they say…” Heimclar dismissively picked up the report, tossing the paper away to float to the floor beside him. “Is history. An enlisted soldier, striking a commissioned officer. We can ignore the rest of the brawl itself as it of course descended into chaos, but afterwards? Evading arrest from both civilian officials and military police. I have ample ammunition here to send all of you to the stockade, at least. Courts martial, perhaps. I know -exactly- how many of my opposite number in the Reichsarmee would handle this, Leutnant Cyril.” Here, he gestured to the banner. “I saw it. Feckless nobles. A quick summary discharge, unless you had the connections to spare yourself. Or at the very least you’re demoted. But war makes practicalities for us all, does it not? I cannot deprive the Reichsarmee of such a valuable resource as your experience and training. Not to mention what Herr Longpaw would have to say. He can be tiring at times, can he not?”
Cyril was not comforted by this statement in the least, and he glanced back, first at Spotsley, Eihol, Brightclaw and Eisenwing, then (to his own confusion as it was done out of reflex) at Machinki. The big griff was looking back with an expression of dread. And regret.
“To severely punish you directly in the manner the Reformisten tells me is most fitting, I feel, would be unwise. Aquileia and the Entente are a more pressing matter. We need you. But something -must- be done. After all, I cannot let the act go…unpunished. I cannot strike you. But no one will complain if I move down the chain.”
And with but a nod, the two Vollstrecker stepped forward, shouldered past the crew, swooping down on Spotsley and seizing her roughly, claws on upper arms and talons biting into biceps. She struggled for only a moment before the muzzle of a pistol behind her ear gave pause to her motion. Cyril was aghast as he watched, powerless. What could he do? There was the crew, but he doubted they’d want to fight back like this. Brightclaw and Eisenwing were new, and as rebellious as the latter was, she knew better than to take on pistols with bare claws. Brightclaw looked to be on the verge of pissing himself. Cyril wondered if he was silently praying.
A light clunk came to his ears, and he turned to see Heimclar had laid his service revolver on the desktop. He did not pick it up again, but from the sound, Cyril knew it was loaded. Why wouldn’t it be? He froze, trying to figure a way out of this. All his experience was failing him in this moment. His crewmate, his friend, was in danger of suffering for something that, in all honesty, was his fault. But there were no bullets flying, no panzers clattering, no cries of the wounded or shrieks of shells. He had no idea how to get out of this.
He took a deep breath.
“Herr Oberstmeister-”
But a raised claw stopped him again before he even started. A good thing, too. Cyril had no idea what he would have said next.
“Rest assured. She does not face summary execution. We are not that heartless. This is not Angriver or Skyfall. No one died. All will recover. But you have tarnished this akadamie’s reputation, and many have suffered for a night of drunken revelry where you could not control yourself.”
This was far, FAR worse than the ranting, furious officer they had seen outside. A Reichsarmee officer would have blown up at him, raged and sworn until dawn. But Heimclar’s control was cool and absolute. Iron in the face of the wind.
“Luckily, there -is- a way I can make the message clear. I think five…hmm…no, ten lashes should prove my point?”
It was not a question, not really. All Cyril could do was silently clench his beak and glare hatefully back. Whether the heat in his gaze was lost on the oberstmeister or if Heimclar simply didn’t care, the indigo kommandant simply nodded and said “I’m glad you agree. Since she is -your- subordinate, Leutnant, I trust you can take responsibility for giving the sentence when the time comes?”
Heimclar had a real knack for asking questions no one dared to answer.
“Sehr gut.” The revolver abruptly disappeared as unceremoniously as it had been brought out, slipped back into a holster with no fanfare or flourish. In its place, a small flask and a tumbler were put on the desk, a careful and conservative amount of liquor poured out. “Leutnant Duskwing, Leutnant Machinki. You are dismissed.”
They held Spotsley for two days before the punishment was arranged. On the training grounds, a certain brace had been erected during the akadamie’s construction. A pair of them, really. Its kind was rather unique and specific, but any Reichsarmee soldier could identify its purpose from a glance. Shackles up top and below and the nature of the raised platform the braces sat on gave no mystery as to what was in store.
The kompanie was silently lined up that morning, in full dress blacks, in perfect rows and formation. Nobody had dared get even a little drunk the night before. Vollstrecker watched from their own line behind the formation, both the soldiers before them and the proceedings up front. Two Feldjagers, a pony and a griffon, brought Spotsley out. She did not struggle, but neither did she look at peace with the sentence, her one eye glaring out at Heimclar’s position at the head of the formation. He merely gazed back coolly, as though he were perusing a catalog.
At the platform, Cyril cleared his throat, not daring to glance Spotsley’s way.
“His Majesty’s Army finds Feldwebel Rebekah Spotsley, of the 205th Schwere Panzerabteilung, guilty of the following charges.” This was sheer agony to say, as he condemned his friend to the braces, where her wrists and ankles were already being shackled. They hadn’t been bad to her, just a little roughed up from her uniform’s appearance. But they had already removed her jacket, and now as they finished, the griffon reached up and tore the back of her shirt away. White cloth gave way to tawny fur and lean muscle, and Cyril had to look away.
“Drunk and disorderly behavior. The striking of a superior officer. Actions leading to unacceptable property damage of civilian collateral. And evasion of arrest.”
It felt both better and worse to say out loud. Honestly, these charges, aside from striking an officer, were likely to not get her such a punishment in any other unit. Saying it, it seemed as though the kommandant was trying to send a message, and nothing more. But no one else in the crowd aside from the crew, Machinki, Heimclar and Haul would know the true depth of the punishment. And Cyril felt that was the entire point.
“For these crimes, you have been sentenced to ten lashes, delivered by Vollstrecker so it may be impartial.”
Here, he did glance sideways. Steel tipped whips were a common tool in the Grenzwald, a way to get stubborn herd to move, ward off dangerous monsters from the woods and, in desperation, defend oneself from assault. It wasn’t called a bullwhip for nothing, and many a minotaur raider had felt its lash from mere farmers. In the claws of an amateur it was just as dangerous to the wielder. To those fully trained in its use, the effect on flesh was devastating.
And Haul was being handed the whip, the strap around the handle looping round his hoof. The gunmetal stallion’s face remained immovable. But Cyril knew (hoped he knew) that the pony was in just as much agony as him. The two of them were sending their comrade of years, surviving under fire side by side through two wars, to get her hide peeled open. Cyril to announce it. Haul to execute it.
As the first stroke fell, Cyril forced his gaze to remain locked on Heimclar. The oberstmeister returned the stare, as unreadable as a cliff face and a shine to his monocle. Spotsley, no stranger to pain, did her best to resist as the lash fell again and again, cutting the air with sharp cracks. The fourth stroke split her back, blood spattering across the platform, and still her muzzle stayed clamped shut as the one-eyed hound thrashed in her braces. But around the sixth stroke, Cyril heard her cry out, weight falling against her restraints as she instinctively tried to escape, to no avail. The seventh and she howled, sharp and high. The eighth and he heard he slack in the shackles, the strength to hold up abandoning her. The ninth, and he could hear the blood spatter to the platform’s base. After the tenth, a silence fell on the training grounds. Cyril finally wrenched his eyes from Heimclar’s still impassive face, and somehow found Machinki. The big coaldust leutnant stared back at him, remorse and regret filling his face.
Finally, Cyril remembered he was still expected to finish the sentencing. He wrenched himself back, profoundly glad to all three gods and whoever else was listening that he wasn’t crying (he felt like breaking down at that moment) as he announced the end of the punishment.
“Feldwebel Spotsley has been punished in His Majesty’s name before the gods. In his authority, I declare this disciplinary action closed.” His voice cracked a little at the next, and last, statement. “In the Kaiser’s name.”
“Fur den Kaiser,” the kompanie returned. It lacked any and all vigor that it was usually said. “Macht macht richtig,” those who had been members of the Reformisten called out. While delivered loudly, as expected and drilled into those who had come from their ranks, it too lacked any sort of energy. Oberstmeister Heimclar himself said it as well, with the same immovable expression, eyes boring holes back into Cyril’s.
They brought Spotsley down off the braces at that moment, no shackles or manacles. Her back had been torn open in a crisscross pattern, in some places little more than raw flesh exposed to the air, blood seeping out like tears. Cyril, now released from the ceremonial torture, swooped in as well, uncaring for the state of his uniform as he leaned down, two medics at his flanks.
“Bekah,” he said quietly, turning her face up to look into hers. Her eye was glassy, her breath coming in short gasps. She didn’t seem to be processing her surroundings. He reached up, talons gently taking her face.
“I’m sorry Bekah,” he whispered.
The rest of the crew stood over them, Haul at their side. Now he was no longer before the kommandant and the rest of the kompanie, his composure had slipped, his eyes hollow and his expression equivalent to one on the verge of being sick. Eihol was right next to Cyril, quietly whispering words of encouragement in Feathisian to her. Eisenwing and Brightclaw stood nearby to not interfere with such intimacy, one holding a medic’s bag and the other a fresh uniform. Interestingly, Leutnant Machinki also stood nearby, his own crew holding off a ways. Wounded though he was, still swaddled in bandages, the big Gryphussian watched, though he dared not come closer. Cyril caught sight of him and, after giving him a small nod, immediately forgot him.
Heimclar still stood there, watching quietly. And as Cyril glared back in an expression that would have, should have, wiped the kommandant from the face of two worlds if there was any justice, the indigo griff merely nodded as well, as if acknowledging just another subordinate before he too turned and strode away, intercepted by a clawful of NCOs and officers as he moved to get the kompanie ready for war.
"Reichsarmee doctrine has, since its creation, advised 'bite and hold' tactics. Advance on the enemy, take ground, fight off counterattack. That is clearly not going to work any longer, when the average limit of advance is further than ever before thanks to panzers, airplanes and trucks. The war in Equestria is showing that, and we cannot fight the same way against the Entente. Strategically, the concept holds at the divisional level and perhaps regimental. But we have to rethink smaller unit tactics, or we suffer Equestria's fate: outmaneuvered and outgunned at every turn." -Generalleutnant Erich Helltalon, Imperial Strategies Summit, November 1011
March 8th, 1012 Rottendedam, Feathisia 2nd Battle of Rottendedam
Combat in urban terrain was far different than in the open field. For winged creatures especially, the gift of flight was much more valuable to traverse the terrain, usually barricades and barbed wire. Even if it gave you no more than a hop up to a second story window, it was better than being stuck in a killzone alley while machine guns hammered down on you. Infantry ruled urban ground, defying the panzers, artillery and planes that dominated the open field, and of those infantry, it was fliers that were the best.
Rocket artillery screamed overhead, blasting somewhere deeper in the city, likely the pony quarter from the direction of the explosions. Feldwebel Jan Zwarteklauw peered over the railing of the hotel balcony, looking down into the canal below. Battling the National Revolutionary Army (come to be known as the Republicans or just the Rebels to the Reichsarmee) had stretched on since last winter. They were supposed to have been thrown back months ago, but this resurgence had cut the city off from the rest of Feathisia, something the first attack hadn’t. Well, that wasn’t technically true, he ruminated as a brace of howitzer shells impacted nearby, shaking the ground and blasting a cloud of dust and debris down on them. They were still holding on by a shoestring.
The Rebs advanced down both sides of the canal, rifles barking as they advanced, some of them awing and flying from balcony to balcony, some falling in midair to splash into the water below as Imperial bullets found them. Unlike the Empire or Aquileia, with an expansive industrial base, Cloudbury and Vedina didn’t have the war industry to support the northern army, forcing them to restrict the best for their most capable units. As it happened, the Rebs here (griffons, ponies, dogs, the number of species fighting in the Republic’s army was quite expansive) were certainly not that, and looked more like capable militia, the uniforms a mishmash of jackets, trousers and colors. Some wore what looked like the standard of a dark olive green with the Tricolor patches, while others had blue jackets and looted Imperial helmets, others wore clearly Vedinan tunics, and a few only had Tricolor armbands to identify them as belonging to the same army in general.
Not to say the Imperial forces were in much better shape at present. True, the Feathisian and Reichsarmee troops all wore match uniforms (the Feathisian Landwehr dressed in tans with the yellow and blue crown cross patch to designate their affiliation, the Reichsarmee in proud feldgrau after casting off their winter gear), but they were in a sorry state. Months of constant fighting meant the barricade under advance was manned by griffons wearing shabby, worn coats, wielding everything from modern, just issued Krahe submachine guns and Gerund battle rifles to outdated Hinterlader rifles and Specht machine pistols. They had plenty of Kralle rifles, which could at least be said to be suitable, but the barricades were manned by two hundred soldiers, and they only had one MG-08 between them, laying out stutters of fire on the advancing Rebs. Buried in the barricade, the ADGZ heavy combat car that had broken an axel also fired, the 2cm cannon punching fist sized holes into the rebels that advanced, spattering the ruined buildings with splashes of crimson. The ADGZs weren’t as modern as the newer GP.Kfw. 11 Grimbart armored cars also in use by the Reichsarmee, but for their purposes it was more than sufficient, especially as spare parts could easily be salvaged by the dozens of ADGZ wrecks across the city.
In the near distance, the shriek of artillery tore through the air. Some of those, Zwarteklauw knew, were actually battleship shells, the massive sixteen inch guns the Kaiserliche Marine were hurling their way in an attempt to cast the northerners back. Even combined together, the massed formation of the Entente fleet wasn’t enough to destroy the Kaiser’s navy, and with them the city remained connected, however barely, to friendly lines of supply.
Overhead, a Republican fighter-bomber soared past, the bomb dropped from its belly missing the barricade and smashing into an already battered looking bakery. He winced. Though not a native, he had seen the port city in its prime, before the bevy of wars, internal crises and economic downturn that had brought them here. Even if the war was to end tomorrow, Rottendedam would be recovering for years. The canals that helped reclaim land from the Griffking River and Sky Bay itself were delicate, and rubble and combat damage had rendered many of them inoperable. Mansions and apartments on the harborfront made the narrow streets wholly impossible to traverse aside from light armor and foot troops, and the many bridges the overlapping lanes relied on were mostly so much rubble. The Feathisians weren’t out of the fight yet, but given that a large portion of the war so far had happened on their land, they were paying the lion’s share to hold the Entente back.
Zwarteklauw turned to his radio operator, an earth pony mare who kept a hoof to the clawset, desperately trying to cut through the chaos of combat to get a clear signal.
“Any luck?” he asked Korporal Azure Breeze, who shook her teal colored head, a bit of white-green mane poking out from under her coal-scuttle helmet. They both flinched as a brace of machine gun rounds slapped the balcony, sending jets of masonry flying. Another soldier nearby winced and cried out as some of the chips dug into his face like shrapnel. Yet another tipped forward as the bullet that killed him left him limp, slumped over the balcony like a wet sack, wings flared and twitching erratically in his death throes. Sufficiently motivated, Breeze tried again, spinning up the wireless.
“Viktor-Aktual, this is Dora 2-4! Come in, do you copy? We need support immediately! Viktor-Aktual, please respond!”
A clattering came to their ears as Zwarteklauw peered over his cover again, wincing as he spotted the Aquileian panzer come rattling onto the street, crushing rubble and corpses beneath its treads. True, the ELC was light armor, but against mere infantry that armor was more than enough, and in these streets its stubby cannon and mounted machine guns raked hell over their positions. They had no AT guns or panzers of their own, and counting on air support to accurately strike targets in the streets was more or less a prayer.
Down on the barricade, Leutnant Schneeschwinge stood from her position, white wings flared as she called out to the soldiers around her. Whatever inspiring words she spoke were quickly lost as the ELC’s cannon boomed, and the corner of a building nearby disappeared in a cloud of dust and rubble, a clawful of soldiers nearby reduced to tatters of cloth, clouds of flying feathers and spatters of bloody chunks. Through the cloud, the brave Feathisian gunners on the MG08 held the trigger down, spent brass casings kicking out as the water-cooled machine gun chattered away, tracers still skipping off the ELC’s plating. Rebel rifle fire came snapping back in, and now emboldened by the presence of friendly armor the enemy resumed their advance, momentarily halted but now given new bravery. Mortars began whistling down onto the barricade, portable light models from the sound of them and the arcs he could see. Likely set up in the square a street over. Cursing, Zwarteklauw rose again, taking aim with his Gerund and snapping a few rounds down on the enemy advance. They in turn shot back up at him, their cover provided by smashed cars and destroyed storefronts, another wrecked ADGZ half tipped into the canal allowing them to get even better coverage.
The enemy tank was about fifty meters away, hugging the far side of the canal as its narrow chassis allowed it to crawl along the lane, when several of Schneeschwinge’s hidden grenadiers emerged, Landwehr and Reichsarmee both. Ten griffons and dogs on rooftops and balconies dropped a rain of fragmentation grenades from above, some of them improperly timed and bouncing off to detonate in the canal, but at least half were on target, obscuring the ELC in blasts of shrapnel and smoke. The MG08 swung off the tank and continued to pour fire at the infantry, dropping two rebels on the ground and a third that tried to fly to cover, suppressing the others. The ADGZ’s cannon helped flush rebels out of insufficient cover, 2cm shells turning the tight confines of the canal into a funnel.
But Zwarteklauw’s exultation turned to despair as another mortar shell fell behind the barricade this time, causing screams to rise up from the ad hoc kompanie. There would be dozens wounded or dead down there, and another thing the defenders of Rottendedam were short on (at least in this sector, cut off from help and supply) were medics. They had, perhaps, two on this particular stretch.
Over the rattle of fire, Zwarteklauw’s ears perked up at the sound of whirring hydraulics, and his head jerked back over towards the downed ELC. Well, it had -appeared- downed, but as the smoke and debris cleared it was obvious the grenadiers had failed to land a crippling or penetrating shot. His heart sank as the cannon lined up on the barricade. True to form, the gunners kept their position, machine gun rounds splashing off the Aquileian tank like rain, hoping to hit a vision slit, a light, something to buy them another moment of time.
The cannon boomed, and the shot rang out, howling as it came. While it missed the machine gun, the shot pierced their remaining ADGZ in a fountain of shrapnel and gore, smashing into the storefront behind them and blowing out the windows, door, furniture, anything left really. Zwarteklauw knew they would not miss the gunners again.
“Get out, you damn fools!” he screamed from above, wings springing open in panic as he waved his claw frantically. “Fucking move!”
But the gunners didn’t move.
And the cannon adjusted to the new target.
Abruptly, a gleaming figure appeared on a nearby rooftop, but before the feldwebel could process its presence correctly, the creature sprang to wing…sort of. Instead of taking off and flying like any other griffon or pegasus, the gleaming figure seemed to make a long jump, the wings slowing their descent as they fell from above, slamming into the ELC’s top. In but a moment, the knight (for that’s who they were) drew an enchanted sword from the sheath, slashing at the hatch in two clean strokes before reaching down and pulling it away, tossing the heavy metal as if it were little more than a twine ball. In another heartbeat, the figure drew a cylinder from a bandolier, dropping it into the now open hatch before bounding away. The grenade detonated, and the ELC stopped moving, for good this time.
Two more figures landed in the street behind the first, out in the open. But the gleaming armor plate had black coloration, with gold filigree and the emblematic crown icon on the breastplate of Feathisia’s banner. The Hertogelijke Garde! Personal bodyguards of the Grand Duke and Duchess Regent! In a moment, the knights reoriented to engage the infantry, the one with the sword drawing a pistol and advancing on the rebels, uncaring for the rifle and machine pistol rounds smacking off his modern plate as he made deliberately aimed shots, each one either a hit or extremely close. On each flank, the knights held a glowing rifle, firing blue beams that punched through crates, rubble, automobile wrecks, anything the rebels tried to take shelter behind proved as little aid against these fantastic weapons as against the 2cm. One Rebel, a towering minotaur with a double-barreled shotgun wearing some kind of tattered tan outfit, lowered her head and charged from cover, clearly hoping to use her greater mass to overpower the foe. In but a single sweep of a backhanded strike, the knight out front cleaved her head from her neck, sidestepping to let the corpse collapse through momentum. With this effortless display of force, the Rebel advance collapsed, and the revolutionary fighters quickly began fleeing the canal, firing poor shots at the knights as they came. But if there was one flaw the enchanted plating held, it was weight and bulk, and the knights halted as soon as the last fighter disappeared from sight, unable to give effective chase.
“I’ll be damned,” Zwarteklauw muttered, glancing around as the kompanie slowly pulled itself together. With the knights in front, the fire had slacked off as the soldiers watched the spectacle, still not sure how to process it.
The screams of wounded rang out from the barricade in the sudden silence, and both sides of the canal slowly began to be roused to activity, picking through the rubble as they tried to find their injured comrades, recover weapons and check bodies for signs of life. Zwarteklauw and his squad (not many left now) descended through the hotel, letting those without wings keep up as they moved through the ruined lobby to reach the street. By then, the knights had turned back and were on the return, sweeping their surroundings. Every so often, the sharp crack of a crystal rifle rang out, another Rebel survivor rooted out and killed by the oh so casual pace.
Leutnant Schneeschwinge emerged from the survivors as well, fluttering across the canal to stand before the knights, snapping off a quick salute (despite field regulations) as she said “Götter seien gepriesen, am I glad to see you sirs. Had a bit of trouble here. Leutnant Schneeschwinge, 21st Infanterie.”
The knight nodded back, his armor plating scraping and rattling at the movement. His face was hidden by the armored grille of the visor, but his voice boomed out from inside as he replied “Ser Anton Bauer, Duke’s Own. If you care to, Leutnant, you’re about to have a very important meeting.”
Despite the confused look on Schneeschwinge’s face, the knight stepped back, raising his sword (still covered in blood but the runes along its blade visible and glowing slightly) as some sort of wordless signal. In a move, from another rooftop came more figures, armored knights also wearing the black and gold of the Hertogelijke Garde, at least five of them descending from rooftop to balcony to street level to join the other three in the canal. To the troopers around them, the sight was rare and awe-inspiring, as most of even the locals only ever saw the Garde around important government structures, or at formal affairs and parades like when the Grand Duke made public appearances. What were they all doing here, of all places? Rottendedam was important, yes, but by all rights the Grand Duke should be in Griffenheim or De Vleugels at the very least.
The question was answered as the figure at their center, with no outward appearance of difference, reached a gauntleted claw to push the armored visor up off his beak to expose the face. The Reichsarmee soldiers needed a moment to recognize the face of Grand Duke Gerlach, but the native Landwehr troopers recognized him immediately, from the gray feather to the distinctive scar over his blinded eye. Startled, several fell to a bow, Zwarteklauw among them before the rest caught on. By the time they did, however, the Grand Duke was waving furtively.
“Be still, the Rebels may still have sharpshooters around. I’d rather not have come all this way to give the nordlanders a cheap shot.”
He chuckled, but was the only one. The soldiers around awkwardly recovered, grouping closer but not too close, still murmuring at the Grand Duke’s appearance. Schneeschwinge floundered a little before she caught her voice again, clearly a little shaken. The daughter of nobility herself, it was still a far cry to run into one’s sovereign on an active battlefield.
“Your Grand Grace, what are you doing here? It’s not safe in Rottendedam.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Gerlach replied, gazing out on the ruined canal with sadness in his voice. “Imagine…just a year ago, riverboats brought creatures to and from the sea and the river, delivering to shops and homes along this front. You could get to Sky Bay from here easily, just taking the next canal over.”
He gestured to the end of the canal, indicating an intersection, now jammed up by the wreck of an overturned canal boat. Water still flowed from the Griffking, but river traffic would not pass freely for a long time to come.
“I have seen the harbor. You could not believe the devastation. Sixteen inch shells, falling on our own city to keep it out of enemy claws. The sight is…”
He shook his head, clearly unable to find words that fit the emotions. Many troopers nodded solemnly. Many of them -had- seen that devastation, walked familiar lanes turned alien by the extended battle, cars and buggies replaced by wrecked panzers and trucks.
But the Grand Duke rallied as he turned back, a smile barely visible behind the helm.
“But that is going to change. Leutnant, are you prepared to take back the city?”
“Always ready, Your Grand Grace,” Schneeschwinge replied instantly, and a new surge of energy gripped her exhausted troops behind her in an invisible wave, claws tightening on rifles, eyes suddenly wide and attentive.
Gerlach nodded in reply.
“Good. Because I can tell you right now, General Helltalon is on his way here with an entire panzerkorps to finish the job, once and for all. We’re not going to pull back from Rottendedam again. No, this time we will move all the way to Cloudbury. We’ve got schwere panzer abteilung with the newest Kasteel can give us, sixteen air squadrons in support and a detachment from the Black Knights and the Knights of the Bronze Cross. A finer army, I could not ask for.”
Murmurs lit amongst the battered troopers. Black Knights were one thing, rumors of Ost-Griffonia flew all the time across the Empire, but Schneeschwinge was focused on something else.
“What are the Bronze Cross doing here, Your Grand Grace? Aren’t the dogs fighting in the Whitetails?”
Here, Gerlach did smirk, though not in anything close to contempt, but more out of sheer pleasure.
“Were. They -were- Leutnant. As of three days ago, the Bronze Legion captured Windford and are even now advancing into the Windy Peaks. Now, it’s our turn.”
Grand Duke Gerlach turned to the rough kompanie, examining them with a critical eye. Somehow, the rough, starved, tattered troopers were enough for him, for he nodded in approval.
“Very well! Zoldaten of the Kaiserreich, are you ready to follow me into glory?”
“Aye, Your Grace!” the kompanie responded, as one. In response, Gerlach drew his own enchanted sword, a long blade of magic hardened steel, gold runes glowing along its length. Forged in Feathisia, now drawn to defend her, the sword shone in the spring sun.
“Follow me, then! Fur Feathisia! Fur das Kaiserreich! Fur den KAISER!”
“FUR DEN KAISER!” the cheer rang up, and with little hesitation, only slowed by their injuries, the now reforged host surged behind the Grand Duke and his guards as they began to advance up the canal, knowing in their hearts that they were unstoppable.
When the city was retaken two days later, that same kompanie was at the vanguard to continue the advance, heading straight for the northern border.
March 9th, 1012 South of Allwerder, Central Plain, Feathisia 3rd Armee, 19th Panzer-Division ‘Landgraf von Aiwlen’, 205th Schwere Panzerabteilung ‘Kampfgruppe Lehr’ Operation Donnerkeil
If you peered out on the horizon, past the Aquileian battle lines, looking to the south you could swear the thick forests of Adelart stretched out before you, an unrelenting mass of green leaves and brown trunks that refused to give in except to specific roads, ancient passages through certain areas. Of course, this was mere illusion and hyperbole, as Adelart’s border was not marked by any truly notable geographic feature. But the border was there, months after the Empire had been forced back from it. And the Reichsarmee’s efforts to push back south had placed them within spitting distance of said border, so close that trying to answer such semantics was, on a practical level, pointless. The grinding advances of trench warfare had deposited them right where the operation needed them to be, and in comparison to much of south Feathisia, ground up by the shelling and littered with the wrecks of destroyed panzers and abandoned trenches to be transformed into a hellish landscape of twisted fortifications and so many craters someone could ask Princess Luna if it resembled the moon, this particular area was not so bad. True, there was the destroyed husk of a downed Habicht just within eyesight, but a team of mechanics were crawling over it, stripping the plane of anything useful first and readying the wreck for recovery by a team with better tools. Blast scars from mortars, howitzers and aerial bombs pockmarked the land, but aside from this were was no rat’s nest of trenches, no piles of half-rotted corpses, no scars of long struggle here. When the Aquileians had blown in last year, the Empire had been mostly on the run, falling back to defend a line only for that line to be overrun as well. And so it had gone, until nearly all of the Central Plain region had been abandoned before the Republican advance. But five months of struggle later, and the Kaiserreich had returned.
And they had a better plan than just ‘batter the Aquileian front.’
A Heavy Panzer Battalion consisted of around fourteen to twenty heavy panzers, all of them Grytas in the case of Kampgruppe Lehr. Attached to them were their recon elements, armored cars and a trio of modern Herzland light panzers, as well as a motorized infantry platoon. A fairly hefty unit on its own, though quite small compared to what they were seeing here and now.
As the Isegrim rolled through the staging ground, this many heavy panzers were already drawing eyes, as the worn elements of the 19th watched Gryta after Gryta roll by, factory new aside from the brief coat of mud they had attained in transit from the railhead. Grenadiers and jagers, weapons teams and platoon officers watched with eyes wide and jaws loose as their latest reinforcements arrived. It wasn’t a new development exactly. From Cyril’s position in the commander’s hatch, he could see rows of trucks in the staging area, many peeling away to deliver troops, supplies, casualties, recovered equipment and many others to phase lines and kompanie distribution points, ADGZ and Grimbart armored cars being worked over by crew and mechanic alike, clusters of panzers light, medium and heavy that had piles of spare parts, supplies and extra attachments scattered around. Artillery pits dug in behind sandbags and barbed wire were arranged in massive gunnery parks, many covered with camouflaged netting and the shell magazines nearby in separately dug bunkers, a steady stream of loaders and powder monkey running back and forth as empty casings were discarded and live shells were fed into the howitzers and mortars, which boomed and barked to sending curtains of fire down on the distant Republique lines to the south, shaking the earth in a never-ending quake that eventually faded to a mere tremor as the line of heavy panzers rolled by. In the near distance, an airfield could just be seen from here, where formations of F-11 Habicht fighters rose to strike out against Aquileian bomber squadrons, E-14 Karakara fighter-bombers harried the enemy’s fortifications and even this close to the active fighting the occasional S-08 Sperber and S-13 Kiebitz heavy fighters could be spotted escorting K-09 Großer Falke, B-07 Elster and newer K-14 Raubvogel and B-12 Rabe bombers, all set to pound targets behind the lines to rubble, deeper into the Republique after braving the anti-air gauntlet they faced.
The fact 3rd Armee possessed this much new equipment indicated the Reichsarmee was very focused on this particular front, and the hopes for success rode high on their backs. The massive preparations were the end result of what Cyril had been told was an operation months in the making to deliver the shattering blow to the Western Front needed to begin the long road back towards Aquila. Not content to simply grind the enemy out, Oberkommand had decided the right way to dictate this war was with hammer blows to destroy enemy coordination, utilizing their superior number of panzers to overrun Entente defenses. The larger plan was, of course, not within Cyril’s purview, but the relevant portion he had been told of was bold and daring to the point of overconfidence. Flanked by engineers and followed by infantry, Kampfgruppe Lehr would strike into Adelart’s previously impenetrable terrain, over ground long thought to be impossible for panzers to venture.
Cyril’s mind had been turning over the plan in his mind endlessly since being delivered his briefing in Allwerder with the rest of the battalion officers. Oberstmeister Heimclar (who had graciously donned a Reichsarmee uniform and rank since their attachment) had delivered it with all the bad news it came with; breaking the front would only be step one, and likely the simplest in comparison with what was being asked of the Kampfgruppe afterwards. Once they had shattered the Aquileian lines (who had grown used to being hammered as 3rd Armee had thrown them back through meatgrinder pounding) they would have to quickly overrun the rear elements, the command tents, supply depots and most importantly communication hubs. Once the Republique caught on to what was happening, they could easily wheel reinforcements in to close a steel trap on the attack. There were faults, of course, but Heimclar had made it clear these were their orders, and intelligence had supported the idea that this would be the best place to attempt a penetrating attack like this. Thanks to the very terrain protecting it from likely invasion, supply lines through Adelart were restricted to a few roads leading from Eagleton back south. Which meant sluggish response times from posted units in the area and poor rearline garrisons in ‘safe’ territory. Supposedly.
Isegrim finally reached her staging point as the sunset began to color the skyline orange, the beginning that would lead to the period known as twilight. Here, the rest of Kampfgruppe Lehr were shown to their own positions to park for the night. When the attack began, they’d have a clear shot straight to the initial staging, and then on into the assault. As the Gryta halted, treads churning up mud underneath her, a crew of support personnel rushed forward, dumping spare parts, tools, engine oil, small cans of fuel, manuals and extra bits Cyril didn’t quite recognize before they planted several stakes in the ground and busied themselves with a massive canvas tarp. In minutes, Isegrim disappeared under her own camouflage, obscuring her image to scouts, spies and recon craft that made it through the defenses. Clearly, Kommand was taking no chances.
As Cyril clambered down, Eihol and Spotsley were already emerging from the driver’s hatch. All of them were accosted by clipboards, confirming who they were, the status of the panzer when they had first set out from the railhead and who else up the chain of command they reported to. Once all this was done, the mechanics and his crew set to work on opening the heavy panzer up, clearing mud from her road wheels and checking the engine, making sure she was fully fuelled and oiled and nothing had gone wrong on the transit. It was an extremely ordered way to wage war, and Cyril was unaccustomed to this level of management outside of training, where everything could be monitored with detail. Luckily, Isegrim was confirmed cleared for the operation tomorrow just after the sun had completely faded from the sky, but the mechanics still tinkered and tweaked, attempting to clear small issues so as to stave off a breakdown as long as possible. Heavy panzers moved under extreme stresses, the drivetrains and transmission suffering as it tried to move several metric tons of armor plating and heavy cannon. It would be prudent to let the mechanics see to their work.
Cyril turned to his crew, already exhausted. Having already traded his dress blacks for feldgrau, he was spattered with mud, soot and oil from the trek and getting Isegrim ready to fight. The officer’s jacket he’d traded for a ragged coat he’d received from another panzersoldat, a feldwebel waiting to go home after losing a leg. It seemed this had been the smart option after all. The only piece he had left was his black cap, still shining despite the grime threatening to overtake the emblem, and even then he traded that out for the panzer hood when he was inside.
Eisenwing and Brightclaw were fitting in nicely. After their good range performance back in Longsword, he was eager to get them into a real battle. They needed to get a taste for combat, and figure out which of them would crack when the pressure was on and how to get that handled. For now the rookies he would leave alone, turning to his more veteran crew members.
But Eihol had complained of engine performance and the difficulty in shifting gears, even when those problems were supposed to have been ironed out. He’d taken to keeping a hammer next to him in the driver’s seat, so he could just smack the lever when he needed to change into a higher gear. The struggle had left the ex-racer bitter and tired after the trip, and Cyril saw no need to antagonize him.
Spotsley. They hadn’t talked much since her recovery. Unicorn magic and modern medicine had patched her up well, but Cyril had seen the spiderweb of scars across her back, both in the medical bay and during times where she changed uniforms. Even magic couldn’t remove their effects, and he felt the rift between them even now. She had backed him up in the tavern, and for that had received a harsh punishment.
Back in the present, Cyril cleared his throat.
“Okay. Let’s get some chow, find a place to rack up for the night. Load your small arms, scrounge what you can, steal what you can’t.” He gestured to the rookies, indicating the veterans. “Watch them, they’ll show you how to shake a camp until what you need falls out.”
Eihol chuckled in anticipation, reaching over and drawing a rookie under each arm, talons flexing in mock menace.
“Come, let me show you the ways of my people, jongeren. First, food. Second, liquor! I can already smell the camp-brewed schnapps.”
With that, the soldier-turned pirate led his two erstwhile (Eisenwing very eager while Brightclaw looked concerned) companions off into the camp, looking to engage in the time-honored activity of pilfering supplies insufficiently guarded to prevent their theft. Really, it was an educational experience, in and of itself for all involved.
Spotsley didn’t look away from Cyril, for sure, but her eye certainly didn’t meet his own.
“Something you need from me, sir?”
Cyril pondered this for a moment, glancing into Spotsley’s brown eye, hardened and staring back. He had stared down death, injustice and murder-crazed training instructors time and again, and had always found a way to look back with a cry on his beak and a weapon in claw. Here, he found he could not maintain it, and finally looked away, the resolve he had been about to show broken like rice paper.
“No, Bekah. I-”
“Leutnant Duskwing?”
As if by magic, a uniformed earth pony had appeared at his side, grapefruit pink and wearing the green armband of a runner. Due to the provision of not saluting officers in a combat zone (which this very much was) in order to prevent enemy snipers from eliminating vital parts of the chain of command (a harshly learned lesson at the claws of the revolutionaries up north), she did not salute but merely nodded, pointing back with a hoof towards what appeared to be a hub in this trench city.
“I’ve been told to retrieve you. General Thundertail is in a briefing with Oberstmeister Heimclar and he wants all his panzer officers in attendance.”
As if to underline the statement, a shrill whistle cut the air, accompanied by several shouts of “Incoming!” before a scramble for every nearby uniform to seek some form of shelter. A fountain of mud and scrap metal blew up a few hundred meters away as the Aquileian shell touched down, having clearly smashed into a cluster of trucks. The screams of the wounded were already beginning as counter-fire spotters began hollering coordinates to their gun crews, and in the time it took for Cyril to lift his head and realize he was fine, six guns had answered the one shell. No, the Empire wasn’t getting it all their way here. Yet. But they were struggling to get there.
The trek through the fortifications towards the command ‘bunker’ (really a fortified trench section with extra steel plates welded into place with flakboard and concrete blocks erected to catch shrapnel) was relatively short. Overhead, more shells screamed back and forth from the Imperial batteries, attempting to overpower their southern counterparts through sheer volume of fire, howitzers and heavy mortars doing their best to shield the base by either destroying the enemy guns or keeping the crews from trying what would, clearly, be a bad idea. As Cyril slipped down after the runner, past a pair of sentries standing in the exterior trench, bolt-action Kralle rifles clutched in their claws as they hugged the board wall, trying their best to both hold their post and get as much cover as possible. The newly branded panzer-leutnant wished them both the best and ducked inside, very much glad he had long ago left behind the life of an infantrygriff.
The inside of the bunker was more spacious than Cyril had given it credit for. He supposed that, when working underground with the likes of Bronze Dogs as combat engineers, there was technically limitless room underneath. Here, the thumping of the distant guns were little more than rumbles to be heard, but the ground shaking under his boots seemed even more pronounced. A layer of boards sunk into the dirt in a rough approximation of a floor, and even the walls had directions and hallways marked with chalk pointing in different directions. Creatures were moving down here as well, griffons and ponies at their stations as they ran to get orders to and from various officers and radio pits here in the command section, and Bronze Dog engineers were continually shoring up the walls or digging new hallways. No one knew how long Operation Donnerkiel would go on for, or how long this position would be required, so Oberkommand had elected to go for the long haul.
The runner left Cyril at a door protected by two knights this time, with their modern-craft gray breastplates adorned by a yellow sun. Cyril wasn’t sure which order that was, but he seemed to be on a list as he was gestured into a larger briefing chamber, where a hundred officers were crammed together, the juniors standing around the edge while the senior most were sat at a low table, overwhich a map of the area had been stretched. Everytime the ground shook from artillery duels, maps and weighted icons on the map would jump and shake, only to quickly be adjusted by junior aides who worked to correct the mistake. Judging by the uniforms, there were representatives from a dozen divisions here, and not just Reichsarmee. Luftstreitkrafte, Vollstrecker (one of which was none other than Vollstreckergeneral Wolfheze, another familiar face Cyril had served under in the past, also one of the few ponies in the room), even a pair of Knights from the same Order he'd never seen, with the golden sunbursts There were infantrygriff officers, panzer officers like him, artillery commanders, engineers and the list spilled on into a diverse array of professions. Cyril frowned. Normally, he wouldn’t keep track of such a thing, but it occurred to him that the officers were mostly overwhelmingly griffons, with a clawful of dogs and a trio of ponies crammed into the space. It only made sense, he told himself. Griffons were the majority, and tradition was difficult to overturn…but for some reason it stuck poorly in the back of his throat.
Just as he was beginning to wonder when they were going to get on with it (and if there was coffee available), there was a movement behind him, and from the same entryway a trio of griffons entered. From the pins and features, Cyril recognized General der Waffengattung Reinhold Thundertail, the top expert on armored warfare in the Kaiserreich. As public a media personality as one could be during wartime, he had been on several news stories Cyril had read in his time at akadamie, detailing the battles he had been part of. For the most part, Thundertail preferred overwhelming mechanized strikes, seizing the enemy by the throat and pressing until they burst under pressure. It was a strategy that had paid off during the First Battle of Rottendedam, Reclaiming the Greifenmarsch and driving towards the border here, so in this new age of panzer warfare, perhaps the good general had a point.
The next figure was none other than Oberstmeister Heimclar von Lohr himself. Though he wore Reichsarmee feldgrau and had all the appropriate decorations of an oberst, Cyril did not miss the knightly pins on his collar or the black on white stripe ribbon that designated him as a soldier of the Integralist Reformisten (the old joke was to call them ‘zebras’). Anygriff in the know would recognize the indigo-shaded drake as a Hellswordian, one and the same. Heimclar turned, and even in the low light of the briefing room, his monocle shone with its obnoxiously high level of polish. Cyril felt his gut jump. Just like back on the training field in Zeldstadt…
The third figure he did not recognize. Another Reicharmee griffon, dressed in feldgrau as well, but decorated with a small armored strip of medals and decorations. Wound badges, service honors, a campaign medal or two, the Kaiser’s Herzland Honors awarded during the Revolution and following counter-campaign, a medal he recognized for service in the same Herzland War Cyril had taken part in and many others. This griff also wore a gold icon in his officer’s cap, denoting his noble lineage and patronage. Not an essential marking, but one many of the peer liked to adorn their uniform with somewhere on their person.
“Settle down, let’s get this bullshit started,” said Thundertail, and Cyril was startled to hear not the bombastic and growly tone of a hardened war hero but the high-pitched one of a primary school teacher. It threw him for a bit of a loop. Did he actually make speeches in that voice? That must have caused some real confusion. But it had the desired effect, and the low murmur of voices in the bunker quieted down, even with dozens packed into the close space. Thundertail seemed to carelessly toss a folder filled with documents onto the table, pulling out one of the low stools and taking a seat at the head of the map table. Heimclar and the new general did the same, seated on either side.
Cyril felt a buzz of anticipation go through him. He’d been in briefings before, of course. But this would be the first time he’d be in command, and the weight of it all fell on him at that moment. A thrill ran down his spine.
“Operation Donnerkiel,” Thundertail began, sweeping a claw across the map to indicate it. “Likely the best kept gossip piece or the worst kept secret in the Empire.” A chuckle from the senior staff who felt more comfortable in Thundertail’s presence. Silence from the juniors who weren’t sure who they’d offend by joining in.
“By this point, you’ll all have heard something about this. Either run down the grapevine or told by your superiors. It matters not. I doubt the frogs missed our little show out there.”
The ground shook as if to emphasize his words, and Cyril frowned at the archaic slur ‘frog’. He knew it a derogatory term against the Aquileaians, but the context escaped him.
“3rd Armee takes the lead on this one, and I am taking the lead on this korps. Our job is to assault three potential points of entry along a wide front and, using experts in terrain maneuver and engineering, we punch holes large enough the Entente will have no choice but to pull back. Now, my superiors and colleagues would have the entire attack slow at particular points to consolidate and restage for further pushes. But I am here to tell you right now we will be doing none of that. We are here to attack, and I fully intend to see to it we press the enemy and choke him until he has no choice but to relent or pop!”
Here, the general emphasized his words with a firm fist pounding on the table, upsetting some of the tokens worse than the artillery had and sending the aides scrambling to fix the map. Thundertail allowed them to, then continued.
“Every panzer and every truck and every platoon leader will be issued a compass and a map. Should they get separated or lost, they will at least know where they are supposed to go. We -will- sustain a continuous advance. My logistics planners tell me such a feat is inadvisable. But we do not want to be caught here in the forest, back on defense while the enemy pulls his reserves. Nobody ever defended anything successfully, there is only attack and attack and attack some more.”
Thundertail scanned the room once more, eyes narrowed as he considered his officers before gesturing to the map again, the senior officers sitting back so the general could access his briefing.
“At approximately 0400 day after tomorrow, our artillery will lay down concentrated, walking barrages. The enemy will attempt to consolidate after the barrage passes them, which is when we will deploy the heavy panzers. Here in this sector, our assault will be spearheaded by the new Grytas, the 205th. I’ll deploy them under Heimclar and Van Zieks.”
“Sorry mein herr, under who?” asked one of the senior officers, an infantry oberst by his pins. “I’ve never heard of either of them.”
Sighing in irritation, Thundertail leaned back and, with a gesture, indicated Heimclar to his right.
“Oberstmeister Heimclar von Lohr, Integralist Reformisten Panzerkorps, attached to us with the 19th division. His panzers are the latest and most advanced, courtesy of Oberkommando and the fine griffs at Kasteel. He’s here at Oberkommando’s behest because they believe the Toy Soldier’s drakes know what they’re doing. I’ll let their combat record prove it, one way or another.”
Despite the rebuke, Heimclar’s only response was a slight tilt of the head, a minute narrowing of the eyes. No one else would have thought anything else of it, but Cyril had seen his critical gaze before. He bore the critique with stoicism, as Cyril knew he would.
Thundertail continued, gesturing to the general to his left.
“And Generalmajor Yanek Van Zieks, formerly of the 5th Panzerdivision. I brought him with me from the northern front. With Rottendedam relieved again, the situation is largely under control, and Oberkommand has dispatched us to do the same here. He’ll be in overall command of the 205th, this uh…”
Thundertail considered a notepad, flicking back and forth between pages for a second until he narrowed down the unit in consideration.
“‘Kampfgruppe Lehr.’ Joint assault panzer battalion, regular Reichsarmee and Reformisten, backed by Reichsarmee grenadier companies. Is that a good enough explanation for you, Oberst Veerwhen?”
Suitably, the infantrygriff simply nodded, mollified. Cyril was a bit confused. They were bringing in a Reichsarmee officer to Kampfgruppe Lehr? Over Heimclar?
Thundertail resumed, tossing the notepad to the side.
“After the barrage, Kampfgruppe Lehr will go in to assault the enemy fortifications, penetrating them and opening the line for following grenadiers. They will only just be regaining their defenses, and will not have time to crew their heavy guns. Anything lighter will have been destroyed. Once Lehr has engaged, the 124th and 178th Grenadiers will engage the line and sweep it. You’ve been issued flamethrowers and flammenpanzers for this task. I recommend you send them in first. They’ll have had time to dig in like ticks under fur.”
Two more obersts nodded, their faces grim. Death by fire was an appalling end, one Cyril could easily say he’d avoid again at any cost. Even inflicting it on the enemy, he’d heard, was enough to scar hardened combat troops, but it had to be done to clear out these bunkers.
“The first line will fall to us in an estimate of one hour. I want us moving quickly after that. We overtake their supply depot long enough to top up on ammo and fuel and keep pushing south. Hit them again and again. If we do not give him rest, the foe will run the faster and more desperately for it. Take our casualties to the rear immediately and cycle replacements in fast. I’m putting every spare truck we have at your disposal so we can ensure a steady stream of fresh soldiers on the line. If a panzer is destroyed, I want it pushed aside so our mechanics can strip it of whatever is useful. We do. Not. Stop. Am I clear?”
The bunker was silent once more, before another officer, a major this time, raised a claw.
“Herr General, this seems like a very…direct way to go about this. And it sounds very risky.”
“Let me stop you right there Major Kleiner,” Thundertail snapped, sounding extremely fed up already. “I was attache to the Changeling Heer back in ‘04. I watched their version of war. I saw what they did with the weapons and vehicles we gave them. Now I ask you; would our troops rather be running themselves ragged and -winning- or sitting nice and secure in a trench, -losing-? We do. Not. Stop.”
The rest of the briefing was much the same as this general statement. Thundertail’s plan of attack seemed to boil down to one idea; momentum. If ever there was some obstacle or delay, his idea of adaptation was to simply find the most expeditious way to keep up the advance. His plan was not meticulous to the point of figuring every detail for every unit, like many other Imperial officers. Instead, Thundertail was leaving the situations free to each officer to determine his own circumstances, adapt on the fly. He had stocked up on communications equipment and radio operators, stockpiled ammunition and fuel for mobile artillery units to keep support capable of following at a heartbeat, and even enlisted a separate brigade of Bronze Legion to protect and support the field engineers laying down roads and rails. Surprise of all surprises, this operation had even secured four of the valuable Schwerer Helheim railway cannons (technically older guns from a decade ago meant for the trench warfare the Empire was now desperately trying to shake). Where the other eight in the Reichsarmee were, Thundertail didn’t say, but he did detail that the railway guns would follow the advance by having all new rails built in front of them. How he expected to lay enough rails to support four heavy guns -and- follow the advance into Adelart was an astounding leap of logistical bravado.
He didn’t spend long on air support either. While they were assigned cover, the majority of it was going to be attacking the Republican lines to tie up the enemy’s assets. It wouldn’t be an easy fight for the Luftstreikrafte, but every plane dedicated to assaulting another airfield or battering a supply road meant less for the ground assault to deal with. The counter issue to that, of course, was they were going to be essentially unable to call on friendly air to deal with problems on the ground. Perhaps some fighter-bombers for close air support. At most, Fallschirmjager from the 82nd division landing at Bilrau would lend them aid by tying up enemy supplies and reinforcements with commando raids for long enough to let 3rd Armee reach them and relieve them, even with all the projected delays and other problems that could be drawn up.
In any other situation, this kind of outrageous plan was beyond bold. It threw established strategy out the window in favor of an offensive aggressive beyond all belief, counting on overwhelming the foe and continuing to overwhelm him without hope of respite at a pace and fury just as punishing on the attacker. This was less like griffon warfare and…more like changeling strategy.
When the briefing finally ended, Cyril was drained. By privilege of rank, the junior officers had waited while the parade of senior commanders moved through, though the tunnel was none too spacious. Out of practicality more than anything else, Cyril had stepped aside for the other junior officers as well, more to avoid being caught in a crush of beaks, claws and wings than anything else. The tight spaces didn't give him much pause, but he had no desire to be jammed in with everygriff shoving this way and that. As a result, when he stepped back out to follow the signs towards the exit, he was relatively alone as he maneuvered through the dingy maze. It had to be getting late, he knew. If the operation was to start as early as four day after next, they needed every minute to rest and prepare. Not even time to pitch tents (one day was poor timing to make camp only to take it down again), but it wasn't the first time he'd snoozed in a panzer.
As he drew near the exit, he tugged out the cigarettes Eihol had given him, examining the label. Red and white, with a crown over the words 'KOORLANDER KEIZERLIJK'. He made a face. When they had gotten into Feathisia, Cyril and the crew had discovered how scarce and expensive cigarettes were. It had taken Eihol's old claw scrounging techniques to find some, apparently a local brand grown in Zud-Zebrika and stored long term in Feathisia. They weren't what he was used to, but Cyril would take what he could get. The blockade hurt a lot more than just tobacco, after all. From what he had heard, everything imported had gone up in price, from oil and rubber to tobacco and several kinds of metals. The Zebrican colonies had been hard enough to hold on to through the Empire's last few chaotic years, and if not for the ports in the southeast being retaken, the two continents might have been completely cut off (though shipping goods through Ost-Griffonia was still expensive).
"Do you mind?"
He glanced up, surprised at the voice. At first, he thought the dun colored unicorn pony was expressing offense at the cigarette pack he held. Though it wasn't often, ponies -were- more likely to pose an issue with smoking at all. But as he took a moment to process what the mare was saying, she raised a hoof, gesturing again.
"I've been sitting here all day, sir. Any chance I can bum one?"
Her actual intent clicked, and he recovered quickly, ripping off the wrapping before popping a few out, claws grasping a white tip and passing it over to her, which she took in an aura of magic, tucking the butt between her teeth. She grinned, a bit sheepish, a bit…something else. Cyril wasn’t sure how to describe it.
“Got a light, sir?”
He blinked, his own smoke halfway to his beak before he finished the motion, as if coming to a decision, tugging out the lighter and flicking it open. With another flick of his talon, a small flame appeared, and he held it out to the grateful unicorn, who took a puff or two to get it started, her eyes roving up to look at him, leaning over her. When she pulled back, she groaned as she blew out a cloud, eyes closing in bliss.
“First one after a dry stretch always feels so good, wouldn’t you say sir?”
For some reason, the innocent question, combined with her behavior up until that point made him vaguely uncomfortable, and he paused for a moment to look her up and down. She was around his age, just from a glance, her mane a pitch black with a single silver stripe winding around, cut to military regulation length. She wore feldgrau, so she was clearly Reichsarmee, and according to her pins and patches she wore the rank of Obergefreiter, a senior corporal in other armies. She had at least a few years behind her. She sat behind a typewriter at a desk, which obviously labeled her as one of the dozen or so clerks scattered through the headquarters complex, and her little hollowed out office area had two more such cramped desks behind her, all three lit by a single bare bulb hanging over her head. Though she had a pair of spectacles, they were currently pushed up over her brow, which implied she did not need them to constantly correct her vision.
And she was watching him with a very odd expression.
He frowned, then winced, realizing he had held the lighter with its flame on too long before he readjusted, lighting his own Koorlander quickly and tucking the lighter away, taking a half drag and puffing out the smoke once he had a respectable lungful.
“Ja, a good smoke after a long day is always…good.”
To buy himself more time, he quickly took another pull. She was still looking up at him with that same expression, cigarette held in her magic field. Her eyes flickered from his down to his field jacket several times. For a uniform in the field, he wore no medals but as he was fresh from the akadamie, his field jacket had the abbreviated ribbons and patches to represent decorations. Not like he could just ‘forget’ something sewn in over his breast, however much he didn’t want them. Her gaze flickered over each one, clearly understanding their meaning, before her eyes latched onto his prosthetic. He’d gotten used to the stares by now. They were little different than the sympathetic or horrified expressions when others had realized he was missing a wing, and now Longpaw’s invention clicked and twitched in imitation of his remaining limb, drawing the same kinds of looks. The mare’s eyes seemed to inspect every joint, every strut, every metal feather.
“You’ve seen a lot, for a junior leutnant,” she observed, finally looking back up to his face. He finally placed her expression; she was examining him in that same way he’d seen Eisenwing be examined by other soldiers, which she had been all the way from Longsword to Feathisia, every time he’d glanced over during transit, every stop and in most troopcars there had been some drakes (and not a few formels) watching her with appraising eyes. She had, of course, not done a thing to discourage it, and Cyril had been forced to become familiar with such interactions.
And now, as the intended target, he was absolutely thrown as this mare turned the same attention onto him. He wasn’t sure how to respond. When talking to other females, he’d always considered them as an auto enthusiast looking at a high-performance car; affection for something from an aesthetic point of view. To him, there had never been a reason to do anything else. But if the story of that barmaid back in Zeldstadt were to be believed, this might not have been the first time he had missed the female attentions thrown his way, missed by his own lack of experience.
“I’ve been in service since before the Herzland War,” he replied, desperate to try to keep the conversation civil and moving forward. He had to pull out of this emotional tailspin, get back under control. “Then the Grenzwald, then…well, here.”
Outlining almost seven years of service in such a way sounded pathetic in his mouth, but she seemed suitably impressed, leaning forward onto her hooves which she crossed under her chin, smirking up at him. Given his…unusual taste in females, this only served to make her a bit more alluring, though maybe she intended that. The thought gave Cyril even deeper sweats, trying not to let it show on the outside.
“That’s actually really impressive, Leutnant,” she assured him. “And a Knight’s Cross. You -must- be brave.”
“Hmm? Me? I just…did what had to be done.”
His answers were getting shorter, more stilted, but she simply smiled fully and held a hoof out.
“If I may, sir? Obergefreiter Rosebud Köhler, at your service.”
“Leutnant Cyril Duskwing, at yours.” Finally, a normal interaction, and he took her hoof and shook it, trying to distract himself with the cigarette in the other claw.
But before Köhler could say anything more, a voice he recognized down the passage called out, and the memory of where it came from shocked Cyril back out of his idiotic stupor.
“Duskwing? Is that you?”
Ambling down the passage (how in Tartarus was this tunnel able to contain him, even on all fours?) was none other than the black-clothed bulk of Leutnant Machinki, gray feathers and Reformisten uniform, raging Gryphussian bulk seemingly barely contained. Unsurprisingly, most Reformisten kadets from the graduation had stuck with Kampfgruppe Lehr, while a few were assigned to other panzer battalions where they were needed, their absence filled by the Reichsarmee component coming from the western akadamies. Of those who stuck with Heimclar, they viciously defended their right to wear the blacks they’d been issued, despite what their kommandant did. Machinki’s own decorations and buckles, shiny silver even in the low light, outlined his chest and seemed to only inflate the already bulky griffon, the emblem of the Order Opinicus resplendent and large. Like Cyril, he too wore decorations for valor and campaigning (a small, quickly stifled part of Cyril’s mind thrilled that there were fewer than his own chest), but Machinki’s face seemed to have the usual chiseled from marble expression as he approached from the dark.
“Leutnant Machinki,” Cyril responded, the awkwardness flowing out of him to be replaced by a defensive edge. This was something he knew how to deal with, and part of him appreciated the distraction. “I didn’t see you in the briefing.”
Machinki grunted, waving with a claw to disregard the notion.
“I saw you. Other side of the room. I’m not surprised.” He reached back, gesturing to his wing that he had twitch for example. “You’re a bit hard to miss, honestly.” Machinki glanced at Köhler, whose eyes were sliding between the two with a wary expression. Whether it was because she could sense the tension between them or the Reformisten pins gave a pony paranoid thoughts (hardly to be blamed, many of those in the far west were rather unaware of the Reformisten’s internal strife of the past, Cyril had found) but the interaction seemed to set her on edge. Machinki’s expression hardened again.
“Obergefreiter, perhaps I can intrude? I have business with the leutnant.”
“Of…of course sir.”
Military formality reasserted itself, and Köhler stood from her desk, nodding in acceptance of the request, though to Cyril’s ears the tone set it more as a command. Regardless, he nodded as well, giving Köhler a quick farewell smile, which she returned in politeness, before he turned towards the exit. Still, as he glanced back, he did witness Machinki fix Köhler with an icy glare, which forced the mare back to her seat and set back to her typing immediately. While he was glad to be away from that impasse, he wasn’t sure she deserved that kind of abrupt departure.
It was ironic that stepping out of the headquarters bunker and into the night air, full of the stench of burning cordite, engine oil, mud and unwashed bodies put him more at ease than being in there. Anti-aircraft batteries nearby thundered away, sending streams of tracers up into the sky after faint outlines, chasing away Aquileian raiders and recon craft that Imperial fighters skirmished with. The rumble of artillery sounded, not as intense as earlier in the day but likely to keep the Republique from forgetting they were there. Subdued lights were everywhere, from hooded lanterns and fires lit in empty fuel barrels to full on campfires in buried pits to provide light and warmth for the soldiers amassed here. Trenches stretched away in all directions, bridges over the wider battle trenches to provide mobility for legs and vehicles, smaller communications trenches so soldiers could pass between the lines and dugouts for clusters of soldiers here on the line. The mud was everywhere, as rainy spring was still in full swing, and Operation Donnerkiel was supposed to have seized a rare few days of dry skies to be engaged.
They walked for maybe about twenty minutes before Cyril tugged out another cigarette, turning to offer one to Machinki, who refused with a gentle shake of his head. Shrugging, Cyril lit his own, and they stood by a signpost, designating various different sections of the trenchworks. Remarkable to think all of this would likely be abandoned in the week, if things went well. So much work had gone into it.
Machinki finally spoke first, clearing his throat to break the silence.
“I wasn’t aware you held the Knight’s Cross.”
As icebreakers went, it wasn’t bad, and Cyril let out his current puff as he nodded, flicking off the ashes.
“Ja. For…well, this.” He half-extended the steel wing, its metallic joints rasping as he winced. He’d need to oil them again, the damn moisture was making them stick, even if they weren’t rusting. “Temsoar. It uh…wasn’t good.” Words failed him, as he couldn’t think of any other way to describe it without sitting down and giving him a whole fable.
But Machinki seemed to understand, tapping the brim of his cap. “It’s not like the stories.”
“On that, we can agree.”
The two enjoyed another minute of silence while Cyril finished his cigarette, listening to the flak guns and howitzers pound away in the distance. When he tossed the butt down, he didn’t light another one.
“Not sure Köhler deserved that kind of treatment. We were just talking.”
“You are a Knight,” Machinki interrupted curtly. “And a superior officer. She was being extremely inappropriate with you in regards to both respect to rank and courtesy in uniform. It wasn’t proper.” The stern glare broke with a rare smirk. “You may be adept in a bar fight, Ser Duskwing, but it was clear that in that skirmish you were outmatched.”
Cyril shifted uneasily, mostly because Machinki seemed to pick up the contents of the conversation from only a few seconds, whereas he’d needed so long to catch on.
“I’ve got someone,” he said in a lame sort of defense. “I just…haven’t seen her in a few years. It was a little…surprising to be noticed that way again.”
Machinki, surprised, leaned back to study Cyril again before he nodded firmly once more.
“More reason to extract you from there, before you made a fool of yourself, waffenbrüder.”
Cyril chuckled wryly a moment before he looked back up at the Gryphussian seriously, considering the other officer.
“Is that what we are now? Brothers in arms?”
Machinki, for the first time, actually looked a little awkward himself if only for a moment, that marble resolve reasserting itself again.
“We technically always have been,” was his reply. “A bar brawl does not change that.” Another moment of awkward silence. “I wanted to extend my…formal apologies. Make amends, as it were.”
“Ja,” Cyril said, more to give the knight the out from actually having to say it out loud. He knew how difficult those words could be to say, and Machinki nodded again, grateful.
“And how is Feldwebel Spotsley?”
“She’s recovered. Not really talking to me much, but we’re not angry at each other.”
“I see. Instances like this, it can be difficult to move past. I am glad to hear she is better. I was so relieved Oberstmeister Heimclar went easy on her.”
Cyril laughed, a short, dry bark with no humor behind it whatsoever. His wings twitched, threatening to flare and betray his real emotions, the sudden flare of anger he felt.
“You call ten lashes with a steel-tipped bullwhip going easy?”
But the sarcasm faded with a glance at Machinki’s serious, marble carved face.
“Yes,” he replied quietly. “I do not know from Heimclar personally, but had she been anyone else, and he been any other officer, I’m certain she would have been executed for her treason. And been lucky if just shot.”
Cyril studied him closely. Machinki had no reason to lie. Other than Reformisten pride, of course. Much as they declared they loved the Empire, most of the Black Knights and their auxiliaries were convinced of their martial and moral superiority over the more common types to the west. He had to admit, the Reformisten were good soldiers. But if the exchange was a reign of such tight control it could be called terror, he wasn’t sure the tradeoff was worthwhile. But those kinds of decisions were far over his own head. No use ruminating on them now. Though thinking of the east again set his mind back to the Riverlands. He still wondered about Paige’s parents; according to Haul he had established them a safe home in Lushi. Given its proximity to the border, he wondered how safe that could really be. Instead of saying any of this aloud, he simply nodded in return as he carefully examined Machinki’s face, watching for any change in expression.
“Duly noted,” he said, quietly.
“You must understand…it is how order is kept, after the Reiniger civil war. In Ost-Griffonia, compliance and duty allows for a comfortable life.”
Not an apology, or an excuse. Simply an explanation. This was the way it was. Cyril glanced around, spotting a Vollstrecker on patrol, prowling between trenches. According to the flag she wore, this formel was from Strawberry. He winced. And he had thought things had gotten harsh out west, with the Kaiserreich’s reunification. But as harsh as things were here, he had gotten a taste of how things were to the east. And they were unlikely to change until the Empire fully integrated the Grenzwald. With how things were with Aquileia, the Revolutionary Republic and Wingbardy, that was decades in the future. The required courses back at akadamie had taught him of the Reformisten’s corrupted intent, seized by extremists like Pallas and the Reinigers. While the goal may have always been to protect the Empire to the east, the civil wars that had gripped both Hellquill and Longsword had certainly set that back. Attempted genocide and military dictatorship were words not easily forgotten.
“Yeah,” Cyril muttered, fully believing him.
Machinki seemed at a loss for words, as if he’d run out of steam. He had said what he had come to say, and past that his purpose seemed a little empty. There was still an uncomfortable air between them, and maybe there always would be. Nearby, another artillery battery started up, and the two officers glanced over, listening to the familiar drumming. It occurred to Cyril that there had been no counterfire from the Republique guns for some time, and of those aircraft overhead, few dropped munitions. It was a good sign. Maybe, just maybe, this whole crazy scheme had a chance.
“Just one more question,” Cyril asked, as something popped into his head. “If you suspected the punishment might be as severe as that…why did you step between it and Bekah?”
Machinki frowned, and Cyril realized his error at the same time the other realized who he meant. After another awkward moment of both soldiers trying and failing to explain, Machinki simply held up a claw to silence Cyril so he could answer.
“I did it because I had hoped, -hoped- that an admission of guilt would lessen the severity. I’ve seen it before. Taking responsibility for your errors despite knowing you would be subject to such…corrective measures. Compliance and duty.”
Cyril nodded slowly, in quiet understanding.
“Actually, there was something else I was working on to express my apologies. If you could manage to hold off on telling her, I think she’ll appreciate it. I just have to wait for Feldzeugmeister Paulus Von Hindenbark Oetinger to get back to me.”
Cyril blinked as he tried to comprehend the statement, so casually spoken but so hard to understand when all put together.
“Von Hindenbark? As in…the kommandant of the Bund? The uh…the Stonemason of Ortelsberg ? Your head engineer? Architect of the Ostwall?”
Machinki frowned, not understanding.
“You can just write him like that?”
“Of course. It’s not a personal matter, it's a problem of morale. He has to consider it.”
He really did see it that plainly. Cyril just shook his head.
“You Grenzwalders…you’re really something else. Just when I think I have you lot figured out, you go and surprise me some more.”
To his surprise, Machinki smiled in return.
“Say, Duskwing. We’re both going into this operation, how about we make a deal next time we get leave. I know your fisticuffs are up to par. How are your dueling skills?”
At first, Cyril thought he was kidding. Dueling? Him? When would a panzertruppen need a damn sword? But then he looked at Machinki’s face and realized…no, he wasn’t kidding.
“Um…subpar? I don’t exactly have a sword…”
“Well then,” the Gryphussian said with a smirk. “We’ll get you one. What good is a knight that doesn’t know how to handle a blade?”
March 11th, 1012 0515 hours
In the end, the operation didn’t kick off at 0400 like it was supposed to. But on the scale of what was moving, 0430 was just fine by everyone’s reckoning. For a half hour, the crew of Isegrim sat buttoned up in the Gryta as what had to be the biggest artillery barrage in history rang out. It wasn’t the length of the attack, that was miniscule compared to recorded bombardments that lasted days or even weeks raging on to pound the enemy into submission. But the sheer number of guns outside had to be such a tremendous volume for the amount the earth shook under them. Entire battalions of howitzers, Nebelwerfer batteries lined in rows, heavy mortars coughing their payloads up and away, light field guns at the front with their quickfire mechanisms working overtime. It was practically endless. If one could only take a breath between the shots, they’d die of asphyxiation in no time. The scream of gunners hollering for more shells, barking firing orders, adjusting trajectory based on information from couriers and spotters became part of the background, ears rendered deaf and voices made hoarse.
The loose parts of the panzer rattled as they waited, and even though they were not being actively shot at, the crew all tightly clutched the machinery of their stations. Brightclaw, muttering a prayer under his breath, glanced out his side aperture, talons nervously tapping against the armor plating. Eihol’s claws sat easily on the steering wheel, but anygriff who knew him recognized the stiffness in his shoulders. The same went for Spotsley, who couldn’t stop fidgeting with her radio set, switching to the MG08 and peering down its sights, then going back. Eisenwing carefully pulled a flask out, taking a hit and then offering it to Cyril. While he accepted the schnapps, he noticed the shake of her claw. Much as she tried to conceal it, the young gunner was just as nervous as the veterans. But the experienced crewmembers just knew how to hide it better.
The radio finally barked, and Cyril’s headset broadcast Heimclar’s voice into his ear.
”Attention, all Kampfgruppe Lehr elements; this is the Oberstmeister. Donnerkiel is go, I say again, all elements are go. You are authorized to move to the assault. All kompanie commanders are authorized to take the initiative. Godspeed, gentlegriffs. Over and out.”
”Brutus-Aktual, listen up!” That was Hauptmann Stahlbeak, Cyril’s kompanie commander. They had inherited him when the graduating class had caught up to what would become Kamfgruppe Lehr, waiting with the Reichsarmee components from the west to join with the eastern half when they arrived in Feathisia. Cyril had little experience with him, but the late night meetings and tactical briefings indicated Stahlbeak was a micromanager who worried over intense details, but at least let his platoons have their heads when the time needed. Not bad for the son of a count.
”Brutus-1 will take the lead, Brutus-2 on left flank and Brutus-3 right flank. I want best speed across no drake’s land. Assault the enemy line as you see fit. How copy, over.”
“Brutus-2 copies, over,” Cyril returned on the shortwave, joining the chorus of affirmations. “Eihol,” he said over the panzer intercom. “Get this bucket of bolts moving!”
“Ja, mein herr,” Eihol replied. His Herzlandisch had really gotten much better over the years, Cyril thought as the idling Gryta engine revved up, thundering deep under their boots as the enormous panzer lurched forward, shaking them all in their seats.
“Spotsley, pull up the Zug channel.”
“Ja, on it.”
As Zugführer, Cyril was in charge of his own Gryta and three others. Steifmutter, Brunhilde and Eisenhans. Together, they formed a veritable armored sledgehammer as the entire kompanie bore down on the enemy line. Isegrim lumbered over a berm, finally maneuvering out of the staging position to enter the battlefield proper. Ahead, machine gun tracers from the Aquileian trench spattered down on them like hot, glowing rain, the hollow pops and booms of mortars seeking soft targets. But the soft skinned trucks, halftracks and Grimbart armored cars the munitions sought were not present, and wouldn’t be coming up until the trenches had been penetrated, so the engineers could secure the chaotic mess of no drake’s land. Even now, their tracks clattered and crushed barbed wire fences, rotting corpses, the shattered wrecks of crashed planes and abandoned trucks.
“Zugführer to all, form up on me, wedge pattern. We’re going to drive up on that line and bowl them over, how copy over?”
”Brunnhilde here,” radioed back Vise-Feldwebel Schwarzplume. ”Copy Zug-Aktual. Interrogative, what are we expecting in armored resistance?”
Schwarzplume was an old motorized grenadier veteran who had graduated to the older Beaks before being picked up by Panzer Elite Westen, a soldier at least ten years Cyril’s senior. For this reason, he was the platoon’s senior noncom and often asked questions on situations long after the briefing. The intel handed down last night, as far as he was concerned, was outdated and needed to be updated.
”Still the same as last night, Schwarz. Expect Panzer-Zerstorer guns and up to medium panzers.”
“Like we know much better,” Spotsley piped up on the intercom. Ironically, she found Schwarzplume a paranoid old bird, not seeing her own careful attention to intel and information mirrored in the non-com.
“Steifmutter here, I’ve got movement on the line. Seeing foot-mobile infantry and bunkers. Range estimate nine-hundred meters. Request permission to engage, over?”
On the other end of the spectrum, Feldwebel Bakker was enthusiastic, the daughter of a merchant from Strawberry. Younger than Cyril, it was suspected she had gotten her rank and been accepted to the Panzer Elite through her father’s wealth and influence than real skill. Her battlefield performance as part of a Calico battalion during the Herzland War had, at least, been marked as exceptional, so perhaps she wasn’t a complete fraud. But Cyril would have to keep an eye on her.
“Negative, Bakker. Engagement range is six-hundred and under. Anything more and we’re more likely to give them a show.”
That wasn’t technically true. The Gryta’s cannon, manufactured by renowned artillery manufacturer Helheim Kannonen, had a clocked effective range of eight-hundred meters, with a listed maximum range of over a kilometer. But Cyril knew that what applied in the specs and on the range had only so much to do with performance in the field, and besides that allowing an ambitious one like Bakker to start shooting beyond effective range was asking for trouble.
“Eisenhans to Aktual, coming around to your far nine o’clock, over.”
The last of the platoon, Cyril had been confused how Feldwebel Hovawart had gotten this position. Like Schwarzplume, he was cautious and careful, but instead of being seasoned and paranoid, he was a bit skittish and flighty. A good panzer kommandant, yes, but afraid to take risks. A Stahlschild driver during the Herzland War, he’d proven he had the skills and capability, but somegriff made a serious error in giving the hound a command role. Cyril figured he’d have to iron that issue out if he was going to keep Eisenhans in the Panzer Elite.
Before he could answer, a shell detonated nearby that was absolutely not from a mortar. The Aquileians, after being bombarded by what likely felt like the end of the world, had regained their positions to start shooting back. The most obvious target was, of course, the Grytas crawling across no drake’s land towards them, practically rolling bunkers bigger than any other panzer seen on the field to date. The first shell was followed by another, and another, and another. Cyril was grateful their firing still seemed off. They must be making adjustments on the fly to try and hit the armor.
Then Isegrim rocked on her treads as a great CLANG rang out, deafening the crew for a moment. From long experience and memory, Cyril knew they had just taken a hit, and for a split second his brain screamed at him to get out, for the panzer must be on fire by now, crippled and about to brew up as fuel and ammunition caught fire. Fortunately, the panic faded into adrenaline as his training kicked in.
“Status!” he hollered.
“Panzer-Zerstorer gun!” Spotsley called from the radio seat. “Grazing shot, but they got us on the glacis! We’re zeroed in!”
Cursing, Cyril leaned in, peering through his own spotting scope to examine the enemy trench lines. Sunrise was around the corner, but the smoke and mud kept the sky dark.
“Range!” he yelled again.
“Six-hundred and fifty meters!” Eisenwing replied, helmet pushed back as she glued her eye to the gunner’s scope.
“Fuck this!” With a curse, Cyril keyed his headset once more, mere moments after just receiving his last report over it. In a voice loud enough that the other crew members could hear him even without the intercom on, he barked “Isegrim to all, engage, engage, engage! Fire at will!”
If the other gunners were only half as aggressive as Eisenwing, they were still just as prepared. A heartbeat later, and still on the move, all four Grytas thundered, their 7.6 cm guns sending massive shells shrieking away. As if it was a starting gun, the rest of the kompanie began laying on the same punishment, a thunder of ordnance that rolled on in a single roaring din. On the move at best speed, the first shots wouldn’t be all that accurate, but as Cyril leaned forward to peer through his commander’s sight (optimally he should have been standing in the cupola for maximum sight, but the artillery had made him button up), he was pleased to see several bunkers visibly split open and belching flame as the stored ammunition cooked off. No way to tell who had scored those, but he was just happy to have results.
In response, the volume of fire coming down on them seemed to double, machine gun tracers joined by autocannon shells and more AT rounds. A few times, the ringing smack of shells bouncing off panzer armor rang out, indicating another Gryta had shrugged off a hit and continued to plow on. But now, there was response. Every few seconds, another panzer slowed to a crawl long enough to let the cannon boom as another shot soared out. These were more accurate than the first, and more and more bunkers were reduced to flaming chunks of concrete, another gun nest blown apart, another position destroyed. Both kompanies, twenty Grytas, slugged through the fire coming down on them as they approached the Aquileian lines, and upon closing the enemy desperation became apparent.
“Panzers sighted!” Eisenwing called, already turning the powered traverse to line up the shot.
“Sabot, up!” Brightclaw hollered, the armor-piercing shell slamming home as his claw came back, slapping the release and letting the massive breechblock close. Cyril, having practiced this particular dance himself hundreds of times in the past, beamed with pride at their coordination before he peered back out to watch.
The panzer in particular was an Aquileian EMC, a medium vehicle flanked by two ELCs, emerging from the trenchlines to meet the charge head on. Brave bastards, but bravery didn’t always trump sense, and anyone with eyes could see a Gryta outweighed all three of those panzers by a massive difference. The EMC fired first, its shot soaring over their left trackguard, though Cyril doubted it’s 4.7 cm gun would have done them any more trouble than the previous shells. The ELCs also fired, and this close in their cannons hit on target. A few years ago, Cyril had been convinced the 3.7 was a fierce cannon, able to defeat all but the heaviest armor. But experience and technology had proven those thoughts outdated, and the light shells bounced harmlessly off. He almost felt like laughing, the rush to the head was incredible.
Eisenwing’s shot answered, the cannon booming in reply. She didn’t miss, and the 7.6 cm sabot didn’t bounce off. Instead, the EMC rocked from the impact, slowing to a halt with a nice, neat hole punched in its front through which fire could be seen spewing out. It didn’t quite brew up, but it didn’t have to. It was clearly going nowhere now. The two ELC commanders had a shred of common sense, and immediately threw their vehicles in reverse to escape, their 3.7 cm guns popping again in panic. Another Gryta in the line nailed one of them before it slipped from sight.
They had breached the Republique line by now, and Cyril called a halt to Isegrim as he scanned out over the trenches before them, watching the line basically dissolve in panic. Guns were abandoned, dugouts practically vomited troops in blue uniforms, griffons and pegasi took to wing in panic as they fled and elsewhere, other southern panzers could be seen evacuating the same way, reversing to escape the seemingly unkillable Imperial landships. Some of them backed into trenches too wide for their entry, dumping the machines into unintended traps they couldn’t escape, some backed into artillery pits and crushed friendly guns and set off abandoned ammunition stacks. It was sheer pandemonium, and to Cyril it was glorious.
Abruptly, something spanked off the panzer nearby, and he realized that while many fled, just as many were making a stand, either desperate to hold Kampfgruppe Lehr back or to buy time for their comrades to escape. Mostly infantry arms, but quite a few grenades were detonating too near tracks for his comfort, and memories of the suicide bomber in Temsoar came back to him. He reached up, keying the headset.
“Isegrim to all, fall in on me and halt. We need to clear these bastards for the grenadiers.”
A chorus of agreement and compliance came back, and along the line where they had breached, Cyril’s platoon drew up in a line, cannons booming and machine guns spitting as they swept the trenches. It would do no good to take this ground only to lose it because they could not accomplish their task of letting in the troops behind them. Cyril popped the hatch, emerging into the cupola to take up his commander’s MG 131. Normally, this was an airplane mounted machine gun, chambered for something more appropriate to destroy vehicles. But somewhere, some brilliant engineer had the wisdom to refit it to mount on a panzer turret, and while it fired a bit slower than the aerial model, it made little difference to Cyril as he racked the beefy action for the 1.3cm rounds, thumbing the safety off and drawing a bead on the nearest infantrygriff, blue coat spattered with mud as the poor sod aimed a bolt-action rifle up at Cyril. Being only a hundred feet away, Cyril barely had to aim as he pulled the trigger, sending a stream of high-caliber lead raining down on the Aquileaian soldier and the three others near him. As he timed a ten-round burst before letting his talon up, he was grimly satisfied to see the enemy ripped to shreds, the sandbag wall behind them rent and bleeding sand and several small fires burning from the phosphorus tracers, limited and sputtering out already. It was good work, he decided.
A shriek sounded, as a geyser of mud and debris flew up nearby, threatening Eisenhans. Cyril spun his head around, looking for the panzer responsible. The EMCs and ELCs were all fleeing, and he hadn’t seen any Vanguards or heavier armor when they had breached the line.
”Eisenhans here! Isegrim, it’s a Tab!”
Cyril’s heart went cold. A Tab was an EMC that had ripped off the turret, replaced it with a solid casemate and mounted a heavy 7.5cm cannon in its hull. A cheap, simple and sensible panzer hunter that could be made with already existing tools and machinery. And in the chaos of the Republique trenchworks and the fighting retreat, a low profile vehicle like a Tab had more than enough places to hide. He reached up, keying the headset.
“Eisenhans, get a better position! Break his line of sight! Brunnhilde, Steifmutter, root him out!”
He began scanning the field, ignoring much of the action. The Aquileian infantry still fired on them, of course, and they were becoming a hazard, but that Tab could actually do some damage that would slow the advance or even kill one of them. They needed it dealt with, -now-.
Abruptly, a flash caught his eye. There! In that stack of camouflaged crates!
As soon as he saw his foe, the Tab’s commander must have realized it had been found out, as the vehicle spun on its treads with startling speed. Next moment, as he opened his beak to alert Eisenwing, he suddenly found himself staring down the yawning muzzle of the panzer-jager’s cannon, and the words died in his throat.
Then it fired.
It didn’t hit. Isegrim was safe, and so was he. But as the armor-piercing shell tore past, the shriek it made practically tore his ears apart, so close was it to his head. Cyril fell off the stand, holding his skull as he collapsed in his seat. He couldn’t hear anything, his head ringing as he tried to figure out what in Tartarus was happening. Somegriff was yelling at the top of their lungs, and it took Cyril a second to realize it was him.
“-ten o’clock, in that supply dump!” he finished shouting, still unable to hear his own words. “Core the fucker!”
He didn’t hear Eisenwing’s reply, but he felt the turret swing as she lined up the shot. The panzer rocked with the blast, and they weren't dead yet. Clumsily, he clawed his way back up, dazed and unable to restrain himself as his wings flared the second he returned to the cupola. His hearing was slowly returning, and he shook his head to help clear his ears, blinking as he regained his senses. There, he could see it. The Tab had been hit so hard by the Gryta’s shot that it had skidded back on its treads, knocking crates and camo netting helter skelter around it. Flames sprouted off its engine compartment where the hatch had been blown open, and even from here Cyril could see the surviving crew bailing out, a pair of ponies and a griffon trying to catch up to the rearguard elements of the retreat. A wave of vicious anger overtook him there, and he took up the heavy machine gun, squeezing off burst after burst at their backs. Logically, he should have known he couldn’t hit much from here, and most of the time there was nothing to be gained from firing on evacuating crew, but a sick sense of pleasure crept through him as he watched one of the ponies drop in a splash of crimson.
As he watched, another Gryta from 1st Platoon crawled into sight, machine guns blasting as it lumbered over the trenchworks. Behind it, the forms of several grenadier squads emerged, flushing through the trenches to clean up any stragglers or capture sensitive material. The occasional snap of rifle or rattle of submachine gun fire drifted across the ruined defensive line, the stench of burning flamethrower propellant reaching his nose already, and he knew it would be the same way across the rest of the line here. With this, they were well and truly in enemy territory, and only a few days to the southwest was Aquileia proper.
He let go of the machine gun, letting out a breath before he keyed the headset again.
“Isegrim to all…advance on target. Let's get their headquarters and supplies folded up before they make off with too much.” He paused, blinking as he considered his statement before he added “Well done, lads. Damn fine work.”
Overhead, he could hear, and then see, the outlines of wave after wave of Imperial aircraft, fighters and bombers angling towards the southwest to grapple with their Entente counterparts. Only now, no AA fire rose to meet them, no flak barrage to impede their way and threaten to shoot them down. It was a sight straight out of a propaganda piece.
The Long March to the City of Lights had well and truly begun.
"I've heard complaining about how our position as Equestria's high-flyers has been replaced with machines, 'metal has replaced mettle' and all that. Well... suck it up, foals. We still have our duty, so do it or get out of my way." — Captain Spitfire of the Wonderbolts
March 12th, 1012 Blackthorn Dale, Equestria 5th Army, 13th ‘Baltimare’ Onhooves Division, 60th ‘Royal Rifles’ Onhooves Regiment Spring Offensive
“TAKE COVER!”
Sergeant Macintosh Apple, better known mostly by his family and friends as ‘Big Mac’ was having a bad night. As he slammed up against the tree, he heard at least a dozen rounds intended for his flesh smack either into the trunk at his back, the ground nearby and sending geysers of dirt fountaining up around him or, worse luck, finding an unfortunate soldier nearby and impacting with the splat of bullets on flesh and a short, high shriek more often than not cut short. He could barely see with the twilight around him turning the woods of Blackthorn Dale into a patchwork of shadows, scant sunlight and areas where visibility was more of a gray haze and the black and gray uniforms and chitinous hides of changeling troopers lended them natural camouflage that had nothing to do with shapeshifting. He shifted, peering around the side of the tree as he tried to see the enemy position the platoon was trying to move up towards, but another spurt of muzzle flashes sent his way encouraged him to duck back into cover. Another scream, on his opposite side, told of another pony down, and he shifted to reach for another magazine.
The weapon he carried was no Lavender rifle or Limestone submachine gun (Equestria's attempt to build an affordable, modern automatic firearm), but a weapon far more fitting his bulk and weight; the infamous L09 Machine Rifle, known by its manufacturer as the ‘Growler’ but by the regulars who carried her more fittingly as the ‘Grump’. Chambered in the same heavy .303 Equestrian round as the Lavender rifle, she had a bipod fitted under her barrel and a curved thirty-round magazine slapped into her topside. Compared to the changeling MG 42s which fired so fast Big Mac swore they sounded more like a buzzsaw, the Grump chugged along at a sluggish pace, but accuracy counted for more in the Equestrian Royal Army, and everypony had gone through the punishing rifle drills where the drill sergeants had screamed in their ears when they were a coins’ width off target. It paid in spades now, with a weapon he fired in careful bursts, placing every round as effectively as if he were back on the range again on his belly while some pegasus with a stick up his flank smacked him over the Bronie helm again and again to punish him for every wide shot. Well, he didn’t shoot wide anymore, not with his life and the lives of those ponies around him on the line.
He heard more bodies hit the dirt around him, but these were of ponies trying not to get shot diving into the underbrush as bullets whipped past overhead. He glanced out again, scanning the position up ahead. The changelings were dug into a small rise with two MG 42s and several riflelings protecting a massive 88mm flak gun, the howitzer-looking weapon booming as it sent another huge shell up into the sky, though the bugs and ponies had both discovered (to the former’s delight and the latter’s dread) that it make a fabulous anti-tank gun as well, and could nail any Muletilda, CM Crusader or Timberwolf tanks coming up the road ahead. Big Mac nodded to himself. If they could take that position and neutralize the gun, the road would allow them to bring up tanks and push the line of battle even further back, while those lunatic heroes in the sky could fight the Luftwaffe just a little bit better. The idea was to lay the ground for the advance upon occupied Marechester, from where the changelings had been deploying armored thrusts upon the Luna Line. But first, they had to take and hold this road.
“Mac!”
A voice nearby made him spin his head around. More and more ponies were falling on the line now, some of them scythed down by the changeling guns, some of them merely taking cover in the dim wood to avoid such a fate. Grenades detonated nearby, throwing shrapnel and splinters around, causing more screams, but over it all Big Mac could hear the distinctive yelling of his platoon leader nearby, Lieutenant Pokey Pierce. The blue unicorn was a few trees over, magic aura holding a radiohoofset near as he jammed a new magazine into his Hippie gun (a common nickname for the Thundersplash the Royal Army had bought in their thousands). Unlike the standard twenty round sticks, Pierce did his best to get his hooves on bulky fifty round drum mags like some pulp hero or Wingbardian mafia gangster, but Mac had seen that the Hippie gun’s fire rate ate up ammunition like a fire in a paper factory, and the extra capacity came in handy plenty of times.
He was about to call back when another spurt of machine gun fire smashed into his cover, taking off a huge chunk of wood and cutting down another pony nearby. Which a shriek, she dropped as well, Lavender rifle flying from her limp hooves with the momentum of her aborted charge. In return, Mac leaned out and let the changeling position have a five round burst from the Grump, smirking as he watched one of the machine gunners flop away, green ichor spraying out from his chest visible even in the low light before he was quickly replaced by another.
“Sir!” he called out, looking back to see that Pierce had moved closer, the radiopony carrying the pack coming with him. The two were kept away as another long curtain of fire raked the trees. Heavy Lavender rifles barked and snapped, hunting for changeling targets but their fire was still too slow, too damn slow. Bolt action rifles against an entrenched machine gun position was like a filly trying to smack a bear in the nose. The filly would do her best, but the result would be nasty and messy.
Another of the platoon’s Grump guns rang out, tracers snapping off the sandbags and earthworks, dragging the bug gunners’ attention away and finally letting Pierce close the distance with his sergeant.
“Mac! I’ve got D Company mortars on the horn ready to drop the hurt! Need somepony to get close enough to give them a signal! We take this road, we let the armor get up in the tenders!” Pierce glanced over at the gun nest, still raining hot lead down on the other Grump gunner and whatever ponies were there before he pointed, indicating nearby the wreckage of a tipped over cart and a few trees that had clearly been felled to give the gunners good sight in their area. “Bounding fire, Mac! Get it done, we’ll cover your back!”
“Eeeyup!”
Sometimes, the best you could do was agree with your officer’s orders, suck it up and grow a pair. Fortunately, Mac was always more about the doing than the thinking. It was why the Army had made him first a corporal, then a sergeant. He doubted he’d advance further, but that was all fine by him. Mac turned, scanning the ponies nearest him as he tried to figure out where his section was. Scattered, the answer turned out. Some were dead, some were in cover on line with him, a few behind. He finished his silent roll call before he began pointing and yelling himself. He was a stallion of few words, but his slow cadence and deep voice had a strength of their own. In combat, when everything was so fast and piled on, few ponies needed him to repeat what he’d said.
“Breeze! Arrow! Mane!” he called to his section’s best shots, gaining their attention in an instant. “Keep those buckers’ heads down! Anytime one looks up, sling some lead his way!”
Next, he turned to find the rest of his section, spotting the ones still alive nearby.
“Spark! Buster! Ace! You’re moving with me! We need to get close enough to mark that nest for mortars!”
“You got it Sarge!”
In moments, his ad hoc assault formation shifted closer, while the sharpshooters joined the platoon’s fire to try and dislodge the position. The riflelings, as it happened, weren’t just limited to Gewehr 7 rifles either, the MP 10s a pair carried chattering as well. Two of them meant the squad leader and assistant most likely, and if the deep snap he heard occasionally meant anything, it was that one of them had a Gewehr 12, the changelings’ new rapid fire battle rifle. As if their arsenal wasn’t deadly enough, it seemed they were getting ready to make new upgrades. Clearly inspired by the Imperial Gerund, the Gewehr 12 took the fire superiority margin the bugs already possessed and pushed it even wider. For now, these semi-automatic marksmen rifles were still in smaller number, but who knew when it would be more common?
Mac waited, watching in the low light as the fire shifted. When the glowing green eyes and red hot muzzles swung away again, he stepped out from behind his tree, chattering off a long burst from his Grump gun.
“Go! Go! Go!” he hollered, surging forward to take the lead himself. Behind him, his assault ponies charged after, their rifles barking as they fired snapshots out.
He had chosen his moment well, as the changeling troopers had been focused on the platoon’s other two Grump gunners, and not looked towards the quiet part of the woods. Though their night vision was superior, the constant barrage of muzzle flashes had to be spoiling how they perceived in the low light, and the few ‘lings that looked their way wound up only attracting the attention of Mac’s own sharpshooters, punching out the lights of anyone that looked set to cause problems.
They also did still have a platoon of thirty ponies at their back, and as Lieutenant Pierce had promised the volume of covering fire picked up, downing a score of chitinous soldiers as Mac’s team closed on the rise. Privates Spark and Ace both managed to reach cover in time right behind Big Mac, but Buster was a hair too slow in the trot, and keeled over as a round took him in the next. As the stallion thrashed and tried to roll away, another burst of MP 10 fire stitched up his form, and he fell still. To answer that, Mac stood back up, steadying the Grump’s bipod on the tree they hid behind as he emptied the automatic rifle’s magazine at the enemy position.
“Hoof grenades!” he shouted, and both Spark and Ace reached down, extracting the Morrow bombs from their belts and, after shucking the pins, tossed the explosives out. Twin detonations rang out along with screams from wounded changelings.
“Move up!” Mac shouted, slapping a new magazine in the Grump gun before hurrying to keep up with his assault team, moving closer to the gun. Enough bugs were now dead or crawling away wounded that the way to the 88 was clear, though even now Mac could see the barrel swinging around to align towards the forest. One of the machine gunners spotted Mac and his two stallions, firing a burst down at them and catching Ace in the chest. Enough rounds hit the earth pony that he was practically sawed in half, his guts and viscera spraying behind him as raw meat splattered off the spring grass under him. Mac and Spark finally reached the last piece of cover, and Mac jerked his head as he stood up, Grump gun in hoof.
“Smoke!” he hollered over the chaos of battle, before triggering the Grump gun to spray out another magazine in a suppressing barrage that forced both machine gunners to duck down. Spark, to his credit, reacted immediately. In a moment, a canister spewing red smoke was flying away up the rise, landing at the hooves of the changeling gunners up top.
“Back!” Mac yelled, and they both abandoned the position to make a headlong dash back on all fours, galloping for their lives. It only took thirty seconds to cover all the ground they had spent so much effort moving up over, but by Celestia’s merciful grace they made it back to friendly positions unharmed, taking shelter in the trees just as the shrieking howl of incoming mortars arced overhead. The rise where the fortified position was dug in disappeared in a shower of munitions, as the mortars pasted the rise three volleys over, flying dirt and debris spraying in all directions as they lost track of the position, replaced instead by the concentrated fury of D Company’s light artillery.
When the dust cleared, the MG 42s were no longer firing, and not a single pony could see any movement from their treeline vantage. The 88 had been launched off the rise, twisted barrel and gun assembly tumbled away as if kicked over by an Ursa Minor.
Lieutenant Pierce wasted no time.
“Move up! Secure the rise!”
Out of thirty-six ponies in the platoon that had attacked the position, twenty-three emerged. The platoon had taken a hefty chewing today, but the troopers moved with their rifles ready. Isolated shots broke out as wounded changeling survivors were discovered and dispatched. The Royal Army of today had little love in its heart for the invaders that always cost so much to dislodge. But the platoon advanced up on the rise, securing the overlook on the road.
“Menace One,” said a radiomare as Mac stepped over to peer at a burst and wrecked MG 42 closer. “Menace One, this is Menace Five. Road taken in Grid Four-two three-one, over.”
Lieutenant Pierce stepped over to Mac, nudging the sergeant on the shoulder with a hoof, smirking as he did so.
“Damn fine work, Mac,” he declared, glancing around. “Now we just gotta wait. The tanks will move up and it’ll be onwards to Marechester!”
“Gotta get outta Blackthorn first, sir.”
Mac’s slow cadence and deep tone said all that needed to be said, as he glanced back towards the treeline. Equestrian medic ponies were already preparing to take the wounded away, signaling pegasus fliers streaking by low over the treetops to grab anypony they could and return to battalion aid stations. The dead, as it happened, would be forced to wait for the trucks. There was no time to halt the offensive to take their bodies away, not when the priority was on grinding forwards ever more. Pierce glanced back as well, taking Mac’s silent message and sighing in response before glancing up at the much larger sergeant.
“I know, Mac. But we’re still in this war. A long time after anypony on two continents thought we would be. Now we’ve stopped the bugs. It’s time to kick ‘em out. And it’s gonna cost…what it’s gonna cost.”
To that, Macintosh could only answer “Eeeyup.”
It was another hour before the tanks finally arrived. By the time they had, night had fallen on Blackthorn. Information on the ground this far up was spotty, so they had no idea how the attack as a whole fared. The platoon had instead dug in on the rise, turning the changeling defensive position into an Equestrian one. Sandbags and wreckage had been rearranged to point northwest, Grump guns and the one surviving MG 42 behind the barricade watching the road and trees. True, without the 88 they had no real way of fighting fliers or armor, but the arrival of three CM Crusaders and two Timberwolves fixed the second problem readily enough. At their head was a brand new Twilight tank, named for the newest alicorn Princess (whom Mac actually knew personally from her close friendship with his sister Applejack. He knew Twilight was still well, safe in the Castle of Friendship away from the fighting, but he hoped Applejack stayed safe), fitted with a 6-pounder cannon and much thicker armor than the Timberwolves behind. Mac nodded in approval. About time they started getting newer armor on the line.
The commander’s hatch had been thrown open as the pony up top, a batpony from Mac’s eyes, scanned the darkness. With changeling Stukas still tearing up roads in daring dive attacks, headlights in the combat zone were practically begging to get a new five hundred pound hat delivered faster than the local pizza place.
“Sergeant!” the Twilight’s commander called out, waving to Mac as he was the closest pony she could see to the road. “Staff Sergeant Twister, 7th Armored! I was told you had a bug problem?”
“Eeeyup!” Mac replied enthusiastically, more than happy to see her and the armor she brought with her. “What’s the word, Sarge?”
Twister shrugged, her hooves held out wide so he could see the movement even in the dark. “Our orders were to find you and get the lay of the land. Here’s hoping we wait until dawn to advance, we’re near out of petrol ourselves.”
More ponies came up to join Mac at the tanks, muttering to each other or giving short cheers, in case the sound of the engines had drawn the attention of hidden Jagers, concealed in the dark treeline around them. For once, it seemed, things were starting to go their way. Maybe Pierce’s optimism wasn’t actually misplaced today.
It was fitting that was the thought Macintosh had right at the moment it all went wrong.
A screaming filled the air from above, and several heads snapped up as the platoon survivors, most of them veteran hands at this, scrambled for cover.
“STUKA!” one yelled, and Twister’s hatch slammed shut as the tanks proceeded to slam off the road, anything to rob the dive bombers of a target. Mac himself found a new and intimate relationship with the ground, almost like what he had with his marefriend Sugar Belle back home in Ponyville (though courting the ground was more likely to save his life) as he rolled to the side and tried to imitate a mole, hurriedly starting on a rough foxhole. With a shriek, the craft soared past, cannons roaring and its payload whistling before it impacted, causing the ground to shudder and shake. What the Stuka lacked in capacity, it more than made up for with precision, and the position they had fought so hard to take suddenly vanished in a blast resembling what D Company’s mortars had done, if smaller and shorter. The ponies manning the MG 42 and dug in Grump guns vanished in a blast and several screams and shrieks, these from flesh and blood throats. Some brave (or stupid) bastard found enough courage to emerge from cover and fire at the retreating plane, despite his only weapon being a bolt action Lavender. Mac stayed put. You couldn’t pay him enough to trade common sense for pointless bravado.
Sure enough, more screams cut the night sky, and Mac now attempted an ostrich impression as he tried to get away from the first blast radius. Another spurt of cannon fire raked the rise, and this time the bomb that dropped was away in the other direction. One of the CM Crusaders detonated spectacularly, a fireball in the darkness lighting up the area with following snaps, pops and booms as the fuel and ammunition cooked off.
The third Stuka seemed to come straight down on Big Macintosh Apple. As he writhed in the churned dirt, the cannon shells stitched around him, creating twin trails of fountaining dirt geysers, deafening him as he tried to figure out what in Tartarus he had done to pull down this plane onto himself. Cursed as if he were Luna stricken with Nightmare Moon, he tried to roll right to avoid the swarm of incoming bullets, he turned left and nearly got shot and simply cowered where he was in his hasty fighting position while the shriek of the five-hundred pounder shot in over his head.
It wasn’t close enough to kill, lucky him. The blast seemed to pick him up. He had thought of the 88 looking to have been shoved over by an Ursa, but this felt like the giant bear had come back, hefted him up and delivered a sharp kick. He must have flown at least twenty yards before he came crashing back down to earth. His whole world was a daze, a confusing blur of darkness, fire, dirt and muzzle flashes. He clawed at the dirt with his hooves and wound up nearly run over by the Twilight tank, coming out onto the road, treads clattering. His head ringing, ears whining and sense of direction shot to pieces, he rolled back to escape getting crushed by the following Timberwolves, fumbling for his missing weapon while he tried to relearn which way was up. It wasn’t easy.
By the time he had gotten his legs under him, the panzers had arrived. Changelings didn’t speak Herzlandisch all the time, switching between it, their own tongue and Equusian, but the term ‘panzer’ struck just as much dread in the heart of an infantrystallion as the term ‘tank’ filled it with hope. The Twilight and Timberwolves had already engaged, machine guns chattering as first one, then two then a cluster of cannons thundered. In the near distance, cannons fired back. Explosions were everywhere around him, and in the chaos of the darkness he had to watch for the fireballs to understand who was winning or losing. From what he could see, the whole changeling Heer was piling down the road at their position. Another Timberwolf exploded. How many was that, how many were left? Or was the appropriate question ‘how few’?
Then, a mighty thunder. Mac had heard that noise before, recognized it. It sounded just like (perhaps not exactly, but damn close) to the 88 they had destroyed earlier. The same devastating roar, the same shriek of a high-velocity shell flying. The same devastating strike as the Twilight tank absorbed the shot, then jerked backwards as the shell plowed through, leaving nothing behind but a twisted mockery of what had just before given Mac hope that Equestria was closing the gap in the tech race.
And through the darkness, he heard Lieutenant Pierce’s cry, two words that underlined and perfectly defined the menacing beast bearing down on them.
“TIGER TANK!”
It came rattling out of the darkness, treads clattering as it advanced on the weakened Equestrian line. From Mac’s vision, one of the last (was it the last?) Timberwolves fired into the dark mere seconds before the answering shot slammed into the turret so hard it was ripped from its mounting, tumbling over backwards before rolling to a halt, the chassis lurching and executing the last few feet of its engine’s power. Silence reigned, and Mac had no doubt the infantryponies had already scattered to the treeline, desperate to get out of sight of something they had no hope of holding back. Mac, so close to the road, lay still, watching carefully as he tried to look dead as possible without joining them in the underworld. Just as he finished his concealment and held his breath, the massive wall of steel came into his vision, lit by the fires of burning Equestrian tanks. The square bulk of reinforced steel plate nudged against the wreck of the Twilight, pausing only a moment before casually pushing the burning hulk aside. Mac could feel the rumbling through the ground, practically vibrating his teeth out of his muzzle. It had to be the biggest tank he had seen up close, though from his angle that might not have been entirely accurate. To him, it seemed tall as a house, its brown and green mottled steel hide distorting its form in the darkness. From the turret emerged a massive cannon, the same 88 that Mac had suspected. Somehow, the changelings had figured out how to fit a gun that was more appropriate as artillery into a tank’s turret, and its effect was clearly demonstrated on its Equestrian counterparts.
Out of the cupola poked a head with a peaked cap, glowing green eyes scanning the darkness. Mac did his best to hold his breath as the panzer commander’s view swept over towards him. Was he about to swing that MG 42 over at Mac as well? It was prudent to double check corpses as you passed, to make sure you weren’t about to get stung. Macintosh had done it himself, and every once in a while he found a live changeling playing dead.
But no. The head swung back, scanning the darkness. He had fooled the bug. Behind the Tiger, another panzer emerged, this one a model Mac was familiar with. A Panzer IV, support tank for changeling armor. But something was different here. The gun was much longer, nothing like the stubby cannon they normally carried. That had to be at least seventy-five millimeters, a vicious high-velocity weapon for a medium tank. It was even bigger than the Twilight’s cannon. With a stroke and a shrug, the bugs had once again made Equestrian advances in war material into a joke.
After the Tiger came another Panzer IV, followed by lighter Panzer IIs. They were all escorted by changelings on hoof, on the wing and riding in a trio of Sd.Kfz. 251 half tracks, their fast pace indicating they were in a hurry to counter attack. To have responded so quickly to the road falling into Equestrian hooves, they had to have been close by. How many of these quick reaction groups headed by those monster tanks were nearby in the forest? Were they just waiting?
Mac waited until he could no longer hear engines before he finally moved. In the darkness of the destroyed Equestrian position, with his only illumination being the burning Timberwolves, he watched after the disappeared changelings, listening carefully to make sure none of them were about to come back. Lucky for him, they seemed more focused on taking control of the road, and there were no reinforcements following them, for now. He moved back up the rise, risking a glance to the northwest.
Marechester suddenly seemed much, much further away.
He skirted back down the rise, hunting up a Lavender rifle before he slipped into the darkness. If he was lucky, he could find Lieutenant Pierce and the remnants of the platoon. Maybe they would meet up with what was left of D Company.
And then, if he was honest, they’d probably send him right back out here again.
What a way to fight a war.
March 13th, 1012 30 miles southeast 54th Field Hospital, attached to 5th Army Spring Offensive
Nurse Lieutenant Joy Redheart had to consider herself glad she’d been issued these scrubs when the pegasus she was trying to pin down thrashed, spraying her with a splash of crimson at high velocity that would have taken hours to get out of her white coat. As it was, parts of her face behind the facemask still took the hit, and she bit back a curse as she tried to restrain the poor soldier long enough to administer him the anesthetic.
“Take your time, Snowberry!” she snapped at the orderly, who hurriedly readied the ether mask. The device had specially made ridges like all equipment manufactured in pony lands so hooves could still grip and handle it, but Corporal Snowberry was still fumbling the precious medicine as he scrambled to her side, slipping the mask over a muzzle that now wasn’t bucking around violently.
“Yes, ma’am! Sorry ma’am!” he stammered, holding the ether down. Within thirty seconds, the pegasus flier went still, snoring lightly even as his chest sucked air through the bullet wounds. Without hesitation, Redheart tore the uniform tunic open, beginning to administer preoperation prep so the surgeon, when available, could swoop in immediately.
“Why wasn’t he out before he came into surgery?” she demanded as she quickly got to work examining the chart Snowberry held on a clipboard and preparing the wound. As a nurse, it was her job to make the doctor’s task as smooth and effortless as possible, so the job could get done quickly, save this soldier’s life and move on to the next as quickly as possible. Wounded were piling up as ambulances and stretcher bearers streamed in, depositing their shattered cargo and turning around to go collect more. Division command had warned the field hospitals about the Spring Offensive, but as the day had unfolded and the fighting had turned savage, they had quickly been overwhelmed. Nopony on the general staff had imagined the amount of punishment the front would be taking so fast, confident they had ground the changelings to a halt and needed just a firm thrust to displace them. But this wasn’t the Crystal War, where the front lines moved slowly and once an attack had been stemmed it was likely all the enemy had to hoof, and this wasn’t like the trenches of the Entente-Reikspakt War, which the Equestrian Army had at least watched passively. The attack had revealed several nasty things about their enemies, principally just how much firepower the bugs had waiting in the wings. Had it been there the whole time? Had the Hegemony brought it up to force the lines?
Redheart worked on autopilot. She often did during long shifts, where her mind simply clouded over and her body passed instruments and attended to patients on the operating gurneys. Outside, artillery rumbled over the chaos of surgery. If they could hear it this loud, it was likely to be friendly cannons, firing on changeling positions buried deep in Blackthorn Dale. Already, the frontline soldiers she had heard talking, both wounded and advancing, were calling this area Bloody Blackthorn. She didn’t blame them. A stream of replacements and reinforcements were already advancing up the road, RAF planes flying overhead in a vast wave of aluminum. At all hours of the past day and night, the engine of war had not ceased, no matter the time or light. Modern war clearly did not care if you could not see in the dark, if your enemy could the battle would rage on. Changelings were creatures of the dark, freezing north. The Royal Air Force was apparently doing some experiments with aircraft equipped to fight at night, but the cold was still no friend to the ponies. This last winter, it was all they could do to hold on. Now, from all reports the Crystal Empire was crumbling before changelings, Olenians, Sombra’s thralls and panserbjorne shock troops. Would Blackthorn Dale end up smashed against the seemingly unstoppable bugs as well?
One patient after another passed by, of varying levels of wounds. Some of them were writhing in agony, still conscious and dropping off as they were injected or brought under with ether cones, some laying limply with ribbons of flesh hanging off their frames, like one of those griffon butcher shops that carved meat off of living beings. Some had only taken minor wounds like a bullet in the leg or side, a single piece of shrapnel or a concussion, and others were so far gone they died between preop and the table. Plenty died under the surgeon’s scalpel, too badly wounded to be saved. It was an endless charnel house of blood, organs and screaming, and she passed from one to the next, to the next, from earth pony, unicorn, pegasus and even the occasional thestrel. Eventually, it all became a blur.
Nine hours of bloody and brutal surgery (what carnivores called ‘meatball’ surgery) later, she stepped outside with bags under her eyes and enough blood on her front to supply an emergency ward. They’d been so busy, they didn't have the time to change aprons. The stacks of wounded outside spilling out of preop waiting to be taken in was even longer than earlier. She likely only had enough time for a quick bite, a smoke and a few cups of coffee. Maybe not even that. She’d be needed back in surgery again, and it was clear that Bloody Blackthorn was nowhere near done, if the endless flood of olive, khaki and gray machines and uniforms marching into the meatgrinder was evidence enough. As she headed for the mess tent, stripping off her bloody garments and tossing them away, she watched a column of tanks and trucks heading up the churned road, all of them hauling various towed guns behind them. Some of those, she knew, were the big and hefty new Celestia onhooves type tank. She wasn’t a tanker herself, but they certainly looked big and fearsome. She wondered why there weren’t more of them up here. Around the convoy, more pony troopers marched in endless lines, equipment saddlebags and weapons slung over backs, grim and dirty faces set for the long march, though plenty were visibly afraid. She spotted fresh faces too, replacements and draftees brought in to replace the tide of casualties. Somepony hadn’t placed this hospital with much foresight then, as the stacks of wounded outside surgery were drawing many heads towards the ambulances offloading their passengers and cargo trucks taking white-wrapped bodies away in stacks like firewood. It was a sobering sight for those just marching into the fight.
When she got into the mess tent, dinner that night was mixed greens that looked to have been canned for too long, stewed apples that seemed more sauce than fruit and something that might have been bread and daisies back before the Storm King’s incursion. To go with it was some kind of weak pineapple juice, definitely more preservatives than juice, with stale crackers on the side. She didn’t care, she wolfed it all down without complaint. Even after she finished the military rations, her stomach felt cavernous and empty. She’d spent all day on her hooves, frantically fighting for other ponies’ lives. As she swigged down her second cup of coffee (at least shipments from the southeast hadn’t stopped) she felt her gorge rise once more, as it kept doing when she kept thinking too much about the details of her job. The best she could do was put it out of her head, and keep on chugging.
The thudding of anti-aircraft guns was her first clue that something was wrong. Outside, forty millimeter cannons mounted on swivel turrets were set up around the field hospital, pointing up at the sky. International law and basic decency stated that hospitals, ambulances and medical personnel were not to be intentionally fired upon, but some changeling pilots were not quite in the habit of acting decently. The same seemed to apply here. The screaming sirens that had become commonplace for changeling Stukas ripped through the air. How they had pierced the RAF cordon and dove right down the throat of Equestrian advance she had no idea. She was an Army nurse, not a member of the general staff. But it didn’t matter. She was knocking over tables and bolting out the door with the flood of other soldiers, drivers and staff before she even consciously realized she was making the decision, diving into a nearby dugout as enemy cannons chewed up the ground around her. As she glanced back, two soldiers and another nurse were ripped apart by the explosive rounds, sending body parts and blood flying, clothing reduced to little more than tatters as they were unmade. She ducked back down as the first bomb landed nearby, flattening the fuel depot and turning it into a fireball, consuming tent after tent and truck after truck. Another Stuka exploded in mid air as the Forties found it, sending the plane spiraling out of control before it impacted outside the camp, doing no further damage. A third ended up missing, though his bomb exploded near the road, tearing a few infantryponies than hadn’t scattered far enough to pieces. Fire from the road was joining the field hospital’s AA turrets now, as well as a storm of machine gun and rifle fire. Another Stuka went down in a blazing fireball, but one final craft slipped and juddered past the lead blizzard, dropping its payload down onto the road directly, turning a Timberwolf tank into a roiling fireball and dropping at least a dozen more soldiers.
When the remaining Stukas had peeled away, she realized somepony had been screaming near her the whole time. When the Forties slacked in their fire, she realized it had been her. She finally stopped, gasping down lungfuls of breath as she tried to rationalize what in Tartarus had just happened. She glanced over at the dugout’s other occupant, a gritty looking mint-green unicorn sergeant who was sitting there, calm as could be, smoking a cigarette as he held his Bronie helm down, a glowing crystal rifle propped in the crook of one arm, its purple light almost ghastly in the trench. He had weathered both the barrage and her screaming with nary a peep, either in fear or to get her to stop. The patch on his uniform sleeve proudly proclaimed ‘Coltstream Guards’.
With a tired smile, he gave a nod to her. “Ma’am,” he said, sounding exhausted before he reached up and clambered out of the trench, offering her no other word or notice as he trotted off, hollering to what she assumed were his sectionmates nearby. Already, the Guards were reforming, tugging their wounded comrades towards the very hospital they were passing by. Another Celestia tank moved up on the wreck of an older CM Crusader tank, treads biting in the mud briefly before its engine roared and the flaming tank was pushed aside. Already, the Coltstream Guards looked to be resuming the advance.
She slowly emerged as well, taking in the destruction around her. More wounded lay out on the road, the fire brigade and multiple soldiers were hurriedly trying to douse the fuel depot and trucks, and several bodies of mulched personnel lay around the hospital, some of them twisting and moaning. Some were little more than piles of raw flesh and puddles of blood. She felt like screaming again, but the words and breath were seemingly gone from her muzzle. Instead, she vomited, straight onto the ground. After all that time in surgery, watching stallions and mares die in agony, the sights around her had been too much, and the rush of terror gave way to the buzz of adrenaline and the primal fear of death. Combined together, her system had been overloaded, and she wasted the mess tent’s gift in a spray.
Finally, she was finished emptying her stomach, and as she straightened up, the random roaring in her ears had sharpened to the screams of the injured, the desperate, the panicking. Her own fear melted away. The facts reasserted in her mind. The changelings had been stopped at last. Equestria was advancing, even if it was at high cost. That column of Coltstream Guards there were off to do their jobs. She had a job to do too.
With a grimace, she set herself back to rights, then cantered off to go do it.
"The following is a summarization of various reports submitted by multiple parties, including the Queendom Heer, Kriegsmarine, Luftwaffe, VOPS and other miscellaneous organizations. The report combines these accounts into a single, comprehensive narrative for the enjoyment of Her Highness the High Queen to be informed of the war effort. Further details may be garnered by referring to individual reports attached to this summary. Any recommendations listed are my own and made with only the most humble of requests, to be accepted or rejected as Her Highness sees fit in her glorious wisdom.
The situation in Equestria is not going necessarily to Changelingia's benefit. While victory is still possible and indeed inevitable, there are numerous hurdles and obstacles we have encountered that will have to be overcome if we are to achieve our objectives. VOPS operatives embedded in Equestrian forces report that attempts to modernize both tactics and technology are running parallel with the effort to build large numbers of troops for the Royal Army. While the former is limited by obvious factors, the latter has been noticeably successful, mobilizing Equestria’s large population to both fight on the front lines and to build their flagging industrial base in secure places such as Fillydelphia, Baltimare and Manehattan. Higher numbers of Spitfire fighters and other new platforms such as the Lancaster are bringing the Royal Air Force more on a level of parity with our own Luftwaffe in numbers, technology and even skill, all to a worrying degree. To address the rising Equestrian air capability, recommend an active promotion of capable pilots to Fighter Aces and lead hunting packs to find equally skilled Equestrian aviators and terminate them. The enemy squadron known as the Wonderbolts are still particularly annoying despite the losses they have endured, and it is known the Element of Loyalty Rainbow Dash actively flies with them.
The Royal Navy still retains both a tonnage and numerical advantage over the Kriegsmarine and her auxiliaries. While we have struck several victories against the Lunar Fleet and seized the western and southern seas dominance, we do not possess the ship tonnage to engage the Celestial Fleet, New Mareland Squadron and the Soviet Navy at the same time. U-boat raiding wolfpacks have helped cut a large part of their maritime shipping, but further advancement will not be possible until the Kriegsmarine acquires a large leap forward in ship capacity. Recommend looking into restoring the captured shipyards we have seized from Vanhoover and Las Pegasus to our service, perhaps restoring hulls of Equestrian vessels or even capturing more to turn to our service.
The group of enigmatic ponies formerly known as the Pillars of Equestria, for all VOPS has suggested the power they carry, have been mysteriously absent from the front lines aside from the pegasus known as Flash Magnus, reinstated to the rank of General and commanding the Pegasi Airborne Regiments in several daring raids to disrupt our activities and those of our allies slash subjects. While we are unable to ascertain why Celestia and Luna have chosen to keep this most valuable asset from the front, I personally suspect it to be to work better in auxiliary roles such as medical and magical technology and the boosting of morale. Of the six, only two appear to be actual combatants, though the power of the wizard Starswirl the Bearded should not be taken lightly. Recommend more active recruitment among Olenian seers in an attempt to gain more insight to methods to counter magical weapons and defenses.
Of note, soldiers from the Olenian Protectorate have suffered heavy losses attempting to break through the fortifications on the so-called Ponderosa Line in the south. Our espionage has confirmed the Equestrian commander is none other than the Element of Honesty General Applejack, who has deployed engineers and heavy tanks as frontline assets to bolster her lighter divisions rather than as pure support elements as other enemy commanders are doing elsewhere. Olenian generals are doing little more than running headlong into her fortifications and fire zones and achieving even less aside from their own speedy demise. Recommend execution of inept Olenian commanders and replacement with more capable or loyal Olenian officers or even with Queendom officers.
The enemy use of colonial auxiliaries has proven a troublesome issue for units with experience only fighting Equestrian forces. Battlefield reports have proven that New Marelander regiments are far more experienced and better equipped than their Equestrian overlords. VOPS data has theorized this to be the result of streamlined training and production for a much smaller and therefore more focused military with a higher percentage of their prewar economy dedicated towards defense spending than Equestria. Recommend exploration of diplomatic options to remove New Mareland as an obstacle, perhaps through the Griffonian Empire.
The Crystal Empire has little of note to its remaining forces. Our units working in concert with Northern Protectorate brigades and Sombra’s Thrall divisions have achieved much progress, if stymied by both weather and lack of suitable roads for rapid movement and suitable resupply. While progress has been slow in coming, it is steady. We have little to concern ourselves with the remaining Crystal forces, as they are disorganized, confused and outnumbered, scattering before our advance. Data has concluded the remaining troops loyal to Cadance have fallen back to the Crystal City to establish a defensive hold with Equestrian Royal Army forces and join the main battle line of socialist troops.
The inclusion of the SSSR in the conflict at this juncture is a severe disruption. While plans had been drawn up to eventually assault them, it was predicted their joining the current war effort alongside Equestria was low if not extremely unlikely due to ideological, territorial and personal differences. Recommend a purge of the VOPS intelligence team who assembled the field data and predictions on Soviet activity and replacement with more loyal or competent agents. The Soviet Red Army is small, a result of their small population, but is backed by a strong industrial base. As a result, they are the best equipped of the enemies we currently face, equipped with modern infantry arms, tanks and aircraft near equivalent to our own. They also have an understanding of modern warfare and strategy, and this makes them dangerous. Information from Heer forces have even claimed their tanks to be superior to ours, though this is clearly the result of poor field reports and a lack of understanding. Recommend the deployment of dedicated tank hunting formations and prioritizing the deployment of Tiger battalions to the Crystal front instead of the drive on Canterlot. It will take us longer to take Canterlot, but that is inevitable anyway and we will be better suited to send our new tanks against the more threatening foe.
To note, the role of Yakyakistan in sheltering Equestrian and Crystal Army forces and acting as a base for their guerilla attacks across the border is one that must be addressed. This "Task Force Prankster" is confirmed to be commanded by the Element of Laughter General Pinkamina Diane Pie, a master of guerilla warfare and ambush. Her actions are incoherent and follow no strategy utilized by Equestria, Griffonia or Changelingia, and are thus difficult to predict. Recommend the deployment of both Queen’s Guard and Jagers to Featherfall Dale and the Frozen Butterfly Forest of the Crystal Empire, both of which are places where Prankster has struck our advancing forces from. It is unknown how these guerilla forces are moving so quickly through territory we hold on to and back into Yakyakistan, but sightings in the Yaket Range have confirmed they are indeed there. At the extreme, launching a preemptive invasion of Yakyakistan will rid us of a troublesome salient of harmony and deny Equestrian and Crystal troops a place of sanctuary.
Reports of volunteer forces from the United Kingdom of Aris according to both VOPS and Heer forces have listed both civilians and military advisors amongst the Equestrians, confirming hippogriff assistance in a military capacity on top of the convoys of war material being shipped to Equestrian harbors. Evidence has been gathered by U-boat commanders that much of this is “Lend Lease” material instead of conventional purchase, in essence a loan of war material with the empty promise of returning what is not destroyed. This is quite frankly a free gift on the order of many kilotons of supplies. Captured weapons such as Thundersplash submachine guns, Cloudfall service rifles, Buckstar .50 caliber heavy machine guns and even up to samples of M3 Lagulee medium tanks and P-39 Airacobra fighters are proving that modern Arisian equipment is being delivered to Equestrian ports along with the expertise to begin using it. Unconfirmed reports from VOPS even state that older destroyers have been exchanged to Equestria for the right to build and rent defense bases on the island of Puerto Caballo. Recommend extra efforts with Kriegsmarine Surface Fleet and U-boat detachments to break the convoy efforts across the Celestial and Starry Seas.
The process of turning the Equestrian city of Acornage into a center to streamline deployments into the Equestrian interior has gone along the predicted timetable. The use of prisoners of war and captive civilians as laborers in concert with construction drones has allowed us to keep pace with demands. The railroads now connect Seaddle, Acornage and Vanhoover together and have already given us the logistical strength to connect to the Vraks network through the Wild Lands and have sped up deployments considerably. Notably, while we are not short of trucks such as the Open Blitz, the ruggedness of the purchased Imperial Katze has been praised by many commanders in the field. Recommend we acquire more of these vehicles as we can. Relocation of pony residents from Vanhoover and the border regions has already begun, replacing them with loyal changeling settlers who will cultivate the land and urban centers. The captives will be taken to the Wild Lands to assist with construction efforts, but further efforts to acquire more will be unfortunately delayed by resistance efforts. While Royal Army remnants are a given, we are also facing civilian guerillas in the form of individual bands of fighters and new activity from an upstart socialist movement calling themselves the ‘Vanhoover Commune.’ VOPS prewar data indicates this was a small group centered around industrial workers unions in the city. Though not hostile in nature previously, our just occupation has agitated them into pointless resistance. Their leader goes by the name of Strawberry Snowflake, an avid union organizer. Recommend her immediate removal by Jager hunting parties and the use of hostage taking and execution to suppress and destroy this resistance. If these fail, the issue will have to pass to VOPS.
Strong recommendations are to revise current tactical and strategic outlooks to reflect the changing nature of the war. The fact we are reaching delays and unforeseen enemy adaptability indicates the plans drawn up in Alicorn Sunset may no longer apply to the enemy we face, and a joint council should be declared to examine both the performance of units in the field as well as enemies we make contact with in combat. POW interrogations will be useful in corroborating and supplementing data gathered by deep cover infiltration groups. Special notice should be taken that our forces’ current modes of field adaptation are still netting gains, especially when decentralized command and coordination is utilized in the later phases of operations when communication and organization begin to suffer breakdowns. While they had paid tactical gains, allowing such freedom to our lower commanders is unwise and breeds deviance. To retain authority and direct command from the High Queen down, it is recommended to limit such free thinking and keep a tight rein on particularly spirited commanders so as to prevent a breakdown of order and obedience. Recommend another deployment of Queen’s Guard to all fronts to ensure loyalty while such measures are in place.
This summarization should, of course, only be used as a cursory examination of the war, as it lacks many of the details necessary to examine the bigger picture of the conflict at present. To gain better context and understanding, I have attached copies of the reports I used to draw this summarization together, and recommend Her Highness examine them at her leisure for a full perspective.
I humbly remain at your service.
*LC
-Excerpt from Captain-General Lacin Cardo’s February report to Queen Chrysalis
March 13th, 1012 Whitemane RAF Airbase Bales, Equestria No. 2 (Bombing) Group, Number 99 Squadron Spring Offensive
The sad day had indeed finally come. No. 83 had come through the fire for them at least a hundred times in the past. She’d been shot with flak, hit by debris, peppered by machine guns and suffered without proper maintenance or parts as the war had dragged on. But when the mechanic had finally announced her engine was shot, it was the day that they had all dreaded. Blenheims had high loss counts against Changeling fighters, and it was honestly a wonder the crew hadn’t joined her sisters in a flaming heap. But the simple fact was that Blenheims and their parts were running low, and no longer rated high priority for what parts production was available.
So it was that the plane that had landed them just yesterday was carted away to be consigned for scrap, likely for other parts to be recovered for whatever Blenheims still survived in a more operable condition. This left No. 83’s former crew lounging around in the squadron’s ready room as they awaited word of what their new plane would be. The Spring Offensive was in full swing, and if the first day’s counterattacks in Blackthorn were any indication it was going to be a vicious affair. The Royal Air Force could not afford to bench a veteran air crew for long. Enough equipment was built up in the backlines for the attack that Paige, Ace and Static would -have- to go back up soon.
Somepony had left a radio in the corner of the ready room, likely for those times where officers were pouring over plans and maps, or assembled fliers were waiting for a briefing. Though technically against regulations, nopony had gotten rid of it yet. The upbeat jazzy Manehattan number blasting from the speakers was one Paige knew from her time in the south, as it was played in the loud and energetic style so commonly associated with that region. The tune had to be at least fifteen years old by now, but that didn’t make it automatically bad, and the nostalgia she felt from remembering the good days in Hoofington were enough to coax a smile on her muzzle. They weren’t alone in the ready room, as at least two other air crews were here from downed Beauforts, talking quietly amongst themselves in the time honored tradition of waiting for their briefing.
“I hope we get a Lanc,” Static was saying, enjoying yet another cigarette as she lounged in her chair, red magic aura surrounding the smoke and letting it spin idly in a lazy circle. “Those big bastards are practically fortresses. Your odds of surviving are much better in a crate like that.”
“C’mon dragi, you think they’re going to pull us off fighters and into the heavy bombers?” Paige clicked her tongue like she was scolding a naive foal. “First, our luck has never been that good. Second, Bomber Command would actually have to do something to our benefit, and we all know that’s against their nature.”
“Okay, I’ll concede the second point, but our luck has actually been terrific if you think about it,” Static pointed out, taking another drag. “We haven’t been shot down in one of the slowest and most fragile planes the Princesses can put us in, right?”
“Small consolation, really,” Ace remarked, not taking his eyes off the copy of the Equestria Daily he was perusing (Paige noticed he was studying the ‘Business’ section, likely watching over his family’s holdings and investments). “If you think about it, the fact we haven’t been shot down -yet- means our odds of it happening go up every time we fly.”
“Tartarus, sir. Didn’t realize you were such a glass half empty type,” Paige prodded, trying to see if she’d get a rise out of the ramrod solid officer. Static straightened up, also watching carefully. While true that Ace reacted in the heat of the moment, it took a lot to say something that got under his skin. Some nobles wore their hearts on their sleeves with thin hides and oversensitive natures, but Solar Ace’s side of the line must have instead schooled their colts in bearing it with an upturned nose and a wry indifference, like many of the Equestrian upper crust. Though not as free to act to their hearts’ content as say the Empire’s nobles, many Equestrian elites acted like the gulf between them and common ponies set them apart in more ways than just money.
In this instance, Ace did not rise to the bait, though Paige had to admit it was a pretty mild barb to begin with.
“I am not, Sergeant,” he said placidly as he finally turned a page. “I simply believe in probability and odds. Plus, if you always expect things to go wrong, you’ll never be disappointed. Or caught unawares.”
“Oh, sure,” Static drawled sarcastically, smirking as she took another drag. “We just tell our pilots to always expect the worst, and when they get blasted out of the sky by the Luftwaffe, they’ll have the same composure as you. But they won’t be caught unaware.”
Before Ace could return a response in his dry, always exasperated tone, the door finally flew open, admitting Wing Commander Smoky Chaser as he trotted into the ready room, smoke puffing from his pipe. He scanned the ranks of the air crews before him, taking a quiet roll call before nodding and hollering out “Room! Attention!”
Truth be told, there was no reason for the Group Captain to be present here. Whitemane was an important base, for certain, but officers as high up as Wing Commander were meant to be in command and control stations directing flight operations and controlling squadrons across an airbase. Group Captains in the meantime commanded the entire air station, as high up the chain as an army colonel. But nopony felt like pointing that out as Group Captain Fancy Pants trotted through the door, resplendent in his blue-grays and tugging the cap off his head as he glanced over the ranks of ponies standing ramrod straight at attention, even rebels like Static showing the deference and respect of one so high up (those who didn’t screw up, at least). The fruit salad on his chest was a little thinner than many other officers of his equivalent rank, the Reservist’s Badge underneath next to his pilot’s wings offering an explanation to that, but as things stood he had taken care of his aviators as best he could, earning quite a name for himself with twelve confirmed air victories against Sombra’s thrall pilots in the Crystal War. As a Group Captain, the confidence he radiated and the respect he was paid were both well earned, even if he no longer flew as much.
“At ease, sit down,” Pants insisted, his cap floating onto the rack by the door as he stepped over to the podium. “I’ll not waste your time with ceremony, there’s a war to fight, last I heard!”
A light chuckle went around the room. It was hard not to be taken in by Captain Pants’ positive energy. Though thoroughly aristocratic and quite capable of living off his family estate, the white unicorn also came from a family that prided itself on service to Equestria and Princess Celestia, and as a result here he stood before them.
“Good to see you all here,” Captain Pants began, smiling warmly as he scanned the ready room while the crewponies all resumed their seats. “I know it's been hard, and there are many who have left us.” His smile slipped as he glanced at the long blackboard by the door, as the Dead List continued to stretch on and on. When the war began, it had plenty of space with just those few dead in the Crystal War or killed in training accidents. Now, with so many names crammed onto its surface, the board threatened to run out of space. There had been the suggestion to wipe the board, so as to not leave such a reminder around, but the general reply was that if such a disrespect were committed the resulting riot would make Nightmare Moon’s rampage look like a toddler’s fit. There was a sober moment of respect for the fallen names on that board before Pants affixed his smile and continued.
“But what’s important is we’re still here. And we’re going to stick a fork in Chrissy and call her cooked!”
The ready room was full of agreement, nods and even a few loud calls of ‘yeah!’ from the back. Commander Chaser looked fit to boil with the expression on his face and the smoke emanating from his pipe like steam from an engine, but when Captain Pants didn’t say anything to call out the individual crewpony neither did he.
“Many of you,” Pants called over the noise of the room, which quickly died down once more. “Will know we have not been having an easy time in the air. Our Hurricanes and Spitfires are able to go hoof to hoof with the foe, but our bomber fleet has been critically vulnerable. I am pleased to tell you we are taking steps to correct this. Many of you come from airplanes which, while venerable and loyal craft, are simply not up to scratch against the swarm. But Bomber Command has taken notice, and decided to adopt measures to end this vulnerability!”
“About time,” Paige muttered under her breath, still haunted by watching the bombers fall around her over Tall Tale in great flaming chunks. While it was likely no one pony’s fault, the failure of Bomber Command to adapt to the changing circumstances had meant more and more airframes and aviators being sacrificed to a strategy that was clearly not working. It only took eleven months and half the country lost for the commanders to sit up and wonder what the problem was.
Captain Pants continued, ignoring the mutinous murmurs like Paige’s that had buzzed through the ready room that moment. From his reputation, he had likely made similar grumblings before.
“We’re not going to be sending poorly armed planes up where they don’t belong. The loss ratio of Blenheims alone shows that many assumptions formed prewar were…misinformed.” He shifted uncomfortably, clearly about to say ‘incorrect’, then proceeded on. “Our time to properly train you with your new birds and new crewmates is, unfortunately short. Needless to say, you have all been around the block and come back to tell the tale. Which is why I have personally come to address you; to impart to you all the enormous amount of trust we are placing in each and every pony here today. I know you will adapt and persevere, you have already proven capable of such. Our future is in your hooves.”
With that, Pants’ magic aura grabbed a handle from the ceiling above, pulling down a rollup diagram that stretched the wall. Paige’s eyes went wide in awe. The blueprints on that diagram were none other than, as Static had predicted, a Lancaster bomber. While not quite new, the Lancasters were hard nuts to crack, adopting the example set by hippogriffian aircraft in protecting large aerial assets. Covered in machine guns and clad in armor plating rated heavy for an aircraft, it was a craft that was already proving its worth against the changlings all across the battlespace, even allowing retaliatory strikes into the little pieces of enemy territory the bombers were capable of reaching to drop fourteen-thousand pounds of high explosive retribution on Hegemony soil, the highest capacity for munitions of any bombing craft in Equestria’s arsenal.
It was no small thing to say Paige and the rest of the squadron leaned in, eagerly studying the plans from their seats. One pony even whipped out a notepad and pencil, furiously copying down frantic notes. Any air crew or aviator knew the gist of what they were looking at, even if the full technical details escaped them. Paige had flown heavy bombers back in the Crystal War as a bombardier, and the prospect of getting back inside one certainly gave her a sense of excited anticipation she could barely contain.
“I am here to give you, our precious veterans, the crash course on your new chariots,” Captain Pants declared, looking for all the world like a proud father about to send his foals off to a prestigious school. “Afterwards, you’ll be marched out onto the tarmac where you’ll meet the machines and your new full crew! There’s not a lot of time to train you as vigorously as we would like, I’m afraid. The mounting pressures of the war means this will have to be an education under fire. But fear not! We will fill the time between missions with extra drills to make up for the lost time you were supposed to have. If we’re lucky, the bugs may give us a bit of extra time. Fortunately for you all, I am quite intricately familiar with the Lanc. I did have a hoof in helping its design, back in 1006. You are, literally, dealing with a subject matter expert! Now, to begin!”
As if from nowhere, his magic summoned a swagger stick, flipped it around and began vigorously using it as a pointer to designate various parts of the aircraft. If the briefing he gave was supposed to be amended, the training for this bomber had to have been a sheer marathon. A six hour grind (not including the breaks for lunch and grabbing some water) had seemingly filled Paige’s head with every aspect of the aircraft the schematics could tell her. She ate it up, the starving academic in her desperate for new knowledge to learn. Reading the newspapers and whatever scientific journals she could get her hooves on the past year hadn’t been enough, as memories of her time at Luna Nova and Hoofington U kept bouncing through her skull as a pointed reminder. She did her best to suppress them. True, she was not an aviation engineer, she was an arcane physicist, versed in mathematical and magical equations and enchanted crystal shaping. But what good was all that when she needed to be here and now, where the lives of her and her crew were on the line?
Her mind drifted as the hours went by, back to the letter she’d been writing for Cyril. She hadn’t put much on it yet, she was still trying to figure out how to compose her response. He’d gone through similar training, though his own had even played a factor in the development of the panzer he couldn’t share information about. To her, that seemed a little rushed but she was not on the Imperial General Staff, and so her opinion was unimportant.
Finally, after the juggernaut of a briefing, they were let outside once more to go acquaint themselves with new crate and crew. As the sun of early evening angled towards the horizon, where Celestia would soon surrender her duties of the day for Luna’s domain of the night, the sunbeams cut across the parked airplanes where row upon row of Equestrian craft were parked and being maintained by both aviators and ground crew. So many aircraft were there, as a matter of fact, most of those in working order were not parked in the hangars, which had been set aside for Whitemane’s small army of mechanics working on damaged craft. And there, automatically pulling the eye of the aviators over, were the Lancaster bombers. Like the Halifax she was supposedly replacing (though many air crews stayed loyal to the slightly older craft), she was a four engine heavy craft, normally so ungainly that she was sent after static targets like military posts and cities. When these craft hit, however, it was with sledgehammer blows. The Lanc was a new sea change with further flight range and massively larger payload, and every crew in Bomber Command that was not a Halifax loyalist applied to be in a Lancaster endlessly. These, Princess Luna had declared in a speech over Armed Services Radio, would be the weapon that would let them strike back at the changeling menace.
Sweet Static elbowed Paige, hard, and then cantered off towards the craft hollering “First one there names the bus!”
Swearing in Rijekan, Paige grinned and hurried after her friend. Despite her best efforts, however, she did not overtake her friend before they reached the craft that was supposed to be their new ride. A factory fresh craft parked just right so the light from the sunset spilled over her dramatically, you could still smell the new paint the ground crew had applied, and her mottled camouflage back and white belly were free of marring, dirt, smudging or patched bullet holes. Paige savored the beautiful sight, drinking it in while Static performed her obnoxious victory dance nearby.
“Hells yeah! Somepony pinch me, cause I gotta be dreaming!”
“If we were in one of your dreams, I feel like I’d need a blindfold. I sleep next to you, I -know- what’s on your mind all the time,” Paige shot back.
Static stopped prancing about as she leered back at her crewmate, and Paige felt her face heat up as she already guessed what was coming.
“Funny, I could say the same thing.”
Paige replied with a brief, juvenile raspberry that she blew in response, for lack of actual words. She hoped it covered up the darkening of her cheeks as Static reminded her of the embarrassing position she’d been caught in. By this point, Ace had caught up to them at a far more sedate trot, followed by several more crewponies. Paige sighed before grinning in anticipation. They had a lot of work before them, but for the first time in a long time, she felt genuine hope.
“Dear Cyril,” she murmured, thinking again to that letter she had only just started. “Amazing things are happening here. Miss you. Love, Paige.”
March 14th, 1012 Somewhere in the Peripherie 3rd Armee, 19th Panzer-Division ‘Landgraf von Aiwlen’, 205th Schwere Panzerabteilung ‘Kampfgruppe Lehr’ Operation Donnerkeil, Day 3
Fog. Fog and trees. For the past three days, Kampfgruppe Lehr had battled fog, trees, rain and mud almost as much as they had the Aquileians. What passed for roads through the thick forests of Adelart had been a poor excuse for the Grytas and their accompanying grenadiers and trucks. Ozelot half-tracks bogged down in the mud almost as often as the Katze trucks they relied on for their lifeline to the rear echelons. Grimbart armored cars and winged infantry attempted to scout ahead of the column, but the former was subject to suffering the same in the mud and the latter prone to getting lost in the fog as well. It was, honestly, a minor miracle they continued to push on as they were. So far, they’d managed.
Cyril almost wished the Aquileians would attack again, if for no other reason than it would give them a general sense of direction. The Kampfgruppe was well and truly lost, and had been for at least a day and a half. After they had overwhelmed the defenses at the border, the plan was to drive deep into Adelart, seize Eagleton and push on towards Vilrau. While the abteilung had taken Eagleton with little struggle (hammering the Republique with little pause was proving more than sufficient to keep them in flight), the attempt to push on through Adelart towards their target was much trickier. While they had yet to actually halt in advance, Kampfgruppe Lehr had hit delay after delay as they came upon Aquileian pickets and garrisons. True, none of the skirmishes had done real damage to the Grytas. Their heavy guns were more than sufficient to demolish blockades, checkpoints, bunkers and guard posts, and any infantry thinking they could ambush the panzers were flushed out by the following panzergrenadiers and combat engineers. But every fight, every skirmish, gave greater chance the Republique would narrow in on where this column was advancing, and with the Bronze dogs furtively doing their best to clear the trees in a hurry and the mud slowing them on the poor back country roads, they made a very juicy target for fighter bombers or flying attackers with sufficient grenades. General Van Zieks had stuck to Thundertail’s grand strategy of attack in all instances, citing that their instructions when in doubt were to advance. So, Kampfgruppe Lehr advanced.
Located at the front of the column, Cyril’s own concerns were largely on lookout. The vanguard panzers and infantry relayed their news back, and the rearguard and supply trucks sent information forward. This meant that, for the time being, Brutus kompanie was mostly worried about watching the sides of the roads and trying to penetrate that deep forest, to make sure they weren’t about to get hit by an AT gun from the trees or panzer ambush lying in wait, or even Aquileian troops with anti-panzer grenades and Angrieverian cocktails. Maybe even Republique knights waiting for them, large caliber anti-tank rifles ready to attack the weak portions of the panzers. The convoy had to stay alert, even after three days of little sleep. The occasional skirmish they ran into was proof of that. But the boredom of being lost in the woods meant for now his MG was at rest, as were most of his crew. Eisenwing was dozing in her seat, Brightclaw reading a religious tome. Spotsley had swapped with Eihol so the Feathisian could get some rest, dozing lazily in the shortwave’s seat as his head lolled around, beak open and drooling slightly. They’d been running on adrenaline, a few short naps here and there during resupply and the sludge that passed for military grade coffee (apparently the supply issues from Zebrica didn’t stop at tobacco). But the longer they went without the sense of danger, the more exhaustion took over.
“Dear Paige, lost and sleepy in the woods. Hope you’re well. Love, Cyril,” he muttered out loud, leaning on the edge of his cupola as he scanned the surrounding woods, a claw on the MG 131. She’d been on his mind a lot lately. About now was when she was supposed to have gotten his response, which only meant he had weeks to wait and hear from her again. The absence of any letters from her exacerbated the distance between them, and while he had certainly felt spikes of anxiety during the periods where her letters were still traveling to him, this felt different. That mare clerk who had flirted with him back before the attack had begun had made him uncomfortably aware of his lack of experience with the opposite sex, and that had translated into some very familiar and unwelcome questions about his relationship with a mare he hadn’t physically seen for five years. Their letters had been the only way to stay connected, but the worse the wars on both continents got, the longer those letters took to reach the other, and the more morose they became. It seemed all they had to say anymore was how much they missed each other and what was going on in each conflict, and little else besides. They were becoming distant from each other.
He held her last letter to him in his other claw, from all the way back in November. He had read it a hundred times by now, and questions he couldn’t answer wrapped around his mind. Had something delayed her letter even more? Had something delayed his own? Maybe a mail carrier had been sunk? A truck carrying post shot up, a depot bombed?
Or had something happened to her? Was Paige still even alive? And how would he ever know otherwise? If she had been shot down by some Luftwaffe pilot, who would tell him?
He sighed, tucking the worn paper away again and trying to tuck his concerns with them. He didn’t want the rain to ruin the ink, he needed to keep it preserved until her next letter came…if it came. WHEN it came, he reaffirmed in his mind. But that voice in the back of his head, so firm before and unwavering in his loyalty to the mare across the world, was suddenly little more than a whisper now, as it desperately tried to keep his hopes up.
His headset suddenly crackled, a welcome distraction introducing itself to his ear.
”Brutus-Aktual to all elements, call halt order, over.”
Automatically, Cyril hopped on the intercom.
“Spots, hit the brakes, Hauptmann’s got something for us.”
Wordlessly, the radio operator turned driver downshifted, applying the brake as Isegrim slowed to a halt, jerking slightly. Behind her, the rest of the kompanie did the same, and all down the line, as far back as Cyril could see, the rest of the convoy pulled to a halt. This wasn’t good. The only times the entire convoy stopped was when they needed to refuel or get casualties rotated to the rear. Any other circumstance, including being attacked, saw them continue to plow on. Something must have gotten Stahlbeak worked up to call a complete halt.
Stahlbeak’s Gryta was perched in the middle of the kompanie, safely sandwiched by the rest of the file. While leading from the front was all well and good, experience showed that a good way to kill a convoy was to destroy the lead vehicle and rear vehicle, and wreck the rest in the middle. Both the Equestrian War and reports from fighting the Entente had been consistent on this strategy, and nobody wanted to make it easy for the Aquileians to make a decapitation strike. If the hauptmann wanted to call his platoon commanders together for an in person meeting (which Cyril very much expected, as Stahlbeak’s detail oriented nature meant he wanted to get as much face time with his officers as he could get), Cyril would just have a short flight back. He reached down, checking the PP/MP pistol at his belt (an upgrade compared to the older P01 and C78 autopistols) before taking up the Krahe strapped inside the cupola. He slipped out the hatch, peering around at his surroundings. As expected, grenadiers were already taking up security pickets on the flanks, a machine gun every so often to keep ambushers away. Suicide bombs were a weapon Aquileians were more than happy to use if the situation called for it. Just as he was about to take wing, however, a pair of headlights appeared out of the fog, rolling up next to his Gryta to show Stahlbeak riding in the passenger seat of a Gruber Leichter Vasall-PKW, a sort of equivalent to vehicles like the changeling Kubelwagen or Hippogriffian Wakeys. While normally a scout buggy, messenger vehicle or staff car, heavier versions also hauled troops, supplies and even artillery pieces. In this instance, it carried the hauptmann and a landser riding escort, the dog soldier looking beat and tired as he cradled his Gerund.
Stahlbeak waved up at him, and Cyril shrugged before hopping off Isegrim, wings flaring briefly before he settled into the vehicle’s backseat.
“Mein herr,” he said in greeting. Stahlbeak merely nodded before slapping the driver, who squawked in surprise before putting the Vasall in gear, driving down the little stretch of road on the side of the Grytas. With the width of the panzers and the poor state of the muddy stretch, the vehicle bounced and rattled, and Cyril wondered why exactly they were driving instead of flying. After being crippled for the better part of a year and then stuck inside various vehicles, he yearned to stretch his wings even for a minute or two. Eventually, the car pulled around both Isegrim and Steifmutter (Cyril figured putting his most aggressive commander at the head of the column was for the best) and back onto the road, improving the rattling and smoothing out the ride, ignoring the numerous potholes and ditches. Just as Cyril was wondering where they were going, Stahlbeak turned to speak to him again.
“I sent extra wing scouts ahead to try and find us a waypoint. Our orders are to keep going, but I think we can both admit we have -way- overshot our original target. It’s just not possible for us to have progressed this long and still not found Vilrau. I’m fairly certain the frogs pulled up the road signs to confuse us, and they damn well succeeded. But they didn’t get every one.”
The kompanie commandant looked forward again, watching the gloomy, foggy forest road before once more glancing back and simply stating “You need to see this one yourself, Leutnant.”
Cyril looked ahead, wondering just what Stahlbeak meant by that. What could be so extraordinary that he would pull the vanguard commander in a combat area to go look at personally? The fog seemed to disgorge more road just as it ate up what they left behind, and the potholes and quality didn’t improve. Luckily, it was only another twenty minutes of flying before they reached the site in question, which sat at the cross of a road fork. Between the two branching roads, a worn and battered white-painted signpost stood, slightly tilted and pointing in three directions. At the site were a pair of scouts, seated and wings folded as they shared a tobacco pipe between them, still the truly favored method of smoking for the average Imperial landser despite the rising popularity of packaged cigarettes. They were at least alert, because as the car approached the scouts had readied their rifles before they identified who exactly had been driving towards them. Now, both griffons simply awaited their commander, one of them still clutching the pipe in her beak. They still didn’t quite relax.
Stahlbeak turned to Cyril, jabbing with a thumb to indicate the signpost.
“Go on, read it. Like I said, you need to see this to believe it.”
Cyril shrugged. Despite the oddity of the order, it was still an order, and not a very difficult one at that. He climbed out, wings flaring for a moment before he hopped to the muddy ground, submachine gun in one claw as he stepped forward. The two scout landsers looked just as worn and exhausted as he, and they had not the benefit of letting a heavy panzer do the work of moving for them. He gave them both an appreciable nod before he came to stand before the sign, examining it with a critical eye. It looked worn out, likely installed years ago with little effort to maintain it. Adelart wasn’t known too much for the maintenance of its roads, and this was certainly part of the proof. One sign pointed back the way they came, and he ignored it. The one to his left read ‘Chalet Colline Verte, 6 km’. From what Aquileian he knew, that was a village, or an individual plantation of some kind. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Then he looked at the sign pointing to his right. And froze. For it read the most unlikely thing he had ever seen, and likely ever would see. How was this possible? How in all the hells had they gotten so lost, they’d wound up stumbling across a prize far greater than just some border town or minor city? How had they taken an entire heavy panzer battalion and dropped it completely onto a vital enemy stronghold? Were they still undetected? They had to be, they hadn’t been ambushed or stopped up for some time. The enemy must have lost track of them too. They must be on some back service road, approaching a main highway, for there was no way they’d have gotten this close if they were using the main roads.
For the sign, pointing towards his right, to the southwest, read ‘Traversée de la Erne, 2km.’ A second slat below it plainly declared ‘Westkeep, 4 km.’
Cyril started laughing. He couldn’t help it. It really was extremely funny. Here they were, running out of fuel and food, not a sure direction amongst them thanks to the rough terrain, and the enemy had accidentally opened the backdoor. They weren’t in Adelart. They weren’t about to relieve the Fallschirmjager or take a town in the Peripherie. They were in Aquileia proper, and had somehow bypassed every major town and road to be delivered all the way into the enemy’s heart. Operation Donnerkeil had changed things, alright!
Hauptmann Stahlbeak wasn’t laughing. For a moment, Cyril didn’t realize it. Then he didn’t understand.
“Sir? Do you know what this means?”
Stahlbeak stared at him levelly, unsmiling, his visage gloomy and hard set.
“It means we’re fucked, Leutnant.”
Cyril really didn’t know what was going on now. They were tremendously forward in the assault, had penetrated further than anyone in Oberkommando had thought was even possible. They had advanced so far, in fact, that by pre-War borders they had overshot by an entire country! How could that be a bad thing?
And then, slowly, piece by piece, he suddenly started to realize what the implications of that meant. They had moved further than planned, at least three times further. They had become isolated from any and all friendly support. They had gone further than anywhere planned, or charted. And they had a single panzer battalion’s level of logistical support, this deep into the enemy heartland on a single road. The realization, though it only took him ten seconds to come to it, felt like it crawled into his brain, slow as melted toffee. When it did, the revelation splashed down like cold water, and both veterancy and mild panic kicked in.
“We have to go back!” he spat immediately, looking up into the sky as if afraid merely saying such a thing would suddenly bring the wrath of the Repubique Armée de l'Air down on their heads. For now the planes seemed held at bay, but that didn’t change his rising state of panic.
But the hauptmann was shaking his head.
“Can't do that. Aside from two kinds of generals’ orders, you want to get an entire schwerer panzer battalion to turn around on this road?”
Verdammt, he was right! There was no place to properly turn the convoy around, which meant the trucks and soft-skinned support vehicles would have to lead the way out! If they could get the engineers in place, they might be able to build the necessary road space, but it would take time, defeating the purpose of such a quick retreat. Who knew how close the enemy was? They could be watching even now, and even if they weren’t, the longer they were this strung out the more likely the Aquileians would be ready to leap on this juicy target.
The choice was abruptly made for them. With a roar, a Republique Vipere fighter blasted overhead, engine churning. Right behind it was another fighter, the wingman. A fighter patrol! Cyril’s heart sank as his dread spiked. Those fighters were flying southwest to northeast, likely to go chase Imperial bombers. There was no way they had missed an entire convoy strung out below them. In the near distance, mist-muffled thumps said that the convoy’s attached anti-air was firing at the patrol. It would likely do little good.
Stahlbeak was already in motion, waving at the scouts to recall them and directing his driver to turn the Vasall around.
“That decides it! We need to get the battalion moving, now!” He yelled to a scout, gesturing her down. “Get a message to Van Zieks and Heimclar! The vanguard will lead the way to Westkeep, at double speed!”
Cyril quickly pumped his wings, landing him in the back of the Vasall as it rightened and began the trip back, even faster this time.
“Mein herr, might I ask what you’re doing? We have exactly one panzer battalion, sunk this deep into enemy territory! We’re going to be caught in a Kesselschlacht!”
The Kesselschlacht was the dreaded worst end result of a Schwerpunkt offensive. An advance like this, alone and unsupported and too far from reinforcements and air cover, was ripe for encirclement. The main intent of an assault of this style had clearly been to catch the Republique in a cauldron, and it had worked to a point. But Kampfgruppe Lehr had accidentally missed the rim, and found themselves in the fire instead.
Stahlbeak did not falter, or ponder. He was already decided. “Leutnant, every drake with an officer’s braid over me has told us we will advance. We have no choice but to push forward, and better we hole up in an enemy stronghold than be caught out here! How long do you think we have before those fighters come back to strafe us? How long until bombers come? Knights? Panzers? Our choice is clear.” He turned back as the Vasall finally found Steifmutter in its headlights, skidding through the mud to led Cyril off at his panzer.
“Do or die time, Leutnant. Get us a hole to Westkeep. I’ll explain to the kommandants what happened. Can you do your job, Duskwing?”
In spite of the impossibility of the situation, in spite of where they were and what was being asked of him, Cyril knew his commander was correct, and he now had orders and instructions. His previous panic fled his body, as a sensible direction reasserted itself. Hauptmann Stahlbeak had been patient with him, far more than he needed to, recognizing the younger zugfuhrer needed clarity to focus, and he had given it. Despite field regulations, the direness of the situation demanded Cyril throw a salute, and he did so from his cupola as he reattached the hood.
“Jawohl, Hauptmann! I will get you Westkeep!”
The certainty and steel in his voice were back. He said it, because it would be done. The time for panic was gone.
“Then lead the way, Leutnant!” Stahlbeak hollered back, thumping his driver on the shoulder before the Vasall peeled away, back down the foggy road.
3rd Armee, 3rd Korps City of Yale, County of Yale 3rd Korps Field Headquarters
If August Duskwing had been given an idol for every attack that had gone off without a hitch, he would have been able to buy himself a frikadellen. Maybe two. Sending masses of soldiers and machines into a fight introduced so many unknowns on top of other things that could go wrong. Your forces could get lost, your officers could ‘reinterpret’ their orders, unexpected or unseen issues could rear their heads, your intel may be wrong, an entire litany of problems not to mention what the enemy was doing. Many likened war to chess or a similar board game. But August saw it as trying to play chess on six different boards without ever actually seeing them and telling someone else to move your pieces for you. Even in his days when he lead his Sturmtruppen from the front, he could never command thousands of griffons with any true accuracy, since he could not be everywhere at once. That was what scouts and subordinates were supposed to facilitate. It was a finely tuned network that you had to expect to go wrong at any time. All that could be done was make as many preparations as you could in the time you had, and pray to Boreas it worked out even close to how you expected.
Operation Donnerkiel was supposed to be a massive, overwhelming armored Schwerpunkt to punch through the mired trenches of the western front before it cost too much in lives and material to make victory practical. 3rd Armee had been dramatically redeployed, equipped with specialized shock assets and set to lead the vanguard for the rest of the forces following. While Marshtail’s 1st Korps was marching down the coast into Fezera and Thundertail’s 2nd Korps was tackling the forests of Adelart, it was on him and 3rd Korps to sweep up Verenia. On one point, Operation Donnerkiel had succeeded. The Republique line was collapsing as armored thrusts destroyed hardpoints and allowed infantry to flow into those areas the panzers bypassed, destroying the enemy in detail while they withered on the vine. Reports stated breakthroughs in days on targets that had resisted Imperial bombardment for weeks or months. The theory Thundertail presented had been sound, and even now the enemy was turning back from Skyfall and Aiwle, and resistance to the Imperial advance reclaiming Griefenmarschen had dropped to almost nonexistent.
But, as August stared at the situation map pinned to the table in front of him, he lamented at its failings too. The three korps of 3rd Armee had expanded from fourteen divisions to eighteen in preparation for Operation Donnerkiel, and of those eighteen divisions advancing, eleven had reported success. The seven that had faltered, however, had floundered hard. Reports of panzers sweeping a zone only for the following infantry to run into fortified positions kept flowing in, ambushes were becoming vicious and sometimes entire towns had been rigged with boobytraps and guerilla fighters, slowing the advance to a crawl. Some panzer battalions were even forced to turn back, either because of heavy losses or because the infantry had run into problems. True, it had only been a few days. But every kilometer of ground they took before Aquileia recollected itself was crucial, and from all appearances the enemy was regrouping fast. Worse luck, if his reports were correct, most of the stalled divisions had left the advance that succeeded strung out, long salients that could be cut off and surrounded themselves. That was a severe problem. Even with the Imperial Luftstreitkrafte pounding Republique airfields to suppress their aerial response, fast Aquileian fighter bombers were still able to provide support to troops on the ground (not as much as before, true) and another damned air raid had hit Romau even as Donnerkiel had rolled out. Even relieving Griffenheim from their nightly pounding had done little to cast a better outlook on the situation.
August’s fist pounded the table, eyes squinting as he tried to look at the map of Verenia and picture wings of bombers flying over it. With Imperial support so invested in the suppression campaign, they hadn’t been able to call on airplanes to bomb fortified positions, attack targets of opportunity or provide them support in chasing off Aquileian marauders. He only had reports from Thundertail and Marshtail about their actions, but his own march on Verenia had been paid for with blood once the enemy pilots realized how few Habichts or Adlers rose to chase them off. It wasn’t all doom and gloom, of course. His own careful maneuvers were not as brazen as Thundertail’s headlong charge, and his divisions had wrapped up the city of Eyrie after a few hours' struggle. Where Reinhold preferred his panzers, August preferred his Stumrtruppen, and after encircling the city, he had used rolling barrages walked across the defenders combined with heavily armed assault battalions following close behind. Oh, he had panzers alright, and had placed these in front of the soft infantrygriffs advancing into the urban areas. The combination had worked wonderfully, and Eyrie was his. Now, units in his western zone were pressing Avian itself, and if he had a week to work his steady advance south, Verenia was his.
Assuming the enemy gave him that time, however.
August turned away from the map unhappily, looking out the nearby window at the plaza below. This university, not the largest or most prestigious, had been a headquarters for an Aquileian commander, and he had seen little reason not to appropriate the buildings for his own purpose. It reduced the amount of time it would take to set up a separate complex, put up tents and dig fighting positions. By capturing it and setting it for his own use, all he needed to do was expand on what was left behind. In the plaza, dozens of Katze trucks were parked in rows, where troops were either loading on outbound cargo (supplies being distributed, wounded being sent to hospitals further behind the lines, corpses quickly shuffled out for burial and processing) or offloading inbound cargo (supplies being distributed, wounded being hauled off to the surgical hospital in the university’s medical wing, corpses being transferred to the outbound trucks). The backbone of mechanized warfare, these trucks had been a godsend when the Entente had attacked, allowing the Empire to react ten times faster than if they had merely counted on troops on foot or on the wing. Now, factories all over the Herzland pumped them out, and even some of the more built up centers in the Grenzwald were doing the same. The Imperial auto industry nobles had received millions of idols to expand their production and utilities, and that investment was proving dividends now. For every truck the Entente possessed, the Empire had ten. ADGZ and Grimbart armored cars provided reliable intelligence in the field in packs, not just lone scout pickets, and the durable Ozelot half-tracks were proving a massive success in delivering grenadiers and Sturmtruppen safely to their targets behind the panzers. Hell, the Reichsarmee was still the only force in the world (for now) to field light panzers as scout vehicles in some panzer units. All in all, the great motorization experiment the Reichsarmee had invested into had worked, proving it wasn’t just changelings that this type of mobile mentality served for (a fluke, many old Imperial generals had insisted). Coupled with fast moving panzers and motorized artillery, the age of lightning warfare had truly come to Griffonia.
The air rumbled, and August’s eyes were drawn to the further edge of the campus. In the near distance, truck-pulled artillery had been set into hastily dug firing pits to continue moving the barrage along. Before trucks and panzers, moving an entire artillery battery was a laborious affair that slowed war to a crawl. Now, the big guns could stay attached at the hip. Shaking himself out of his ruminations, August reluctantly put the happy feelings to the side. It was all well and good to sit back and think on circumstance and results, but standing here at the window patting himself on the back and preening his feathers wouldn’t win the fight. He turned back to the situation map again, sighing as he stared hard at the advance laid out before him. The deployment of Galluzzo’s 82nd and 105th Fallschirmjager divisions across Republique territory had yielded great dividends. While the 82nd were mostly focused around Greifwald and Adelart, Verenia had support from the smaller 105th, and those paradrops had gone well enough to secure the way forward for August’s advance. The only problem was, once he had recovered these airborne soldiers, they were light infantry to his much more heavily armed assault battalions, useful for attacking supply and command hubs behind the lines and engaging in hit and fly warfare, but August preferred not to send them in alongside his panzers and half-tracks. Good fighters, these Fallschirmjager, but they had done their job. It was time to send them back north for whatever mission awaited them next. He reluctantly leaned forward, pulling a pin representing a kompanie from the 105th sitting on a hill reportedly seized out of the map, setting it aside as he informed an aide to dispatch the order to move on to the next one.
He had maybe another thirty minutes of uninterrupted peace to draft a few new orders, plot his next moves and maybe even find a way to bully the Luftstreitkrafte into actually giving him some help before another aide ran up, wings flared halfway in panic as he presented the missive in his claw to August. The general raised a brow. He had always considered himself a cool, even tempered drake. He’d never flown off the handle like he’d heard some stories of Thundertail or other commanders had done, so he had no idea why this news, even bad news, would set the gefreiter to panic.
He shrugged, deciding to open the missive and relieve the griff’s worry. The sooner he got it over with, the sooner he could get back to the map. He did not, however, notice his hauptmanns and leutnants around his headquarters glancing up from their workstations as they realized something very wrong was occurring, watching him closely as his heterochromatic eyes skimmed the missive in his claw.
At first, he merely saw it as a troop movement notification. That was fine, he’d gotten those all day. Then he noticed the korps it was attached to, 2nd Korps, was not his own. He frowned. That was Thundertail’s, and therefore not his command or concern. Then he realized the unit in particular was one he recognized. For the third time, brows knitted, he read the missive one more time.
Then he looked up, eyes filled with cold fury.
“What do you mean ‘out of contact?’”
“I-I don’t know, mein herr!” the aide spluttered, looking fit to piss himself in his clean feldgrau uniform, pins indicating he was Angriverian (and had done very well for himself by getting this far since the Herzland War). “I was told to get this to you as soon as I could!”
“Get me Thundertail on the line immediately! I want to know how the fuck that ironheaded moron lost an entire heavy panzer battalion!”
What he did not say, and was eminently more immediately important to him in that moment, was how Thundertail had lost track of August’s nephew in possibly the most hostile territory in west Griffonia.
Margot would kill him if anything happened to that boy.
March 17th, 1012 Great Queen’s Tower, Royal Spire, Vesalipolis Queendom of Greater Changelingia
The grand hive of Vesalipolis had always been central to what the hives as a whole were doing, even when they all fought one another. As a center of development and economic prosperity, it remained the frontrunner over the centuries. Even in recent history as Chrysalis stumbled time and again, first at Canterlot and then several times in uniting the hives after, she had persevered with a spirit that was impossible for anyling to ignore, either lowly drone, middling royal or the rare queens. Through force of will or force of arms, she had held the entire assembly together, and the result was that by the time the invasion launched, the Changeling Queendom had a developed economy only overshadowed by Equestria itself, fielding a massive, advanced military force with a united, eager people behind them. Things had always been muddied with Vesalipolis in the center of affairs, but now? Well, now things were complicated, once again.
Queen Helvia, ruler of Ditrysium hive, turned from the window overlooking the city (notably seeing the new urban renewal devouring the older portions of the city with the new engineering and Vesalipolis modernization spread out like ripples on a pond) as Chrysalis had yet another breakdown. Unlike her mother, the young Helvia was not impressed by the so-called ‘High Queen’ of all Changelingia (another of Chrysalis’ inventions, declaring a name for a nation that technically had none) and her past record of military and political accomplishments. True, Ditrysium was Vesalipolis’ strongest ally, the ‘Axis upon which all things turn’. True, Chrysalis had used that Axis to bring the other hives into common cause, and build a technologically advanced, industrialized modern state that even now had the rest of the continent on the ropes. But Helvia had serious doubts. When Chrysalis had failed in her declared ‘certain victory’ to infiltrate Canterlot and hand Equestria to them on a silver platter in 1002, there had been…pushback. The hives had not shattered and gone to war with each other as many expected, but revolts and instability had plagued them for years after. Chrysalis, in true fashion, had simply used brute force to put these all down, restore order and draw the hives even deeper under her domain.
One of those revolts had been a band of sailors in Helvia’s own Ditrysium, communist sympathizers who had staged a mutiny against their officers and held the port in lockdown. Helvia had wanted to surround the mutineers and negotiate them down to avoid damaging the ships and harbor. But before she could put her plan into motion, Chrysalis had dispatched troops to put the revolt down by force without alerting anyling in the Ditrysium government, or Helvia herself. The result? Multiple ships severely damaged, several buildings nearly destroyed and hundreds of crewlings that might otherwise have been returned to service gunned down. This incident had only started a long decline of Chrysalis’ competency in Helvia’s eyes. True, she had unified the hives (by force), put through successful social and industrial programs (through terror and liquidation) and negotiated a successful exchange with the Griffonian Empire to emulate what had once been the greatest army in the world (which had not only ripped up changeling culture wholesale but was now on shaky ground due to -somelings’- mania and paranoia), and now with Olenia shackled and both the Northern Protectorate and now King Sombra on their side, it seemed only a matter of time before Equestria fell. Then the rest of Equus.
Yes, it seemed Chrysalis’ star was rising. Helvia may not like her much. But the young queen was shrewd, and practical. It was far better for Ditrysium in the long run to hitch their wagon to Vesalipolis, however much its rulers distrusted one another. They would never be friends. But at least they had a working relationship. Well, that remained to be seen, Helvia thought, as she watched Chrysalis explode over Ministeriumsfuhrer Vaspier and Hivesmarschall Trimmel, who were both attempting their best impersonation of marble statues under the now familiar firestorm of their High Queen’s rage. The issue today? The ‘lack of progress’ in the Equestrian campaign.
“We should have pacified all of Equestria by now!” Chrysalis was fuming, her eyes wide and her whole body emanating a slight green glow, elaborately decorated white uniform fluttering as if in an unseen breeze. “I have given you the tools, the soldiers, the strategy! You infiltrated their ranks, gained all the information we needed and put our cats’ paws out front to bear the worst of their power! And STILL we are not only denied Canterlot again, but they are COUNTERATTACKING! I have seen the reports of Royal Army forces outside of Marechester, our troops have been turned back from Dodge City and bombs continue to fall on the Borderlands! This is UNACCEPTABLE!”
Helvia had been privy to those same reports as Chrysalis. True, she was not a military mind like her sister Recina, as Helvia herself was far more knowledgeable on ships, cargo and the secrets of commerce, but she understood enough as a queen to know that taking as much ground as they had from a land as big as Equestria in a year was nothing less than astounding. In all honesty, if they extended terms to Celestia and Luna, they could likely get a lot of concessions for their successes, especially now the Heer’s momentum had slowed, and casualties were rising.
However, such a decision was not up to her. It was up to the fuming child that was continuing to throw bad fit after bad fit. Vaspier, the Great Nobody and leader of VOPS, attempted to sally forth and assuage his sovereign’s wrath, though curiously Trimmel stayed quiet.
“My Queen, our gains have far outstripped our losses. Information we have attained through our agents has confirmed Equestria is still reliant on imports to make up for the industry and material we have seized. And with our U-boats sinking merchant shipping by the kiloton, soon they will no longer be able to hold against us.”
“I have already TOLD you SEVERAL reasons that logic is flawed! Where is Sombra’s promise of the Crystal City? He has been in the Crystal Empire as long as we have commenced Alicorn Sunset, and all he has given us is frozen land!” She abruptly whirled on the last member of the associated ‘guilty’ parties in the room. “You were supposed to deliver Sombra a victory!”
The ‘you’ in question was none other than a looming polar bear, standing on his rear legs and standing over even Chrysalis (though not by much, and she always straightened up when he was near to make sure he didn’t). Sven Nallus was the representative of the semi-sane Chancellor Bjornling, the ostensible ruler of the Northern Protectorate, having led an armed march on Mathair Fearainn and deposed his predecessor King Joris (known more widely by his mercenary name Paw Wellington). Though the previous despot had only been driven into exile, the Changeling backed coup had sparked off a nation wide power struggle, forcing Bjornling to subdue all the various clans to exert his authority in the Queendom's name. With changeling troops and panzers behind him it had been relatively swift to pacify them, allowing Bjornling to turn the nation of Polaria into a powerbase for the Hegemony's war machine. Though many saw them as barely a step above their feral brethren, the secrets of the bear's surprisingly advanced metallurgy combined with industry sent in from Soryth in exchange for access to gold deposits meant that, though they’d never be a superpower, they made quite a useful ally. Bjornlings’ troops had been sent in alongside Sombra’s infiltrators, and the so-named panserbjørn were tremendous shock troops clad in their mysterious starsteel armor plate, able to survive the chilling conditions the Crystal Empire threw up as a magical defense while breaching Equestrian, Crystal and now communist positions on approach to the Crystal City. But, this prior success now meant he was on the same chopping block as the changeling commanders when it came time to assign blame.
Nallus clearly understood her meaning, and a deep growl cut through the chamber. From the darker corners of the room, the glowing green lights of Queen’s Guard gasmasks and the blue of their crystal rifles was a very real threat, and the Guardslings stood so still, one might forget they were even there. Now, at least four drifted behind the polar bear, ready to respond to any threat. Nallus grunted as he considered the unspoken threat, and began speaking to a changeling interpreter next to him. He spoke little Equish, few in the Polarlands did, but the interpreter was translating everything spoken in the chamber to him. What made Nallus a good representative for Bjornling, was that he was patient and far more diplomatic than many of the rest of his colleagues. Considering who he was compared to, that didn’t say much. The interpreter listened carefully to his rumbling response before she nodded and looked to Chrysalis.
“Your Highness, Minister Nallus wishes to point out that the error has not been in the battles his troops have fought in, but purely one of logistics. Northern formations are literally walking across the Crystal Empire with little motorization as a matter of course. The campaign was always expected to be hindered by the terrain.”
“Sikkert mer enn ponniene har bremset oss,” Nallus boomed, to which the interpreter quickly added “He points out that the terrain has slowed them more than the ponies have.”
“Hmm…his words ring true,” Chrysalis mused, her fury seemingly forgotten for the time being, to which the other changelings visibly relaxed. Helvia smirked at the show. Her dislike for Chrysalis may have soured their relationship, but she got a twisted kind of amusement watching others bend over backwards to avert her wrath, primarily by blaming each other.
Chrysalis considered the words for a moment before nodding firmly and declaring “Very well. I will leave Sombra to his campaign. But prepare a message to ask a status report. We can still make him aware he is being held to a promise.”
“Yes, Highness,” an aide drone nearby said, quickly scribbling down a reminder to do just that. Trimmel cut in at this, apparently timing his words for a proper moment to save the situation.
“We can count on Sombra to do his job, Your Highness. All he needs is time. As for Dodge City and Marechester, we can’t expect to have it all our way. There were bound to be places the Equestrians would find to throw us back. Military campaigns are difficult to plan at the best of times, and we have dealt a far heavier blow to Equestria than any imagined possible.”
Chrysalis looked a bit assuaged, slowly nodding as she considered the words.
“Yes…yes, you are right Trimmel. Tis only natural for us to lose a few battles. We are still winning the war.”
A silent breath was released from the entire room aside from Nallus’ interpreter, still quietly relaying the conversation to the polar bear. But in a moment, the ease of tension was dashed as she spun around, her expression furious again, as sudden as the flip of a coin.
“What was the point in rebuilding the Kriegsmarine if I cannot use it to starve Equestria out? We destroyed the Lunar Fleet but aside from that we hunt and peck at merchant convoys! I need something more tangible. Something more dramatic!"
What Chrysalis meant, and what Helvia knew from her sister poring over after action reports, was that the Changeling Grand Armada had caught the Lunar Fleet unaware. Without sufficient Equestrian air cover or use of hydrophones, the U-boats had followed the surface fleet, lurking where the Armada struck and advancing when it fell back, luring vulnerable carriers and cruisers out from under their air cover to be sunk by the submarine's torpedoes. The strategy had worked flawlessly, sinking the Lunar Fleet’s critical ships and driving the rest south to the naval base at Fort Mourn. They had fought smartly against a larger enemy, using a rare compromise between admirals Mimic and Lysander, who were both competing to become the new Hivesadmiral of the Navy. Now, however, Lysander continued to press the idea of using the Armada to break out of the Lunar Sea by smashing Fort Mourn in the south to take the Spa Islands, while Mimic’s U-boats kept racking up merchant shipping in the Celestial, the compromise and cooperation broken. So long as those two remained locked in competition, the Kriegsmarine would not grow, however many ships they built.
Abruptly, Chrysalis spun on her new target, Helvia herself.
“You!” she snapped at the younger queen. Were Helvia of a lesser breed, a mere royal or lowly drone or even (gods forbid) a miserable pony, she would have flinched or wilted on the spot to be the focus of attention for such a storm of emotions, fury and militant intent. Helvia, luckily, was Helvia, and her only visible reaction was to raise the chitin plates under her brow in an expression of unimpressed bemusement. Chrysalis, as blind to the world as she got when she wrapped herself up in her own mind, didn’t notice.
“Your sister! Recina, yes! A known skeptic of my rule. But a genius at naval craft design and command, if I recall. After all the funding and reforms I have poured into the Kriegsmarine, she must be champing at the bit to be reinstated! And her skepticism will cast supporters into her camp against me, hoping to curry favor under my nose, but she will already be loyal to me! What do the griffons call it?”
She pondered for a moment as her brain cast back to the extensive encyclopedia of terms and concepts about Griffonia she had to trace back. Helvia sighed internally as she let the High Queen stew in her own frustration. It was Chrysalis’ fanatic love of everything Herzlandisch that had caused such a drastic revitalization of changeling society over the years, even after the debacle of 1002, when her infiltration of Equestria via taking the disguised place of Princess Cadance had fallen flat on its snout. And yet, she was the leader of Greater Changelingia. What a wonder, Helvia thought.
Finally, Chrysalis recalled the term she wanted. “A loyal opposition! Yes, your sister shall be my loyal opposition! Someling to publicly call attention to any issues I present. Entirely minor and unimportant ones of course. And her reinstatement will finally allow me to appoint a moderate and solve this ridiculous Hivesadmiral deadlock. Rather brilliant, if I do say so myself!”
The other creatures in attendance here forgotten, High Queen Chrysalis preened and puffed herself up, so pleased with her genius solution she had pulled. For once, however, Helvia was left stunned by the other queen’s decision, and not from its stupidity. It -was- a smart idea. Recina had been sitting by watching the Kriegsmarine swell and smooth as both Grand Armada and U-boat Fleet were put to sea, observing their movements through the newspaper and whatever reports she could get her mandibles on. At this point, should Chrysalis clear the political airs and offer her a position aboard one of the mere destroyers of the Armada, Recina would jump at the chance, despite the loss of station. But should Recina be given the rank of Hivesadmiral, essentially in control of the entire wartime navy, then no matter what she said her loyalty was practically ironclad as a battleship’s hull.
In Helvia’s opinion, it gave her a slight bit more respect for Chrysalis. But only a little. And it confirmed for her one thing she had feared; Chrysalis was mutable to the extreme and so addled with power it never occurred to her just who she affected with her snap decisions. If it were not in front of her, she overlooked it entirely.
And then, another idea occurred to her.
“Brilliant indeed, mighty High Queen,” Helvia purred, applying her best tone for sucking up. “My sister and my hive will both be so grateful to you and your genius.”
“As you should be!” Chrysalis snapped back, though her tone had little acid to it. She was too absorbed in her own self-congratulation to realize the words were being put upon. “I repay loyalty with grace, Helvia. You know this!”
“Of course, Your Majesty.” Helvia applied the title with only the slightest hint of sarcasm attached to it before she continued, laying the ground to her and her sister’s ascension with a carefully honeyed path. “But surely, the Equestrians need to be shown the consequences of defying one as mighty and grand as you.”
As if the words had flipped a switch, Chrysalis’ smile vanished, replaced with a hissing snarl as her eyes glared ahead into the distance, as if intent alone could kill Celestia and vaporize Canterlot. If only they could, she might actually be half as powerful as she thought she was.
“Those ponies!” the High Queen barked, hate underlaying her tone. “They have had the last laugh for far too long! It is MY time in the sun, dammit!” Her furious gaze swept back to Helvia, who had adopted an air of meekness and quiet obedience. Once more, Chrysalis caught the bait, but missed the line. “You have something to suggest!”
It was not a question.
“Of course, Your Majesty,” Helvia replied demurely. Now she had the fish approaching the hook, it was time to dangle the bait a little. “All this talk of war, and progress and pony resistance. But it occurred to me that ponies are scared very easily, are they not? What if we were to destroy one of their towns? No, a city. A city burned to the ground to demonstrate the power we have in our hooves.”
Chrysalis’ fury seemed to abate a little, and Helvia smelled the danger. If the High Queen recovered her wits enough to realize she was being led on, the fish on the line would turn into a shark. So, Helvia reversed tactics.
“What about Applewood? Someplace so public, so grand, so visible. If we were to destroy it, Equestria would surely take notice.”
“No!” Chrysalis’ reply was sharp, as Helvia knew it would be. Most sentient beings relished the chance to correct another, and Chrysalis was so egotistic she would be most eager to put her underlings to rights no matter the circumstance. “Applewood’s film industry is too valuable. We would get more out of it using it to produce our own propaganda. And too many famous celebrities would be killed. No, we can export moving pictures with well-known faces to get -our- message spread.”
This simple fact was true, and changeling engineers were already hard at work to not only restore Applewood’s movie lots, but to also expand them to give the Queendom a vast propaganda machine that could be exported to the world. They would need to address the other nations after Equus fell to their dominion, after all. The High Queen pondered, clearly heading down the trail Helvia had laid out and been ‘forced’ to abandon. She was now like a rowboat on a river, heading for a delta. The younger queen would have to be careful to nudge the craft where she wanted. Too little, and Chrysalis would go in an undesired direction. Too obvious, and she would drown.
“What about Vanhoover?” Chrysalis suggested.
“Hives below, no!” Helvia answered in all too genuine shock. Quickly, she reasserted herself, putting the demure charmer back in place. She had known Chrysalis would go heavyhoofed, but had not banked on something this drastic. “No, Your Majesty. I believe Queen Aurantia mentioned her audit of the city showed most of the population and industry to be still intact. We can make far more use out of occupying it than destroying it.”
That was all true, and Queen Aurantia had indeed been charged with surveying it as only a Queen’s eye could. The aging ruler of Lyctida hive was the oldest of the queen caste still in positions of power, and also happened to be one of Chrysalis’ most zealous supporters. No request, order or law was too far or too much for Aurantia, and she carried out Chrysalis’ will with abandon, eager to earn the High Queen’s favor. A pity, therefore, that Chrysalis only saw the loyal Aurantia as little more than a useful pawn with a limited service time left. But namedropping her had worked, and Chrysalis took the explanation with little question, pondering further as she seemed to run over an atlas of the Coltfoalnia coast region in her mind, lips silently moving and listing off names.
And, just as Helvia had hoped, she finally arrived.
“What of the city Tall Tale? It is large enough to be significant, yet was not very important even before our conquest turned much of it to ruin. It has a large enough civilian population that their sudden deaths will be shocking to the rest of the nation.” Chrysalis paused again in her ruminations, before nodding in firm acceptance. “Yes. Tall Tale shall burn! Now, to only inform the Luftwaffe.”
“Actually, Your Majesty,” Helvia cut in, quickly reasserting control of the conversation now Chrysalis was no longer on the defensive. “I had an idea to discuss with you about that…you see, my sister and I have been doing some studying on Equestrian and Hippogriffian carrier tactics, and I believe we may have something to give the Armada. And you.”
Off to the side, Sven Nallus was grinning a big, toothy bear grin. Though Helvia knew without a doubt he did not understand Equusian or knew how to read lips, the younger queen swore the polar bear representative had caught on to her game, and was giving her his tacit approval of such an underhoofed tactic. She glanced to the interpreter, unwittingly translating the entire exchange to the bear as she had been instructed. Then back to Nallus’ sly expression, which seemed strangely out of place on a massive bear.
Something in her warned that this sort of approval might not be the kind she wanted.
March 18th, 1012 Imperial Occupied Westkeep, Aquileia 3rd Armee, 19th Panzer-Division ‘Landgraf von Aiwlen’, 205th Schwere Panzerabteilung ‘Kampfgruppe Lehr’ Operation Donnerkiel, Day 7
“Enemy panzer, front!”
“Target sighted!”
“FIRE!”
In a surprise twist, the actual fight to take Westkeep, the fabled fortress of northeast Aquileia, one of the bastions of the Second Revolution, had been very short. One advantage to being so far behind enemy lines was none of the garrisons here expected to be attacked. Clearly, the skirmishers on the road had not properly reported the Imperial advance, and while it was incorrect to say the defenders were completely unprepared, the garrison was certainly not ready for what struck the city. An entire heavy panzer battalion materializing behind your lines was difficult to predict, but attempting to ward it off with just grenades, machine guns and rifles was downright impossible. Everytime Aquileian fusiliers attempted to fire on troops in the streets, the Grytas and their support pounded roadblocks and checkpoints. Everytime they attempted to ambush the panzers from buildings, panzergrenadiers in half-tracks stormed the structure in question with a hail of machine gun fire, grenades, shotguns and flamethrowers. It didn’t take long before the streets were full of screaming, panicking civilians, rubble, destroyed Aquileian LCA armored cars and plenty of corpses. Needless to say, after just a few hours of having the Grytas and landsers swarming the city, the garrison gave up. When it was all said and done, it turned out that an entire regiment’s worth of POWs had been rounded up from the city. The unfortunate truth was that they didn’t have enough guns or trucks to manage them all, and the thought of butchering them all left a sick feeling in the beaks of all involved in the decision process.
Finally, Oberstmeister Heimclar and General Van Zieks made the decision to hold the garrison’s officers in the Westkeep fortress while they released the enlisted and any civilians who wished to depart. A mass of griffons on foot or awing to escape quickly would undoubtedly alert the Republique to what had happened, but committing a massacre to reduce how many they needed to control would be too much to stomach. To lessen the sting, Kamfgruppe Lehr confiscated all the weapons of the departing fusiliers and sent the wounded on with them. With luck, these two factors would hinder the survivors, and give the stranded battalion time to dig in.
Then came the unfortunate truth; Westkeep might not have been worth keeping. True, the city itself fell relatively quickly, but in the later parts of the fight it was revealed that dozens of landmines were sowed in the countryside like crops, and many landsers discovered to their ill fate that rooms in the fortress were rigged with wire traps and charges. Though they were ignored at first, several griffons from the civilian population suddenly revealed themselves to be skilled guerillas and stole many weapons to pop a shot at the Imperial troops occasionally, or lit a ‘Griever cocktail to toss at passing Grytas. Where shells and cannon fire had failed, fire succeeded and even in the short time they had occupied Westkeep, half a dozen heavy panzers were destroyed or hauled back for repairs.
Then the actual counter attacks began hammering in.
This far into enemy territory held together only by a shoestring supply and communications line, it was inevitable that assaults could and would come from all sides. The ferocity was something they hadn’t expected. But then, Cyril reasoned, hadn’t the Reichsarmee fought hard as demons when the enemy was on Imperial land?
“On the way!”
The EMC burst before them as the 7.6 cm shell ripped into it, slamming so hard that its turret was knocked askew, almost torn away. Cyril knew no crew would be bailing out of that wrecked beast. It was cold comfort, however, as another Aquileian vehicle shoved the wreck out of the way, treads clattering as it advanced up the road his platoon was tasked to hold. Whereas they had engaged Republique armor in small clusters or minimal dedicated groups, it seemed the commander here had cracked the Imperial method of massing armor and done the same. It wasn’t a shooting gallery anymore, the enemy now had talons and could scratch. While their cannons were still having trouble penetrating the front Gryta plating, enough fire on target would eventually find a soft spot, and for every EMC they destroyed, two more panzer-zerstörer guns were being wheeled into position, and for every gun they destroyed there was another squad of fusiliers moving up to assault their lines. With their losses to the partisans in town and the mounting number of Grytas disabled out here, that roaring sense of invincibility he'd felt a mere week ago was well and truly shattered.
“Target destroyed!” Cyril called out, automatically scanning the field through his periscopes before he spotted exactly what he knew would be approaching. “PZK, two o’clock! Behind the hedgerow!”
“Identified!” Eisenwing called back, already swinging the gun around. “I see them!"
“Loading high-explosive!” Brightclaw hollered, shoving another red-tipped shell into the breech, closing it with a clatter. What had once been concern around a new machine had become little more than frantic routine. After the losses they had suffered simply trying to hold the city, the counter attacks of the enemy trying to take Westkeep back had become more and more overwhelming. Kampfgruppe Lehr had still not been reinforced, and word was leaking through to their position that the greater advance had been slowed and Donnerkiel even halted in many places. It didn’t matter how amazing their Grytas were when the enemy commander was clearly willing to throw as much armor at the city as it took to snuff this redoubt.
“Götterdammt fucking Solide!” Cyril hissed, cursing out the Aquileian commander of Westkeep, seconds before he shouted “FIRE!”
The cannon boomed again, and in his scope he watched the ground around the enemy gun fountain in a geyser of dirt. For a moment, he thought Eisenwing had clocked another kill, but as the sight cleared he cursed again as he saw movement, Aquileian crewgriffs moving to wheel their gun around on Isegrim.
“That’s a miss!” he hollered, and the clatter of the empty shell casing rang out as Brightclaw frantically tried to retrieve another. “Hurry up, he’s lining up on us!”
“Hail, Eyr, full of grace! The Gods are with me!”
“Brightclaw, would you shut the fuck up already!” Eisenwing screeched over the loader’s prayers and clatter of the next shell slamming home, adjusting her aim before she stamped down on the trigger mechanism. Loader and gunner were two of the most important members of a crew, their ability to work in concert absolutely vital to success and survival. Her words to him may have been overly coarse for no discernible reason, but Cyril knew combat stress when he heard it, especially when they were being fired on. Better to let her get it out. He’d know when it was time to intervene.
It took two more shells and several bursts of machine gun fire from Spotsley and Eisenwing’s coaxial to finally knock the gun out, and by that time two more gun crews had gotten close, firing their cannons as they got into position. One rang off Isegrim’s hull, but didn’t penetrate. Sooner or later, one just might.
To the left and right, entrenched grenadiers returned fire on the advancing Aquileian fusiliers. Capable though the Imperial Landser might have been, they were running on empty even more than the panzer crews. With their dual role of fighting the insurgency and the Republique Armee de Terre both, they had gotten little relief, rest or proper resupply. To make matters worse, the enemy soldiers were, if the intel briefing still held true, members of a paramilitary force known as the Mouvement Patriote d’Aquileia, zealous patriots as devoted as Imperial knights or Reformisten diehards. Mere casualties were not enough to make the blue-jacketed assault troops disengage, each thrust had to be annihilated in detail, either to the point where defeat was obvious and the Aquileians then pulled back or were killed to the last griff. But even as their infantry pressed, the MPA fighters were backed by other means. Enemy mortars hammered Imperial positions while the howitzers Kampfgruppe Lehr had brought with them pounded the Republique advance, or at least tried to. Spotters had a tendency to get shot by pony rangers, snipers and skirmishers who were masters at their craft. Coupled with mobile Aquileian light artillery and blitzing panzer assaults, the Imperial Grytas were essentially attempting to crush a walnut with a sledgehammer, though the nut kept moving at the last second. To make matters worse, occasionally dive bombers roared overhead, dropping sticks of bombs on the Imperial lines (the Imperial suppression campaign was clearly working, but not perfectly). Medics from the nearby aide station kept rushing back and forth to recover casualties from trenches and half tracks, griffons and dogs and ponies screaming from bullet wounds or shrapnel or burns, and some who didn’t scream anymore but the medics just had to try. The anarchy of war wasn’t just restricted to this road, however, and Cyril could see and hear more action elsewhere around Westkeep in the air and on the radio, as the isolated battlegroup did its damndest to hold the ground they had.
“Brutus-Aktual, this is Brutus-2!” he called into the radio headset as Isegrim’s gun thundered again, gouging out a furrow where an enemy half track had zoomed by, fusiliers firing machine guns over the armor plated sides as they went. “We’re getting hammered pretty bad here, sir! Count at least six medium panzers, four operational, and kompanie sized infantry and light attachments, over!”
”Brutus-2, Aktual here. Confirm four medium panzers on your flank, over.”
That wasn’t actually the hauptmann, he likely had better things to do trying to organize the whole force of heavy panzers. The main issue was the slow rate of attrition he faced. Cut off as they were, while the rest of the battalion had followed up to hold Westkeep, their supplies had been cut to size and only barely trickled in. Word from the rear was that they were indeed the forward most Imperial element with boots on Aquileia proper, leaving the trucks to run a gauntlet of enemy air and land ambush to get them food, fuel and ammunition. No replacement Grytas were coming in. Gods above, there weren’t even replacement crews coming, and forget recovering the wrecks. The upper officers from Stahlbeak and above were likely having a devil of a time keeping the city together with the backlines in the chaos they were.
“Aktual, confirm four medium panzers. All Brutus-2 panzers running low on both high-explosive and AP shells. We have wounded landsers in the aid station and damaged tracks to recover, need immediate support, over!”
”Brutus-2, we have no support to lend you at this time. We need you to hold on, Leutnant. All positions to the south and west are under assault, and we have another attack within the city itself, over.”
Nearby, a Stahlschild medium panzer, from the support kompanie of lighter armor attached to give the Grytas some flexibility, slewed to a halt as one of their forward sprockets was destroyed, then brewed up violently as yet another hidden MPA cannon lanced the vehicle from the flank. Cyril winced, but breathed a sigh of relief as the front hatches flew open and both driver and bow gunner escaped their dying machine, slipping into a nearby trench as bullets flew overhead. Of the gunner, loader and commander there was no sign. A second later, the Stahlschild detonated with a thundering whump as ammunition and fuel caught fire, spraying the area with shrapnel as deadly as any artillery shell.
This was insanity. Without support, they were bleeding slowly by attrition. Certainly, they were killing plenty of Aquileians that came at them, but every attack they repulsed or destroyed managed to take a clawful of Imperial soldiers with them. If they couldn’t be reinforced, this position would be overwhelmed in the next hour. Cyril hollered into the radio again.
“Aktual, request permission to pull back and set up on the next phase line, over!”
”Negative, Brutus-2. Orders are to hold at all cost and prepare to counterattack, over.”
“Coun-…counterattack?! With what?!”
“Incoming!”
With a roar, another dive bomber peeled overhead, this one so low that Cyril swore he coud see the blue and red roundel on its wingtips, machine guns chattering and a grinning pilot’s face in the cockpit. Then, the payload smashed into Steifmutter’s top, the bomb piercing the weak armor protecting the turret’s roof. To make matters worse, Feldwebel Bakker had her cupola open, machine gun blazing as she disregarded the enemy mortars falling about her head. Well, the bombs that turned her into little more than bloody ragged scraps and ripped the turret open like a can opener was a lot harder to disregard, and Cyril involuntarily threw himself back in shock at the sight. To him, his only consolation was that she had likely never felt or seen the thing that killed her.
Steifmutter and her crew were not so lucky. The heavy panzer began to burn, and even from here Cyril could smell the stench of burnt meat as he popped the hatch and stood to watch the tragedy, beak agape in horror. Screams came to his ears over the din of shells and gunfire, the screams of dying infantry around the panzer and, from inside, the crew who were already dead griffs. They merely clutched to the last few seconds of their agony, talons scraping uselessly against hatches and armored plating, desperate to escape but not having a hope of doing so, merely shrieking like the howls of the damned. The young leutnant’s mind was, for a split second, thrown back again to Temsoar, to the sensation of being pinned by a wrecked gun mount and desperately trying not to black out as the flames ate at his feathers, his loyal loader hacking at the pinned limb with a fire ax…
And then the fuel and munitions cooked off, and even from fifty meters away, Cyril could feel the heat of that detonation, the ugly sight of another Imperial panzer brewing up. Those infantry who had survived, namely a machine gun crew bunkered behind a pile of sandbags and a rifle squad, who had all been attempting to pull their wounded over to the aide station, were either blasted to pieces by flame and flying shrapnel or became wounded themselves, left to writhe in the grass that caught aflame as well, other survivors nearby frantically trying to beat at the flames on feldgrau uniforms and trench coats.
Rage, hot and coursing white hot, flowed through him. Those were his griffs out there, dammit. They were his responsibility, his command! His fugue broken, he immediately switched his headset to the command frequency.
“Brutus-2 here, Steifmutter is burned out! Total loss! All elements fall back to phase line Dora! Fighting withdrawal! We can’t stay here!”
As if to agree with him, more shells flew overhead, soaring towards the Imperial positions. But something was off about these rounds, he could hear it. He’d heard enough artillery, friendly and enemy alike, to last ten lifetimes. He knew what howitzers, railway guns, rockets, mortars, all of them sounded like merely by ear. But something about this barrage immediately screamed at him as just being -wrong.- Because these shells didn’t scream or whistle as they came plunging down. They gurgled, like a coffee pot overflowing because someone put too much water into the mix.
He may not have recognized it. But some old soldier did, likely an infantrygriff with more years on him that suggested he was on his second or third round in service.
“GAS! GAS SHELLS!”
As he screamed, the shells landed with hollow thumps, spraying up fountains of dirt only a fraction the size of the great explosives previously being tossed their way. Then there was a ghastly hissing sound, and as horrified grenadiers all around began scrambling away, covering their faces with caps, coats, shirts and even just wings and claws, yellow-green clouds began wafting up from a dozen sites across the defensive line. The strange, sickly smell of pepper mixed with pineapple of all things began seeping into the air.
Cyril’s veins iced over, the burning fury he had felt mere seconds ago evaporated as horror overtook him. In a moment, he dropped into Isegrim once more, slamming the hatch shut over his head, claws scrambling for his protective mask as he screamed one word, over and over again.
“FUCKING GAS!”
That was a hard coded phrase all Imperial landsers were endlessly drilled to respond to. Poison gas munitions were distasteful, honorless weapons, and few who swore to follow the codes of chivalry used them lightly. For the most part, the Empire restricted itself to tear gas to pacify riots and flush defensive lines, but this war had only seen light use of such weapons. Oh, the Aquileians had tried with white phosphorus in the opening days of the invasion, but to little effect. And so, both sides had dismissed their use and gone about the affair of killing each other the old fashioned, new fashioned way. But now, with Imperial forces so deep in the homeland, it seemed the Republique was through holding back.
The crew immediately abandoned what they were doing, scrambling for small, protective cases nearby. No one had predicted gas weapons would play a part in this war, but such an asset like a Gryta had to be protected from any and all threats, and as a result she was filled with several mounts for gas masks. True, the panzer was supposed to be able to be sealed and protected from such attacks. But Cyril and the other veterans had survived for too damn long to put faith in ‘supposed to be’.
He tugged the rubber mask over ears and beak, tightening the straps and checking the seal as he had been trained. They had only done gas warfare training for a day or two, as nogriff had taken the idea of chemical weapons threatening a panzer seriously. It took him a precious moment to remember the steps, and by the time he took in the breath to check his seals were working, he could already see wafts of debris and yellowish air. He had been right to worry. Isegrim’s seals hadn’t held.
“Cyril!”
It took him a moment to realize that voice, hacking and coughing, was directly in front of him, and in panic he dropped down, shoving past the masked forms of Eisenwing and Brightclaw to find Spotsley holding Eihol down, her desperate paws pressing his mask down as hard as she could. Her own was affixed in place. She looked up at him, single eye barely visible behind the dark lenses, like looking at a submarine’s portholes. The black rubber and tan canvas robbed her of all identity aside from the shape of her head.
She shook her head.
“No…not like this,” she whispered, her voice muffled by the mask and despair.
Cyril leaned in as Eihol coughed, hacking as he tried to expel the deadly chemical from his lungs. It was a sickening, gut-wrenching sound, like the griff was trying to vomit his stomach out in some sick parody of being ill, like the worst act on a stageplay. But this was no stage, and no play. Cyril could see the issue immediately. The scarring on Eihol’s face after Sabine had been destroyed was extreme, disfiguring the former race car driver almost the point of unrecognizability. It also meant his mask had no perfect seal, though they hadn’t caught the issue.
Of course, Cyril rationalized that he could be wrong, the driver simply had a bad mask issued to him. Who would have checked?
“Eihol…” he said quietly, reaching for his driver. How long had they served together? The answer came to him immediately. At least two years. Since the Herzland War. Back then, they barely spoke the same language. Who would have thought they’d have come this far in so short a time.
Eihol wretched again, and Cyril knew. Gently, he reached out and took Spotsley’s paw off the driver’s face, off the mask. He met resistance, as he knew he would, and she shook her head fiercely, but Cyril persisted, and she finally relented, staring at him the whole time. Was she refusing to look at their friend? Or did she blame him for this too? The driver weakly reached up, tearing away the gas mask as he vomited, his stomach trying vainly to clear his throat and save his life from the chemical in his system. But full immersion had struck now, and there was no going back. Blood was clogging the stream from out of his beak, streaking his uniform crimson.
Cyril reached over, ignoring the vomit as he held a thrashing Eihol down, embracing his brother in arms. In a half-cognisant state, Eihol threw his claws, wings attempting to flare but Cyril didn’t let him, merely committed to his grim task. After a moment, Spotsley joined in, equal parts hugging Eihol farewell and holding him down to prevent him breaking something and extending his suffering. Back in the turret, Eisenwing and Brightclaw watched, silently. This was not their place.
Finally, after what felt like an age, Eihol’s mad spasms began to subside. His coughs turned into ragged wheezes, the jerks of his limbs to weak twitching, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head. The wheezes turned to struggling, forced moans of agony, the movement became the occasional flicker of a firing neuron.
And then, with no more ceremony or circumstance, with no final words spoken or romance or glory, Feldwebel Jan Eihol died in Cyril and Spotsley’s arms.
For a moment, they couldn’t move. Couldn’t part from the body of their long time comrade.
From outside, the chaos of battle raged on. The gas barrage had preluded another MPA push, and there was every guarantee they had brought enough masks. Detonations echoed past the armor, screams of dying griffs and the spanging of bullets ricocheting off the steel hide as Isegrim gave her crew their time.
Spotsley let out exactly one sob. One ghastly, choked off sound that almost sounded like she was about to die as well.
The panzer rocked. There was a battle left to fight. Cyril pushed his way up past Brightclaw, numb from head to toe. When Hellsieg had died, he had been too out of it to process until later, when safety and hindsight amplified his grief tenfold. But here, he almost felt nothing but white hot, rending rage. The radio headset, when he put it on, was overloaded with noise.
”Repeat, Brutus-2, this is Aktual! Status report, what the fuck is going on! Duskwing, respond!”
That was Stahlbeak himself. He must have been gone from the headset long than he had thought. It certainly felt like an age. Cyril merely pulled the headset on over the mask, securing it before he popped the hatch, emerging into the field of battle. It was, to his vision, like a scene from the damned. Grenadiers in feldgrau lay dead or dying around him, in trenches or stretched across the ground. Some of them had masks, but not all of them did. Some were still trying to protect their faces with whatever they had to claw, with mixed results. Nearby, Eisenhans fired, trying to cover the soldiers withdrawing from the defensive line, main cannon booming and machine guns chattering as she stood proudly as a beacon of defiance. But before Cyril’s eyes, something small on treads came rocketing out from behind a hedgerow, skittering past a stream of bullets before the little device threw itself under the Gryta. A second later, it too brewed up impossibly large. Cyril threw up both arm and wing reflexively, though the heat and shrapnel did not reach him.
Finally, he responded.
“This is Brutus-2! We have suffered extreme casualties, at least fifty percent! We have been hit by gas weapons, and supporting infantry are in full rout! I say again, the Aquileians are using poison gas artillery!”
Movement caught his eye, and he snapped his head around. While the Imperials were busy trying to flee the slaughter being wreaked upon them, the MPA fighters had closed the distance, their own masks distorting their features into monstrous forms so that emerging from the fog of yellow-green gas made them look like creatures of nightmare prowling forth to feast on the innocent, wide lens eyes blank and dark as the hoses emerging from the masks cast an otherworldly pall on their forms.
It took a moment for them to recognize Isegrim as still a threat. No doubt, sitting motionless as long as she had probably told the enemy she was dead. Cyril remembered Eihol, choking on his own tongue and vomit, agonizing in his death throes. With little hesitation, he turned the MG 131 towards the front advancing rank, little more than a hundred paces away.
The rage and fury came back, but he no longer heard his surroundings. All the sound he had was a roaring in his ears. He mashed down the trigger, and held it there.
Without a doubt, out of effective cover and this close in, he barely had to aim and a few rounds on each trooper would have killed the first wave. But Cyril was in no mood to think logically. He raked the weapon back and forth over the Aquileian soldiers, doubling back over their fallen corpses and tearing them even further apart, sending chunks of meat, ragged blue scraps and buckets of blood flying. Just an hour ago, he had an elite armored platoon, backed by veteran grenadiers armed with conviction and determination to hold a doomed position. Now, he had this gun. He would use it.
The heavy machine gun clacked open, and he automatically checked the belt. Empty. In half a second, he drew his sidearm, firing rounds in pairs at the few Aquileian soldiers left nearby that he could see through the flat lenses of the mask. One magazine ran dry, and he slapped a new one in by reflex, then another, and another. MPA fighters attempted to close, and he gunned them down. Incoming rounds sparked off Isegrim, some of them dangerously close to his vulnerable flesh protected only by his panzertruppen tunic and hood. He ignored them all, merely focusing on sending shots out. It was only when the slide on his pistol locked open, and he reached for a fifth magazine on his belt that didn’t exist, did he stop firing. As the panzer’s coaxial machine gun sputtered under Eisenwing’s direction, firing into the gas clouds after movement, Cyril became aware his headset was chattering at his head. Had the gunfire drowned it out, or the bloodlust? He didn’t know. Right now, he didn’t care.
”I say again, Brutus-2; confirm status and position. Orders are to counterattack the enemy. Do you copy, over?”
He almost could have laughed, if he wasn’t so furious.
Instead, Cyril reloaded the machine gun, feeding another belt into the action and slapping the bolt, firing again as he answered. Let them hear what was going on.
“Steifmutter, Eisenhans and most of my support elements are dead on the spot, sir. Infantry are retreating in disorder, and I have MPA combatants crawling up my tail right in fucking front of me. If you want me to go commit suicide, I’ll take Brunnhilde with me and we’ll go forward and die alone. Glorious, but alone. Are those your orders, Aktual?...over.”
He had thought he was speaking calmly into the headset. It wasn’t the first time he had spoken over the radio while under fire, or returning it. But to his amazement, the simmering anger burning under his every word was viscous enough to set oil aflame, and he had half-shouted, half-growled all of it. Isegrim spoke again, the main gun roaring as the shell raked a hole of rushing air behind it. Somewhere in the gloom of the gas cloud, an explosion rang out. He couldn’t see it, but Cyril had no doubt Eisenwing had just scratched another EMC off the list. The radio remained silent as long seconds crawled by.
Finally, Stahlbeak answered.
”Brutus-2, Aktual. Orders have been amended, Oberstmeister’s call. You are to fall back to phase line Dora and meet up with relief and reinforcements. Then you are to bring your wounded and yourself up to the Castle. Come on home, Leutnant. You’ve had a hell of a day.” A pause. ”Over.”
Technically, though Cyril as he fired the heavy machine gun at shadows moving around in the gas, it was still going on. Was the MPA still advancing? Had they expected a walkover after dropping the gas and continued resistance had halted them? Were they simply flanking through the gloom? Out loud, Cyril merely paused in his firing, gasping and panting behind the gas mask as he responded.
“Brutus-2, copy all. We’re falling back, Aktual. Over.”
”Aktual copies all. You’re in luck, Duskwing. We’ve gotten a little bit of help. Over and out.”
When Isegrim and Brunnhilde finally fell back to the city, the mood was somber. Emerging from the gas cloud, the two heavy panzers found it was still late afternoon, when it felt like the fight had lasted a week and a half more. Their reinforcements at phase line Dora gaped at the two battered, pitted and scarred Grytas, following in the wake of a train of coughing, hacking and stumbling walking wounded. An armored platoon and a grenadier platoon had held that road as long as they could. The chewed up remnants came back.
As the platoon rattled into the city proper, grenadier checkpoints watched various intersections, letting the Grytas and what battered support vehicles survived rattle down the lanes towards the mustering point. They were being placed in reserve to recover, refill crews and squads and repair the vehicles they had. While Westkeep was under such assault, there was technically no rest to be had, but the little bit they could get was vital to keeping the troops in the fight. They were warned, of course, of mingling with the locals who remained. Westkeep was under martial law, and they had no MPs this far forward. The Aquileians here made their displeasure at hosting such foreigners known at every hour of the day, even those who weren’t part of the resistance as a secret guerilla or a spy for the Armee de Terre. They booed, hissed and cursed at Imperial troops in the streets moving back and forth, some even got brave enough to throw bricks. Those were quickly answered with bullets. Bricks soon stopped flying. The roads were quickly cleared of all debris and obstacles by the Bronze engineers, and the little bit of petrol in town was quickly seized by the Kampfgruppe’s logistics officers. They were not here for hearts and minds, they were here to protect the Imperial salient.
A grenadier stepped out in front of the lead vehicle, a Katze specifically put out front so any halt for the ad hoc convoy could be controlled, a claw held up to stop traffic. Crossing the lane ahead of them came a Vasall-PKW with a mounted machine gun, followed by loose ranks of marching grenadiers. It took Cyril a moment to spot the differing shoulder patches, the pins that spelled of infantry instead of armor. These were soldiers from a different regiment, though from their uniforms they were still a part of the 19th.
“Hey! Feldwebel,” Cyril called down to the drake who had stopped them, gesturing the landser over to Isegrim from around the truck. “Tell me those are reinforcements.”
“Of a sort, sir,” the griffon replied, the grease and grime on his face and feathers indicating he too had been in the fight as much as Cyril had. “They’re our first through the Gap, and for now the only ones. 511th Motorgewehre Battalion, I’m told. Apparently, there’s pretty fierce fighting back north. We get a kompanie to back us up.”
“An infantry kompanie?” Cyril was aghast, glancing back up at the soldiers filing past. Their coats were relatively clean, though they had the mark of ones who had traveled on trucks through rough terrain, so they must have been shipped down the one road they had secured back to friendly lines, which the Kampfgruppe had nicknamed ‘the Gap’. But a few hundred landsers weren’t going to hold the Aquileians at bay for long, especially dedicated assault forces like the MPA. “Tell me they brought panzer-zerstorers or something.”
The feldwebel merely shrugged, exhaustion streaking his face. “Mein herr, you know everything I do now.” With that, he turned away from Isegrim, moving to enforce his checkpoint as the replacements, already petering out, finished filing past, followed by a clawful of trucks with anti-panzer cannons hitched to their bumpers. Cyril grunted in flat relief. Some help, then. But not much. Not enough.
The convoy was allowed to rattle forward again, and they finally parked Isegrim in the makeshift panzer depot that had once been the fleet yard for a shipping firm, now filled with armor of all stripes. A few numbly signed forms later, and they finally pulled Eihol’s corpse from the Gryta, laying him on a stretcher to be hauled away by medics to Graves Registration. There was no point in him going to the overburdened medical station attached to them. But they got to see him off, and to Cyril and Spotsley, that was something.
In the barracks, they shared a toast to him using his own flask. The concoction within could barely be called schnapps, even with a skewed perception on flavor, but all four of the crew downed it. To the other crews, they scrounged up cheap beer and bottles of wine looted from nearby cellars and drank for the losses they had suffered today. It wasn’t enough for them to feel better, not even close. But it made the pain somewhat more tolerable. Brightclaw, the singer of hymns that he was, quietly gave Eihol his own sendoff with the last few bars of the iconic Panzerlied, written by Heimclar himself back in Hellsword.
“Und läßt uns im Stich Einst das treulose Glück, Und kehren wir nicht mehr Zur Heimat zurück, Trifft uns die Todeskugel, Ruft uns das Schicksal ab, Ja Schicksal ab, Dann wird uns der Panzer Ein ehernes Grab.”
Sung as slow and mournfully as they were, the song took on a melancholic tone Cyril had never considered them in. That they fit all too well did nothing to assuage his spirit.
Brutus kompanie was relieved by Caesar. Given their losses, it was clear the need for relief after a week straight of combat and reorganization was needed. Replacements would have to be brought up, and at least with the Gap still held open it was possible to leave the siege for a brief time. Home leave was out of the question, of course. This was still an active offensive, and as soon as Brutus was back to strength, they’d be moving back up to Westkeep again.
He was settled in an officer’s billet in a hotel in Vilstel, where 3rd Korps Headquarters had been set up. Here in the backline, where the push from the Gap had secured parts of Pomovarra, other efforts had tried to widen the salient, to certainly mixed results. While Donnerkiel had indeed seized Eagleton and Bergelun, pushing the line forward, but while the rail station at Vilrau was also in Imperial claws, the salient through Vilstel and on to the single Imperial controlled bridge over the Erne River was thin and unreliable, and on the other side was only a thin corridor through hills and forest known as the Gap. Thundertail, not one to miss out on the action because of extra silver on his lapel, had plopped a field headquarters in one of the foremost areas of the advance, determined not to lose what he had gained. He found himself tempted to go off and find that clerk again. What had her name been? The cute gefreiter whose flirtations had gone clear over his own head. Rosebud? Rosebud Kohler, that was it.
But Paige’s last letter, paper worn, creased and discolored, seemed to burn a fire in his coat pocket. A stab of guilt lanced through his gut. When she had given in and strayed, hadn’t he given her a hard time? Hadn’t she been lonely and gone so long without seeing him? And now here he was, considering the same action.
But he -was- alone, and becoming lonelier by the battle. The griffs killed around him kept reminding him that all it would take was one bullet, one piece of shrapnel, one gas round placed a little further over, and he would join the stream of telegrams going back through the Reichspost to his mother. Maybe he wouldn’t even get the dignity of a burial. So many of those he had left to rot on the open ground or in some mass grave dug by the Aquileians.
He rolled over on the bed, considering his situation, grappling with the moralities wrapped around his soul. And while Paige’s face kept floating back to his mind, he could not bring himself to pull her letter out of his jacket.
March 20th, 1012
Chaos continues to enwrap the Riverlands. As the Republic falls apart, the Kingdom of Wittenland and Socialist Bakara step forward to take the helm in keeping what remains of the Coalition together. Opposing them, the three powers of the East Griffonian Co-Prosperity Sphere build their forces, ready supplies and masses at the borders.
—----------------------
March 23nd, 1012.
The Principality of Lake City declares war on the entire River Coalition, claiming it the Prince's divine right to rule over the whole of the Riverlands. Their allies, the Kingdoms of Deponya and Diamond Mountain, follow suit. Bakara, the River Republic and Wittenland are all invaded.
In a mine under the mountain hold of Dit-Kazar, a certain dog known as Clifford the Red labors in slavery.
”Ah yes, hippogriffs. The unwarranted positivity of ponies married to the natural urge to violence of griffons. So indecisive that half their population cannot decide whether they are fish or fowl. Well, they buried their heads in the sands when the Storm King came knocking. I think we can safely say they’re likely not going to be a major player on the world stage in the future.” -Giulio Beakolini, in a discussion with Chief Gori on potential rivals in the world
April 2nd, 1012 Puerto Caballo 2nd Marine Division, 8th Marine Regiment, 3rd Battalion
The ship’s ramp dropped, letting the waves outside splash the side of the vehicle a second before the driver gunned the engine, bringing the tracked landing craft down into the swell, rocking the inhabitants inside. Sunlight blasted into the faces of the Marines who blinked and squinted momentarily before recovering, inspecting their weapons one final time. As the Alligator joined the line of its siblings to approach the beach, Navy aircraft buzzed past overhead on attack runs, both screening the advancing landing parties and peeling away to destroy targets such as bunkers, artillery and inland depots. The marriage between shore troops, air support and offshore gunnery was key to all successful amphibious landings, and this one was no exception. The leading line of armor were Alligator amtracks with the top removed and fitted with the turrets off of Swellert light tanks, creating a vehicle affectionately known as Turtle amtanks. While their 37mm guns were hilariously undergunned compared to what was being fielded in battle armor these days, they were invaluable in providing close armored support.
As the Turtles crashed into the sand, their treads spinning in the chop before finding traction, several more figures shot up out of the churning surf behind them. In bursts of light and magic, these Marines shifted from their seapony forms back into hippogriffs to better stage the assault, firing their weapons as they moved up with the armor. Right on time, the Alligators also waded into the shallows, ramps dropping into the foam as hooves pounded down to join their comrades, hurtling towards the treeline ahead. Some of them took to the wing, flying overhead as they tossed grenades down, some detonating in clouds of shrapnel and others exuding billowing white smoke for cover. Not all the disembarking figures were hippogriffs either, as some were the black and white of zebras carrying modified firearms (Arisian weapons being built from the assembly line to be easily configured for hoof, fin or claw use). They still rushed alongside their comrades just as quickly, some on all fours to gain extra speed, the barrier between species nonexistent.
The beach was seized in mere minutes. But that was the point. The entire thing had, after all, only been a drill. A practiced landing on friendly shores. The rounds were all blanks, and the grenades were dummy ordnance loaded with a minimal amount of explosive and nothing else. The fleet had already practiced their live gunnery, and for now mostly went through dry firing to be accustomed to plotting targets over the heads of friendly griffs in the way. The naval aviators were executing formation drills, dropping empty shell casings weighed down with sand to simulate bomb strikes. None of the Turtles fired their main cannons, and instead ‘eliminated’ targets based on what observers stated, watching from a distance through binoculars. The entire attack had been staged, just like the dozens or so that had taken place since the division had arrived a month ago. They needed to familiarize themselves with shore attacks, as those had only happened a clawful of times in the Mandate War (what most of the world annoying called the North Zebrican War) and it would be the job of the UK Marines to assault hardened shorelines if the worst came to pass, as Navy brass seemed to fear.
The exercise pressed on most of the rest of the day, with the battalion rolling up and ‘assaulting’ more dummy targets, typically hardpoints like bunker lines or command centers. Nogriff knew how changelings would defend island command posts, as all the data coming back typically looked at the Hegemony in the open field, where they would use highly mobile formations of quick armor and adaptable elite infantry to overwhelm targets. But how would the bugs defend a shore installation? A complex in the jungle? A place where they wouldn’t have as much room to maneuver their panzers around? Naval brass was still up in the air about it.
The North Zebrican Federation was a union of four (technically five) nations into a single, cooperative whole. The United Kingdom of Aris (formerly separate Hippogriffia and Seaquestria), the Kingdoms of Zumidia and Warzena and half of the conquered (then liberated) Republic of Tobuck. These nations were under a common economic law, education policy and uniform defense force. In practice, they were bound together under the United Kingdom, though the unification had been entirely voluntary. With a single overarching government, its defense apparatus and economy spread across the land, it was hard to argue that the now integrated Zumidian, Tobuck and Warzenan Mandates had certainly gotten a better deal, having been ravaged by the Storm King and threatened or conquered by their neighbors. Though there were calls at home and abroad that this was little more than blatant Arisian imperialism, the result was hard to argue with. Under the newly crowned Queen Skystar, Parliament had not only been founded to pass greater representation to the people, but expanded to include the various representatives from the war-ravaged nations that now stood together under one banner. And besides, it wasn’t like the zebras didn’t want to be part of the United Kingdom. More distinct cultures like Colthage, Zarantia, Coltva and the other Mandates that clearly desired independence had been granted it (with a limited military garrison to supervise), though their ties to the Arisian economy for post-war recovery meant they still answered to Mount Aris.
Except Chiropterra. Martial law was still the rule of the day when it came to the batponies.
Despite the tropical heat, Lance Corporal Breaker Nimbus shivered as he recalled those forested hills. Trying to patrol the former Lunarist domain had been a nightmare, and still was. If not for the risk the changelings posed to Equestria and stability in general, he’d likely be right back there again in the Imperial Hills, watching out for thestral guerillas screaming out before they charged from the darkness. Let the remnant Legionnaires get close, and you were a dead griff.
“Halt!” shouted Gunnery Sergeant Hammerhead, holding up a fisted claw as he relayed a message from directly ahead to those of the rest of the platoon. In his other fist he clutched a Thundersplash submachine gun, though most of the platoon were carrying Cloudfall service rifles (Breaker didn’t envy those poor bastards lugging the Buckstar Automatic Rifles to be honest), a bayonet at their belts and a clutch of grenades tucked in their musette bags. The platoon immediately started going down on one knee or prone on their bellies in the case of the BAR gunners. Until they were told otherwise, they were to keep persisting in the exercise like it was a real combat situation. Breaker kept an eye on Lieutenant Shoal, who had her ear pressed to the radio as she received her orders. Second looeys were useless most of the time, stuck up, arrogant and cocky graduates from Howlington Naval Academy who clearly had to know more about warfare than the peon jarheads they’d been put in charge of, little more than brats spouting orders from their lectures who, if fate was unkind, wound up being dealt an unhealthy dose of reality in their first engagement (a fate that had occurred several times during the Mandate War). Of course, if the gods An and Tiamat -were- kind, they’d find a way to get the useless grifters out of the Corps. Fortunately, Shoal had quickly dropped any idea she knew better pretty damn quick when a Chiropterran sniper had put a bullet through the head of a more unfortunate fellow junior officer two months back. Being splattered with your friend’s brain matter across your face was certainly a good way to get educated on the way the world worked, and ever since then she had made a real effort to ditch her previous assumptions.
After another moment or two, Lieutenant Shoal turned, waving a claw in the air as she hollered out.
“That’s it! They’re calling it! Form up in a school circle!”
The good old school circle was little more than a U shape, two ranks deep where the first rank knelt before the standing second one. It was a good way to cram a bunch of grunts into a small space so information could be dealt out quickly, and allowed everyone in the platoon to get a good look at whoever spoke. All across the exercise grounds, other platoons broke down their formations, made their weapons safe and proceeded to fall in, some in small clusters for individual lieutenants, others drifting closer together for what was clearly going to be a larger address. Lieutenant Shoal made no motion to address her platoon, so the Marines began merging together like streams combining into a river, the battalion shifting into a mass as they made an enormous broken ring around a single figure, who stood before the entire assembly on rear legs, arms crossed over his chest as he impassively watched the formation gather around him.
Lieutenant Colonel Bering Salton was known to be more comfortable as a seapony, but the Corps had its own demands. As a result, he spent much of his time in hippogriff form on land, commanding his Marines from his command post, wherever that happened to be. It was common knowledge that he often preferred to go in with the first wave for the dual purpose of setting up his post as fast as possible and getting that precious time swimming in the surf with fins instead of wings. He was a member of what was colloquially known as the ‘Old Guard’. Even before they retreated beneath the sea to escape the wrath of the yeti warlord known as the Storm King, the previously rival realms of Hippogriffia and Seaquestria had been rather isolated from the world, though they had engaged in mercantile trade often enough. Now, even in today’s present reality with the Battle of Ain Trotgourait still in recent memory and the consequences of trying to ignore the world fresh, the political agitators of Aris First constantly called for such isolation once again, and their word was still quite strong, especially in the armed forces. Salton was a known proponent of Aris First, for example. Luckily, he put the Corps before his own politics (though not everygriff did).
“Okay Marines!” he bellowed as the battalion more or less fell in on him. “Word from on high brought news back from home. Today’s exercise is being wrapped up while the brass figure out which way is up!”
A chuckle, quickly stifled, rang out from the ranks of hippogriffs and zebras. Salton’s opinion of generals and admirals who never left the staffroom was also an open secret, though they all had to pretend they had no clue about it. The colonel continued on.
“A new Lend Lease deal was signed between us and the Equestrians. This, on top of the old Cash and Carry deal and the Destroyers for Bases agreement will now expand from purchases and agreed loans to direct aid in terms of food, oil, material and scientific assistance as well as expanded shipping to put their goods on our ships. That means we’re not just selling the ponies our tanks, guns and planes anymore. We are now literally giving them away.”
A low murmur cut the crowd of Marines. Everyone knew about the old agreements, technically skirting the edge of international law so as to not draw the nation into the Great War while the Mandates were still a problem. Even now, a large portion of the UK Army was tied down on occupation duty in Chiropterra. It was only with the new cooperative governments put in place under the Middle Sea Treaty that Queen Skystar could finally turn her whole attention back to the north. Up until now, they had been carefully walking the line to help Equestria without going so far as to give the Hegemony a casus belli against them. Now, with this new act, it was clear Parliament had decided to go all in.
“For this reason, Command has ordered the exercises be cut short, all future training suspended and the entire 2nd Marine Division brought back to warfighting readiness.” Shoal straightened up, claws planted on his hips. “You all know the score, what we’re here for. If the bugs want to blow a gasket over this, they have plenty of reason and excuse to get us into the fight. And we are here to ensure that when it happens, we go straight in. So pack up the training grounds, Marines. Get back to your billets, ditch the dummy rounds and get your sharp sticks ready for action, because ‘When the Fleet goes in-?’”
He paused, awaiting the response drilled into the Marines since their first days in boot camp, and he was not disappointed. As one, the battalion hollered back in chorus.
“‘THE MARINES GO IN FIRST!’”
“That’s right, Marines!” Shoal hooted, clearly pleased they were fired up and ready. “So get cleaned up, grab a drink and get ready for the action of a lifetime! We’ll all have stories for our grandkids about how we went and kicked bug ass and saved Equestria! Puerto Caballo today, Vesalipolis tomorrow!”
“Hell, gimme a rifle, one round and point the way!” a particularly gutsy Marine shouted in the crowd, but Shoal simply grinned in admiration, pointing in the general direction of the speaker.
“That’s the way! Go get wild Marines! It’s what we do best! Battalion, dis-MISSED!”
They needed little motivation after that. For Marines, the prospect of a good fight was all that was required to get wound up. The battalion spilled apart as eager Marines rushed back across the hills and sands, cleaning up equipment and boarding Alligator and Turtles. If they had taken the beach in minutes, it took half that time for the drivers and crew to turn around and speed back down towards the shore. For if there was anything that gave Marines more of an urge to go nuts than a good fight, it was that all too rare occurrence that came wandering around once in a blue moon;
Shore leave.
By the time the battalion was packed away for the day, the sun was dipping to the east, setting the tropical harbor to shade as the hills around the city that sheltered it from the harsh winds to the east also brought on early twilight. Having been dismissed for the night and informed there would be no training tomorrow, most Marines and sailors had taken the opportunity to enjoy themselves in town, and it wouldn’t be a lie to say the locals hadn’t profited from thousands of hippogriffs, seaponies and zebras taking up semi-permanent residence here. Cafes, bars and restaurants obviously got a huge influx of business, though several hotels also had rooms booked for officers who wished to live off base for so long they had entire families living there (and many hotels quietly ran a small business for pleasure that everyone knew of, but were discreet enough not to mention). Food, drink and pleasurable company were only the start as well, as several tattoos artists (amazing how ponies could so delicately hold the needle guns, especially unicorns) underground gambling dens, import shops bringing curios from home and abroad, tailors to provide civilian clothing for relaxation, entertainment such as dance halls and movie theatres and other industries essential to servicegriffs so far from home seemed to burst from the walls of Puerto Caballo. All the money the ponies made in a flood of leave made the occasional drunken crawl and brawl sessions that broke out tolerable, and Navy Shore Patrol worked with local police to keep the peace, more often than not ending the night with a drunk tank full of hippogriffs and zebras in olive drab or dark blue cottons. Thus was the life of a typical harbor where the Royal Arisian military put down roots.
Breaker Nimbus sat outside one of these bars, quietly sipping at a relatively tame drink with an apple on the label. They didn’t make alcohol of too much potency in Equestria, where this was imported from, but with seltzers like these the ponies were artisans of their craft. The flavor was so full, you could almost forget the alcohol was there until you had several bottles in you. And by that point, you’d be so cheerful all you cared about was having more. True, they had things like Herzland schnapps, Aquileian wine and Severyanian vodka as well as beers from back home in Aris, but Equestrian seltzer was certainly one of his favorites for nights where the objective was more to celebrate than to get drowning in liquor and have the wildest of romps. Besides, he always liked marveling over the fleet, and from this vantage he had a clear view of the harbor down below, framed by the curve of the shore and the early darkness set upon it by the hills looking out over the lower buildings, glowing with lights along streets, storefronts and in housing blocks.
In the near distance, situated at the Hickam Anchorage, sat the UK Equusian Fleet, a message to be sent to both changelings and ponies in Equus and a show of might across the world, the flexing of steel muscle. The Mandate War had seen the Royal Navy dominate the trade fleet of Colthage and the rather lightweight raiding force of Legionary Chiropterra. Few Arisian ships had been lost, preserving veteran crews and keeping precious hulls. Now, with the Entente-Reikspakt War crawling its deathly grasp slowly across Griffonia and the Great War turning into a slug match stalemate, the experience gained in the Mandate War had seemed only a warmup for what the Navy Department and Parliament clearly feared was on the horizon. And so, the fleet had been dispatched to sit in Puerto Caballo as the Navy built up an Arisian military presence here on the tropical island under the command of the infamous General Ocean Breeze, just waiting for the starting gun to launch into action. From the shore, one could see Cruiser Row where the big capital ships were anchored in deeper water. The battleships UKS Queen Novo and UKS Mount Aris were the place of pride for the fleet, and even the Marines ashore would often stop just to watch the floating battlewagons as they flew the Royal hippogriff and seapony coat of arms, and while their fourteen inch guns weren’t the largest in the world (or in the UK Navy) they were still battleships, end of story. The Queen Novo specifically was considered the darling of the whole Navy as connected to the Queen-Mother herself, and assigning her to the Equusian Fleet had been another message in and of itself. Throw in about twenty submarines, a clawful of minesweepers and about a hundred other service ships (ranging from gunboats and tenders to massive troop transports and supply craft) and you had the entire Equusian Fleet in full on top of Puerto Caballo’s own defense flotilla. Oh, and one more.
Resting in the waters around the battleships were half a dozen cruisers both light and heavy, thirteen destroyers either tied up nearby or patrolling the shallow harbor waters or off escorting other ships. But beyond the mouth of the harbor, visible in the far distance, was the UKS Venture, the fleet's wanderer. Her famously aggressive admiral constantly insisted on actively presenting a force in the surrounding waters so Kriegsmarine U-boats (which had been sighted nearby several times) didn’t think them a paper tiger. Half of the time, their carrier was off with escort on constant exercises, detached more to keep the troublesome skipper out of harbor. This had earned her the nickname ‘the Grey Ghost’ for her tendency to disappear with little warning, gone with her flotilla from anywhere the sailors and Marines could see her.
Nimbus was always a fan of admiring ships, even if he was only an occasional passenger. Marines were tied to the Navy like seaponies were tied to the sea, and that meant both were instinctively fascinated by ships of all kinds.
“Huh. Going to have to check that out when I get back.”
He glanced over to the voice next to him, that of his squadmate Private First Class Zora Zanaresh. The Zumidian native spoke just as fluently as any Arisian, if with a bit of an accent, though the zebra’s was no worse than his own Northpoint drawl. While she was new to the service, she had stood in the ranks with them in Chiropterra without flinching. From what she had told the rest of them about what life was like in the post Storm King ravaged Zumidian countryside, fighting Lunarist batpony wackos in dark hills had to be a bit like walking home from town and knowing the lions were waiting in the grass along the road, only this time she had a gun. She was tough, no doubt about it.
“Hm? Check what out?”
Nimbus’ own life was a bit more mundane. Son of a steel mill worker and with no other future for himself in Northpoint aside from joining his father’s craft (and picking up his alcoholic tendencies and the temper that went with it) he had sought to escape the cycle by enlisting at the request of the first recruiter to ask him. As a result, here he was.
“Apparently there’s some new Meridiennes-style bakery in Mount Aris. Daily Fish put out an article on it and Shields and Shores picked it up. They’re calling it ‘diversifying industry.’”
Zora’s dark eyebrow raised as she kept perusing the article from the military newsrag. Accent aside, she spoke just like a student from Central Aris. A lot of places in Zebrica didn’t have much development or education even before the Storm King’s rampage, hanging the stereotype of zebras all being primitive tribals on the species as a whole. Then again, that went claw in hoof with pony pacifism, griffon greed, changeling treachery and hippogriff/seapony indecisiveness, didn’t it? Turned out to not be so universal under the surface.
“Meridiennes-style? So, Aquileian, right? Buncha baguette munchers, ain’t they?”
Case in point, Nimbus thought as he scratched his crest. His own schooling had been woefully lacking, as his folks didn’t have the money for anything but what the local neighborhood could provide in terms of public education, and in the slums of Northpoint that wasn’t saying much. He didn’t know much about Aquileian cuisine aside from what he’d seen in news articles and political cartoons, and it was mostly baguettes and dessert pastries.
Zara rolled her eyes before she turned the page.
“They bake more than bread, you dumb hick. Madeleines, croissants, cookies, tarts.” She waved the newspaper, with its crossed swords and shield emblem at the top over the head. “Hells, just try it when you get back. Assuming you can afford it with the way you drink.”
Nimbus chuckled as he chugged at his seltzer again. She had a point. He drank alcohol like water (thanks pop), and it wasn’t uncommon for him to spend all the pay in his pocket at bars as a result. Zara herself didn’t partake in anything harder than wine, and that was usually only on special occasions like the Three Days of Freedom in late December. Though the holiday had been an adopted one, Zara and millions of zebras like her had taken to the Arisian celebration as a mark of the united culture. The Federation was like that, adopting and exchanging ideas and values as they saw fit across five separate groups. These days, it was just accepted as the chaos of the Act of Union, still a new concept to grapple with.
“You ever been to the Mountain?” he asked her, an eyebrow raised. From her descriptions of life, she hadn’t been one to travel more than needed before she enlisted. But having your village burned to the ground by Colthaginian mercenary raiders had been one hell of a motivator to sign up with the liberation when it rolled in. She had to have gone to Hippogriffia for boot camp, at least.
“Once,” she replied, back to the newspaper again, now deep in some article he couldn’t see, another one about religious tolerance in the ranks facing him from the page she had folded over. “After graduation. I had some liberty, so I grabbed a train to see if the stories were true.”
When she offered nothing else, he leaned in and nudged her with his elbow. “What did you think? How was it?”
Zara took a moment, considering her words carefully. He liked that about her. Too many griffs and ponies were liable to shoot off at the mouth (himself included) without considering what came out. In Northpoint, carelessness like that got a griff shot. He liked that she took her time to think over what she would speak. It also made those rare occasions where she was sarcastic or snapped off insults even more worth the needling he rained on her head.
“Worth it,” she finally said softly, and Breaker Nimbus got the impression she wasn’t just talking about the price of the train ride. He nodded, leaving that alone as he returned to the seltzer.
When Nimbus had finished with his drink, he glanced over to the other Marines nearby. His platoon had mostly stuck together, forty griffs and zebras spread across four nearby bars and eateries. A lot of places this close to the waterfront liked outdoor eating areas, which worked fine for the rambunctious servicegriffs. Last thing you wanted was to keep a pod of inebriated jarheads cooped up in a confined space, better to let them wander and work it out in their own time. Tonight, they -were- trying to get as drunk as possible, hit the gambling dens to blow their pay or give it away to an attractive stranger in some secretive salon. They weren’t alone either, as the sailors from the Fleet and even Army aviators from the nearby airbase were joining in across the city. Ever since the Arisian presence had arrived last month, it had been endless exercises for all three branches involved, with intermittent periods of recovery, rest and repair between. Now, the training had been put on hold. What was going on the lower enlisted weren’t privy to? Was the United Kingdom about to get into the war after all? How soon was it? Much as Marines talked about getting into a good fight, the Mandate War had shown many eager young recruits the real face of conflict, and the ugly truth had been enough to leech the thoughts of glory and adventure out of their minds.
Nimbus turned to Zara, who was constantly more connected to what was happening in the world.
“How bad is it?”
She returned to him a stony stoicism born of one who grew up in a ravaged warzone, seen monsters both feral and sentient and experienced personal loss on a scale he struggled to fathom, and he had seen the mass graves in Chiropterra. And under all that, this hardened individual still bore an edge of fear in her eyes.
“Worse than they’re telling us.”
More than the dread brought on by memories of Chiropterra, than the dangers he had seen underwater himself, than the fear mongering that the propaganda chattered at them from moving pictures and posters and radio talk shows, Zara’s words, laden with meaning, were enough to actually convince him they were heading for a very, very bad time.
“Shit,” Nimbus declared, before he set the seltzer down and called for a double shot of tropical rum.
If there was a night to get drunk, this was it.
Near Metztunalia, Howling Mountains Province, Arisian-Occupied Chiropterra, North Zebrica 5th Air Force, 85th Fighter Wing
There was something liberating about flying an aircraft. Though she could fly with her own wings, Captain Sky Tracker had always been fascinated by the griffonian invention known as the airplane. Even before she had enlisted, she’d gone to airshows as a filly, eager to watch daring pilots from Feathisia or Wingbardy cutting through the sky as if dancing, faster in their stunt biplanes than any hoped to go, not even the infamous Wonderbolts from Equestria. When the Empire had collapsed, the air shows had become more local, and she watched hippogriffs in stunt shows with the same enthusiasm. Aris hiding beneath the waves to escape the Storm King’s wrath had put a major damper on her own flying ability and felt like a torturous confinement, but after Crack Lighting had shot down the Storm King himself it seemed the Army Air Corps was opening their wings to any and all that wished to become a pilot.
Now, here she was. In command of her own section as they hunted for aerial pirates and Chiropterran diehards over the mountains below. The power of the P-39 Airacobra’s V-12 piston engine blasting away behind her seat was exuberating, feeling the rattle through the entire frame as the fighter’s aluminum skin seemed fit to peel off. And yet, this marvel of aerial flight technology held together at the rivets, allowing the beast to power through and defy gravity. Sure, the Clawton Queen didn’t have a high ceiling compared to Equestrian Spitfires, Changeling Sv. 109s or the new Wingbardian Folgore fighters, but under her low height she was a racer, a powerhouse built to close the distance and even overtake her foe. To Sky, it didn’t matter that her plane didn’t climb so well. To her, the rush was all about speed and power. And with a top speed of almost four hundred miles per hour and an armament including a mounted cannon -and- .50 caliber heavy machine guns, such trivialities such as how high she could ascend were moot points.
Her radio headset crackled, and she perked up. One of the scout Lightnings must have spotted something for them.
”Gunslinger, this is Eagle. Come in, over.”
She reached up, and with a short flick switched her radio set over to the corresponding frequency.
“Gunslinger to Eagle, go ahead Eagle. Over.”
”Gunslinger, got a juicy target for you. Looks like harpy air pirates plundering a Lunarist base in the foothills. Must be some of those mercs from Klugetown. According to command, you should be the closest. Verify your position, over.”
She checked her remaining fuel, flight time and current bearing, easily coming to her coordinates based on the simple math all aviators learned to stay alive and aloft. In a moment, she had fired off her position to the Lightning, and he returned to her the bearing of the raiders. Enthusiastically, she closed the channel and addressed her section.
“All Gunslingers, listen up. Command just gave us a juicy meal of helpless airships stealing what belongs to us. But they did dig up this bunker, so the least we can do is take those guns off their claws.”
She heard a few of her fellow aviators chuckle in response to her cocky humor. All pilots, regardless of nation or species, came from the daredevil few who spat in the face of fate and odds, and even those of a more formal stripe were far from the stiffness of those servicefolk on the ground. She continued her commentary, rattling off the coordinates and bearings.
“According to Eagle, it's a few air pirates. Estimate they’re from Klugetown. Let’s go ruffle some feathers and show them why they really need to stop coming up here.”
With a chorus of affirmatives, Gunslinger Section peeled away in formation, tearing off on the near bearing towards the foe. Ever since the bats have given up (their Legionary commanders, at least) the number of sorties Sky got to respond to had grown depressingly low, and even fewer of those were an actual challenge. Mostly, it was Lunarist remnants who had gotten their hooves on some hidden aircraft and decided to go out in a blaze of glory dedicated to Nightmare Moon as they struck back against the occupiers with whatever came to hoof. Sometimes it was air pirates, like what they were flying against now. Still, it could be worse. Apparently the Army ground forces actually policing the occupied territory were dealing with a bush war insurrection that was sucking griffs and gear down like crazy. Oh, it may not have been as bad as it was a year ago, but trains were still derailed, convoys still shot up, patrols still bushwacked. While things had settled down enough that the troopers on the ground had stopped launching incendiaries into the hills and taking hostages en masse, most predicted it would take some time before such radicals were curbed and controlled. Another reason she was glad to be a pilot.
In only a few minutes, they came to the target. As predicted, a trio of Macawian airships hovered over the suspected arms cache, smoke roiling from several places on the ground she suspected to be Legionary camps, now set alight by the air pirates. While neutral in this scrap, raiders from Klugetown (a more wretched hive of scum and villainy could never be found) and distant Macawia (made up largely of harpies who either -were- pirates or had once -been- pirates) showed up to take advantage of the chaos, looting and pillaging places from once prosperous Colthage (which had its own crime problem to deal with now the government had been dismantled) to even war-stricken Zarantia and even here. Bad enough that nautical pirates from Haukland and Sicameon still plundered the Middle Sea trade lanes, even inland towns weren’t safe from air pirates.
Which was what made this particularly satisfying for Sky.
“Gunslingers, break off and bring them down. Engage at will, but watch your crosshairs. I don’t want -any- blue on blue, over.”
One by one, her section wingmates radioed confirmations before peeling away, diving on their foes with equal eagerness. It was likely the raiders never saw what hit them, as lines of bullet holes stitched across the airships’ gas envelopes with vicious effectiveness. A few decades ago, airships ruled the sky. The Storm King had used them to dominate southwest Zebrica before attempting to reach Equestria. Needless to say, neither the air fleet he had sent across the sea or the force he gathered in Zumidia had fared well against modern air power. The Royal Air Force had shot down his invasion attempt, and the hippogriffian aviators had dealt with the Storm King himself. Airships like changeling Veppelins and Imperial Fliegender Teppich still had their uses, but those were smart use such as policing a city or airlifting masses of supplies while escorted by fighter craft. These raiders thought they could get away scot free without inviting the wrath of their technological betters. Well, Captain Tracker was here with the UK Army Air Corps to show them why that was actually a sorely lacking idea.
She dove on the second airship. Even with the Airacobra’s limited ceiling, it was low enough for her to drop from superior height. Lazily, she put the craft in her gunsights, smirking under her mask at the panicked figures rushing back and forth on deck before she thumbed the trigger. The twin .50s in her wings thundered, the recoil so severe it actually slowed her craft briefly. But the result was worth the moment of correction, as she watched flaming holes punch their way across the silk skin. They hadn’t even added armor padding to the envelopes. Definitely out of Klugetown, then. Macawian raiders were too savvy to make this kind of mistake. Already, the two airships stung by the Gunslingers were slumping in air, their gasbags alight and the wooden frames of the hanging gondolas alight. She felt a sting of disappointment wash over her sense of exuberation. Sure, they were bringing down the bastards. But she kind of missed the excitement of facing an aviator worth her salt, something to -get- excited about. Not for the first time, she felt a stab of envy at the naval aviators and Army pilots who had been sent to Puerto Caballo to get ready for Aris’ own entry to the Great War. Everygriff and pony knew it was coming sooner or later. It was a question of when, not if. And when those pilots got into the action, it would be against skilled Hegemony aces in the most advanced aircraft in the world, not poorly trained remnants in the death throes of a nation. Maybe she should ask for a transfer.
The third airship dipped, and began to descend and join her sisters. The first one, having reached the forested ground of the hill, imploded with a whump of detonating gas loud enough to be heard from way up here over her plane’s engine. Any raiders left were likely scattering before the Air Corp’s fury, now stuck in hostile territory. Sky nodded to herself, taking note of every detail for her report. The ground pounders would have to come back later to sweep these pirates out, and to seize the weapons in this hidden cache before Chiropterran remnants came back.
“Gunslingers, this is Tracker. Damn fine shooting. Let’s head home. Over and out.”
It may have been lackluster, but it was still good work. And, if the news was right for once, it would be the last bit of easy work for a long time.
”Gooooooooood morning Baltimare! Hey, this is not a test, this is public radio! Playing from Horseshoe Bay across the nation, I’m your host Acapella! It is now six AM here on the east coast, with ponies of all stripes heading to start their day and many others just finishing it. We’re seeing a hot, hot spring as we move into April, soaring into a thirty one degree prediction by our weather pegasus teams. Apparently, the local heatwave is too much for the much reduced crew, who have had many of their number called away to the front. So this serves as a double report; if you know of anypony that’s a pegasus looking for good work, city hall will be more than happy to hire them on as quick as possible. Lucky us we’re looking at a rain squall being pulled in from the southeast later on in the week, more on that as it develops.
The local Hoofball game at Rockfeller Stadium this Wednesday has promised to be a fine game indeed! The local Baltimare Braves against the visiting Howlington Havocs, one of the first games pitting ponies against hippogriffs! Let’s hope we don’t get an upset like the ‘07 Griffenheim game, for anypony who remembers that one. Eugh!
For you all now, some news from the world! Peace settles on Hindia at last, as the nations of Doelhi and Barasingha have finally given in to the forces of the Deerlaw. Chitali and Sambari forces have announced they have already begun the process of integrating those provinces into their own, and we can all hope this will lead to some measure of stability and harmony in a world which has known little lately.
The Entente-Reikspakt War continues to grind on, as the Republique stems the tide against the Imperial aggression on their very soil. Both Fezera and Flowena have joined the cities that have fallen before the Reichsarmee’s onslaught this week, with reports of mass executions, looting banks and other such atrocities coming from survivors, but it seems the foe has been halted. Word is that the Battle of Westkeep rages on as brave MPA patriots hold the panzers in place. Republican Guard forces have stopped the enemy advance north of Pulliers cold and are counterattacking toward the town of Amein even now. Field Marshal Rodier himself issued a statement in which he claimed ‘we have stopped this invasion in its tracks. Now there is only to turn the tide and end the menace of the Duchess Regent and her cronies to safeguard harmony and democracy. Vive la République.' I don’t know about all of you, but I wish them the best of luck.
A bit more positive on this note, but Octavia Melody has announced another performance dedicated to the war effort, promising all proceeds will go towards wounded veterans and families who have lost loved ones to the fighting. Our hearts go out to all who have been stricken by this, more to come with the evening news.
Even more positive, the Luna Nova Academy confirms they will be reopening their doors this fall in response to the war. Ponies of all kinds may come here to learn everything there is to know about magic after a four year period of reconstruction! So if you want one of those hot Lunar Scholarships, now is the time to start putting your name forward and dusting off your thesis, ponies!
Starting with the war news, let’s get this one out fast. Princesses Celestia and Luna met with Minister Posada of the United Kingdom of Aris last week here in our very own Baltimare to discuss the possibility of a joint science directorate. We couldn’t get an interview, but according to reports the Minister very much enjoyed her visit and looks forward to the establishment of what she calls ‘an energy rich future’. More good will from our friends across the sea!
Speaking of the princesses, tours by Princess Celestia of various defense plants and by Princess Luna of select parts of the front. For obvious secrecy issues, these will be kept confidential until the last minute, so stay alert ponies!
Our brave guys and gals continue to hold off the onslaught of darkness in the distant Crystal Empire, as they stand next to our socialist allies on the Dynasty Plain against King Sombra and his arctic onslaught. Unfortunately, still no word on where Prince-Consort Shining Armor has disappeared to, and he has been listed as missing in action for the time being.
And in a final word about the war, reports from defense manufacturing reports that production records have again been broken for the fifth month in a row! The topic for today’s broadcast; Equestrian tanks, as new models like the Twilight and Celestia roll off the line, we can be prepared to match the Northern Menace in every aspect of war. Remember, anything -they- can do, -we- can do better!
Oh, a word to anypony who has been trying to send international mail; the Royal Navy regrets to inform that several neutral ships bearing the banners of nations like Nova Griffonia and Hipp-sorry, Aris, have been sunk by the changelings and their undersea blockade. Some of those, as it happens, are post carriers. Don’t worry everypony; you’ll get a notice if yours was one of those that didn’t get through, and more secure means of sending the mail are being explored now.
We close our news segment with a reminder from Element of Generosity, Rarity; donate scrap metal, glass and cloth to the war effort! Every piece we don’t have to pick up is another step we can skip towards victory, so be generous in your donations! A word from the Ministry of Defense: buy Victory Bonds! Every bit is a bullet in the barrel of your best friend’s gun!
And that’s all for the morning news segment, everypony! Tune in at two for the afternoon news, and at seven for the evening close! In the meantime, this is once more Acapella, wishing Baltimare and Equestria a happy, happy day!”
Sent March 20th, 1012
My darling daughter,
I am writing you this from Drafsland. Your father still refuses to cross the border into the Empire proper. So long as we are with the refugees in Lushi, he insists it's not the Kaiser’s land, despite the Imperial standard flying over the Reformisten one everywhere we look. You know how he is. But we are safe and, for the moment, cared for. Refugees leaving the Riverlands tend to drift where they can, and Lushi is less patrolled by the Kaiser’s minions than what I hear is happening elsewhere, like Prywhen. We are watched and monitored by both the Blackcloaks and the Empire’s spies. They think we are infiltrators, though I have no doubt they have caught several already. The pozniaks in this region are a charitable lot, and a family have taken us in to allow us shelter for the time being. I do not know how long they will care for us on the orders of the Reformisten, but I know it will not be forever. The demands of war are long and deep, and Longsword’s ponies have already known too much of it. I suspect they may be former socialists, and do not wish for the attention of the regime. I cannot blame them for wanting to simply live their lives in peace now, but it must be a bitter pill to swallow. We will find work where we can and move on.
Your brother is well, from his last letter. He has apparently set up a good business in São Penário. I pray he returns to us eventually and leaves his life of crime behind. I hear from him about as often as I hear from you, and I worry for the two of you in such dangerous places doing such dangerous things. It is times like this I miss my flower garden, when the anemones and lilacs were in bloom. I have nothing to sooth my soul now.
I regret to confirm your worst fears. In your last letter, you asked if it were possible to go back. We cannot. While River Swirl may be Chancellor in the Sabor, it is the OHS running the country, and socialists and army soldiers clash in the streets. Even with the prospect of war with Lake City, Arclight’s thugs and Nova Whirl’s Fifth Columnists spent so much time fighting each other. Many of our neighbors were stormed by one side or the other, dragged out in the street and accused of favoring their enemies. I will spare you of which ones were shot. But you should know we left only because we knew we were next on one list or another. If there is anything left of your foalhood when this chaos is over, it will be too little to salvage a life from.
I do not hear from your drake all too often. From what his mother tells me, he is back at the front. He seems to not have much time for letters to her, so I am not surprised he does not have time for me. How strange it is that he is just over a mountain range and several forests from me, and yet he seems a world away. I am privy to just a taste of what you must endure, being so apart. If I am allowed to cross the border by the regime (and your father) I will go and visit him when I can. I want to meet the drake who has so fervently captured my little filly’s heart. How strange it will be to embrace an Imperial soldier with fondness. But he is nice. I like him. He mentions you often, and agrees with me that you should resume your education. Make sure you keep hold of this one.
Know that we are safe, so long as your father’s stubbornness does not get the better of him. Worry more for yourself, and be at peace that we are alive, healthy and happy. I count our blessings that we crossed before the border was closed. From the stories I hear from the families still coming, it is almost impossible to cross now. Were it not for the assistance we received from that nice Ostwall officer, we might still be stuck on the Deponyan side. Your father, as you know, is a stallion of few words. But he sends his best and his love. We are both so proud of you. And the only thing we want from you right now is for you to return to us, safe and sound.
Your loving mother,
Petra Chasy
P.S.: The Reformisten made me change my name to naturalize. Your father maintains his own due to his Deponyan ancestry. Apparently they have not a problem with that. You need not do the same, the family name convention here is very strictive and I suspect rooted in religion. It does not allow a creature the same creative range in selecting a child’s name, for which I honestly pity the griffons.
April 11th, 1012 60 km southeast of Rockfarms, Neighvada Silent Sands District, Snortora Desert, Southern Equestria Desert Korps, 7th Panzer Division (reorganized), supported by the 96th Infantry Division
The Panzer IIIs rocketed over the scrubland dunes, clouds of dust streaming behind them as they fled. Painted a desert tan on short notice, they looked like massive flat stones rocketing across the sand, turrets traversing to the rear. These four were the vanguard of the Changeling Swarm, the most advanced military apparatus on Equus. What could they be running from?
As it happened, Equestrian armor. Pelting over the hills behind them came a motley collection of Royal Army tanks, locked on the fleeing Hegemony panzers and loaded for bear. A pair of fast moving Arisian Swellert light tanks, a small knot of Equestrian mediums ranging from the older CM Crusaders to the newer Timberwolves, all followed by a slower and heavier Muletilda heavy tank bringing up the rear. To an outsider, it seemed the four Panzer IIIs were not only outnumbered but also badly outgunned. Geysers of sand and dirt fountained up around them, spraying rock and debris everywhere. For the changelings, only their superior speed kept them from ultimate destruction, and that wouldn’t keep them safe forever as the Equestrian column slowly began to close and their shots on the run were placed more and more accurately. The ponies behind the controls leaned forward, eager for some revenge on the army that had ravaged their homes for over a year now.
As it happened, this was exactly what the gunners in the hills wanted.
“Fire!”
A Timberwolf abruptly rocked as something detonated against its side, slewing to a halt as the track spilled off the roadwheels, smoke boiling out of its chassis as the bulky tank buried itself in the sand. A moment later, the halted tank brewed up, flames popping as the vehicle caught fire, and then detonated as the fire reached the ammunition and fuel. The rest of the column swiftly tried to break and scatter, but a CM Crusader was cored from front to rear, spinning in the loose dirt as it came to a halt. No ponies emerged from this vehicle either. The others tried to make it back to the hills, but as they fled beyond the sight of the 88s, shrieking from the sky split the air as a trio of Stukas descended from on high on the Swellerts. What the Heer lacked in terms of heavy artillery, they made up for in fast moving support dive bombers, and Stukas were the best dive bombers around. Twisting into tight maneuvers, all three released their payloads onto the fleeing light tanks, and with twin blasts (the third bomb missed) the vehicles erupted in greasy, compact detonations. The only survivors of the ambush were the Muletilda that stubbornly shrugged off 88 shells, a Timberwolf already spewing greasy smoke from a bad engine and a CM Crusader that had managed to evade death to its thin skin, slipping over the dunes again. After a moment, all was quiet save for the crackling and popping of the dead tanks, hissing as the metal heated and burned in the desert heat and flames licking over their steel hides, consuming everything flammable inside.
General Pharynx watched this impassively through his field glasses, face stoic and blank as he observed the slaughter.
Given his role in planning Alicorn Sunset, some in the Queen’s high command had thought Pharynx had secured himself a position away from the front, on the general staff continuing to reap the rewards from planning victories. But in the scheme of things, Generalmajor Pharynx was a very young general in both age and rank, only taking part in the planning because Hivesmarschall Trimmel had recognized his capabilities and brought him along. No, when it came down to it Pharynx’s place was not in the operations room, but here in the field, watching the dust plumes from the treads of his panzers steaming ahead as he brought the field glasses down from his eyes in his command half-track. He was born to lead among his soldiers.
Not to mention, Pharynx’s name was sullied by Thorax.
He tried not to think of his erstwhile brother lately. Personally, he held no deep hatred of Thorax. Sure, he had pushed him around when they were hatchlings in the hive. But that was what siblings and nestmates did. It toughened them up and got them ready for a hard life in the hives or out on the frozen wastes. You couldn’t live in the Changeling Lands (Changelingia, he tried to remind himself) without encountering danger on a regular basis, and being tougher and more capable than those monsters was the only way to survive. But all the teasing and prodding he’d done to Thorax had been…half-hearted at best. When they got older, the teasing gave way to a higher expectation of his clutchmate, a raised standard as he tried to teach Thorax what he needed to get by. But all his brother’s talk of harmony and cooperation with the ponies had been…wrong. At first, Pharynx had written it off as a phase while he turned to more important things like his own military career for Vraks Hive. But he had been wrong, and VOPS had grilled him endlessly about what they called the ‘Thoraxian Resistance’. When he’d gone to Thorax demanding answers, the resulting fight had ended with them both stomping away angrily. The next day, VOPS conducted endless raids on those they deemed political enemies, and from the last reports he knew of Thorax had disappeared to resurface in Equestria.
The hot wind blew against his face, as if punishing him. Changelings were as adaptable as their shapeshifting ability, mutable to weather conditions and tolerable of many climes. But if there was one place they didn’t like, it was the polar opposite of their frozen home. The southwest of Equestria was full of prairies, plains, small barren hills and, most despicable of all, deserts. In his opinion, the ponies could keep this barren place. The roiling scrubland stretched out ahead, interspersed by sand dunes and cacti, all of them foreign and alien things to him and his troopers. Their fatigues were freshly issued from distribution in Rockville, pulled from hives knew which warehouse. Someling in uniform design had clearly looked at the map and known some luckless bastard would be sent here to take this territory. It was, after all, rich in resources like oil and chromium, and the vast fields of its fertile land cranked out large amounts of food for the Equestrian war machine. Taking this area was vital, Pharynx told himself.
It was a shame then that it was a death trap. Royal Army troops retreating from Las Pegasus and the Aetherlands had holed up in Appleloosa and Dodge City, summoning local militias to their side and leaving the Hegemony to plug across the Snortora and San Palomino deserts. It hadn’t gone well for the officer assigned to take the region before Pharynx or the Olenian auxiliaries that had been throwing themselves at the ponies. While a boatload of dead deer was nothing to write home about to Vesalipolis, being thrown back by a mere geographic feature was embarrassing enough. The ponies killing themselves in Blackthorn Dale and the Empire trying to force the Greifwald and grinding on Cloudbury were excellent examples. Again, he couldn’t help but wonder if, now his rising star had been sullied by Alicorn Sunset falling behind schedule and expectation, he had been banished here to remove the embarrassment he caused. On multiple fronts.
He snorted, lurching as his command half-track lurched over the small hill, descending towards the killbox. He wouldn’t put it past a political animal like Trimmel to dispose of Pharynx once his usefulness was exhausted. But then again, being on the general staff wasn’t for him. Once the fighting got underway, Pharynx had gotten wistful about the front. As the war bogged down and the great sweeping advances turned into the tedium of grinding attrition, his patience ran thin. Maybe this transfer would be a good thing after all, and he could turn this exile into a successful campaign.
The 21st Panzerdivisione had been depleted by the drive on Ponderosa. After assessing the futility of continuing to run headlong towards the enemy on the broken backs of destroyed panzers and the dead of the 203rd Infantry Regiment, Trimmel had ordered Pharynx to take charge. General Haruspex had, apparently, died in the latest drive after he had killed his Olenian commander for incompetence. Pharynx wondered if there was something to that correlation, though dismissed the thought for the hundredth time.
The halftrack pulled up next to a pair of Open Blitz trucks, sitting next to a Kubelwagen and a Panzer IV. While the evidence of green forest coloring could still be seen under the worst of the hastily applied tan, Pharynx had made sure all his vehicles were ready for combat in the desert and was proud with how quickly his bugs had gotten their inventory ready. The two trucks were already loaded with changeling and reindeer troopers and hauling their towed anti-tank PaK guns. He nodded in approval. The lessons he had hammered in were taking well. It had been a long, hard road to get to this point, but had resulted in a crack fighting force. He had taken the broken 21st, absorbed them into his own 7th Panzerdivision, picked up what had been left of the 203rd Infantry Regiment and melded them into his force. Hardened changeling sergeants and officers became the leaders for melded shock groups where the veterans of the northern theater would watch out for and lead the green deer they were in charge of. While this robbed them of the ability to move the entire force on the wing, in this flat and open country that was little more than a death wish should an attentive machine gunner catch them.
The melding of forces resulted in the 7th and 96th scoring an impressive number of victories on the path towards Dodge City. When Royal Army forces reached Appleloosa and attempted to take it back, they had been suckered into a close formation firefight while halftrack born weapons teams and fast moving Panzers encircled them, the precious few Tiger I tanks that Pharynx had been gifted smashing enemy Timberwolves from a distance they couldn’t hope to retaliate from. The campaign they had inflicted across this region they called ‘Silent Sands’ over the past month had been a brutal hit and run operation, where every defense line Equestria threw up was overwhelmed by the fast and hard striking task force, penetrating each and inflicting vicious casualties from the vulnerable rear. With this most recent attack, the defense lines just outside of Dodge City had been stripped of armor exactly where they needed to be.
The command track slewed to a halt, and he peered down at his soldiers, just as dusty as he was. They all looked up, smiling and waving as their commander came rolling up to them. No more suicidal charges under his watch. No more pointless loss. Every move they had made in the past month had been full of purpose and tactical sense, and as a result they had raked in the victories. At their head, even more the field man than Pharynx, was the current commander of the 96th Infantry Division until someone in Vesalipolis sent a replacement. Oberst Jachs glanced up and, despite command field protocol all competent armies held to, gave Pharynx a short salute.
“General, to what do we owe the honor?” he rasped, pushing his sand goggles up off his eyes. Jachs was a good field commander, though a bit young to be an oberst already. According to his file, he had been only an Unterfeldwebel in 1002, when Chrysalis’ first invasion of Equestria had failed and she had begun ripping up the military to reform it based on the Imperial system, but thanks to a little luck, political maneuvering, taking advantage of the disgrace of superiors and of course his own competence, he had rapidly scaled the ranks, an echo of Pharynx’s own path to success. As befitting of two rapid climbers, they were far more comfortable in the front than the rear.
Pharynx signaled the halftrack to halt, leaning over the armored flank to address his soldiers. He liked Jachs. The ‘ling took a cautious approach to most military maneuvers, but when the time for decisive action was at hoof he always acted boldly to seize it. He would go far if he played his cards right and stayed out of trouble.
“Just moving to watch the advance, Oberst. No trouble, I hope?”
Jachs shook his head.
“None, General. If we keep it up like this, Dodge City should be ours next week.”
Should be. That was what separated Jachs from a lot of his colleagues and counterparts; realism. When faced with a senior officer, most commanders would assure that the impossible could and would be done. That was all well and good when working with staff personnel who had little perspective over the broader picture, but on the ground Pharynx preferred the truth. Yes, they should take the city. So should the first wave that had been crushed on General Applejack’s well-built defenses. Jachs had seen that, and knew how to judge their odds now.
Pharynx nodded at the statement, his mind already going back through calculations and force lists. Since they had gotten off the boats, this force had lacked much in the way of the resources they needed to keep up the push despite being closest to Canterlot. If they got through the Luna Line and slipped past the deathfields at Ponderosa, it was nothing but plains and farmlands until they reached Ponyville, literally a spitting distance from Canterlot, and their ultimate goal. But because the Royal Army had been grinding itself against the northern front for weeks now (though signs were clear that was going to burn out soon), the Heer had desperately pulled fuel, parts, ammunition and reinforcements from the south to thicken the lines north of Blackthorn, depriving a damn good chance of ending this war quickly. But when Pharynx and his division had come, things had changed. Now, instead of moving as a spread out wave like the desert flatlands encouraged, he had reorganized into dedicated piercing groups and hunter killer groups. The latter was responsible for destroying Equestrian armor around Dodge City, a feat they had fantastically accomplished by baiting the ponies out again and again and destroying them with their cannons. Air support for both sides was precious and thin this far south, away from the ‘main show’, so they had fallen back on towed anti-tank guns. Those, as it happened, had worked fabulously. Now, it was all down to the piercing groups, waiting and rested in the wings, to seize on the hunter-killer groups work and deal the final overwhelming hammer blow to Dodge City’s depleted defenders.
The halftrack was overtaken as the same Panzer IIIs that had been fleeing had turned around, clattering back the opposite direction as they resumed the advance. Behind them came more trucks, more halftracks, lighter Panzer IIs and heavier IVs to provide fire support. They would refuel and resupply at the last minute before smashing into Dodge City, an armored gauntlet set to shatter the enemy lines. Pharynx knew the Heer did not have the numbers to match the Royal Army on an extended front. On a shrunken one, he knew he held the advantage as he watched the pair of Tiger heavy panzer clattering forward over the dunes, escorted by halftracks fitted with Flak 38 turrets to make sure they weren’t picked off by opportunistic air raiders. All changeling panzers were built off experiments and development in Griffonia, away from prying eyes, but the Tiger was completely homegrown. A massive line breaker designed to challenge Equestrian and Soviet heavy armor and defense lines, they were only just hitting the line after some revisements from information the Empire had gathered with their own heavy panzers (shamelessly using many systems ripped off from the Queendom’s own). Though they were still massive petrol hogs with parts reliability issues, their capability in battle was far superior to any Equestrian armor to date.
The field commander nodded in satisfaction as he watched the advancement. Abruptly, his radio squawked, and he realized it had to be coming from the mobile HQ truck where his support staff were following along. Pharynx’s new adjutant and infantry commander Everstiluutnantti Inka Korhonen from the 203rd Infantry Regiment had also come from the wasted first effort, taking over after her commander had been shot. But Pharynx had taken her on specifically to have an insider’s eye on the troops, a trusted voice to keep order and control while he held his patchwork force together. And she had told him that these new measures were certain to succeed, should they retain the initiative and attack swiftly once they had attained armor superiority.
”Fuchs, this is Pesä, come in. Over.” The voice repeated the first, garbled transmission, and Pharynx grunted at Korhonen’s clipped, formal tone. Despite the view that the Heer as a whole took on the Olenian army, many of them were still stalwart professionals, as capable as any changeling veteran. Many who survived being the Hegemony’s cannon fodder went on to become some of the most lethal irregulars and mountain warfare fighters the Wehrmacht had. It was just a shame few in the Queendom actually saw it for themselves.
“This is Fuchs,” Pharynx said into his headset, turning away from Oberst Jachs. “Go ahead Pesä, over.”
”Torx sends you congratulations, but wants you to be aware the birds you asked for won’t be ready for another six hours, over.”
Pharynx snorted. Hauptmann Torx was his aerial commander, working on the airfields they cleared for her planes. They had plenty of Stukas and 109s, but the number of heavier craft at their disposal was limited to a hoof full of Sv.111s, a single brand new flight of 410s and a few medium bombers. Put all together it was a formidable package to support his Korps, but certainly lacking in heavier options. Torx had been adamant that the planes needed to survive at any cost as replacements were being diverted north for the big scrap there, but Pharynx needed those aircraft actually committed to keep as many of his troops and vehicles going as he could. Undue casualties would be a disaster, not because he necessarily cared for their lives but because if he had to spend his troops he would rather do it to buy meaningful victories with what little capital he had.
“Korhonen, you tell Torx that if I don’t have those planes ready in three, I’m going to do another round of reorganization, and the Luftwaffe assets will be the first under scrutiny. Am I clear? Over.”
”Crystal, sir.” Korhonen’s voice was neutral, not betraying a single iota of her personal feelings, cold as the land she came from. ”Are you ready for the reports? Over.”
Pharynx groaned. His new position necessitated endless meetings, reports and debriefings. All of which were things he thought he’d left behind when he had departed the general staff for a field position. But no, as it happened being a general carried with it levels of administration and red tape you could never avoid. Which meant that, as of now, he needed to turn around, go -back- to the command truck and spend the next day meeting with his officers and going over reports to determine the best way to move forward, instead of actually -going- forward.
Looking down at Jachs one more time, Pharynx shook his head as he stated “Sometimes, I really miss being a regular trooper.” He then keyed his radio set and replied “Copy, Korhonen. I’m on my way back. ETA twenty mikes. Over.”
Without waiting for her reply, Pharynx dutifully dropped the radio set, leaned over and tapped the driver on the shoulder, jerking his head back to indicate the direction to go. The driver, a feldwebel more than accustomed to how things usually went, needed no further instruction, seizing the wheel and swinging the halftrack around. Pharynx sighed in irritation as he leaned back, not even bothering to affix his goggles as the dirt blew into his face again. One day, this war would end. Then he could get back to the business of being a fieldling without worry of administrative bullshit. Or, so he could hope.
April 18th, 1012 Skies Over Occupied Vanhoover Equestria No. 2 (Bombing) Group, Number 99 Squadron Spring Offensive
War dictated change by necessity. A month into Bloody Blackthorn and being assigned their new bus, they had been shuffled into a new attack to keep up the sustained pressure on pushing the changelings back out of Equestria. Dodge City may have fallen, but Whinnyapolis and the Crystal City held on by their teeth. Operation Cloudsweeper had bought the counteroffensive some breathing room, and Bloody Blackthorn was still grinding towards Marechester, a full month of fighting through those woods and enduring vicious punishment at the hooves and mandibles of the Hegemony war machine. The ponies were still bleeding, but it was a steady struggle into the enemy’s teeth that just couldn’t seem to be stopped, about to push out into Bluebell Fields. Or so the Army commanders promised.
In the meantime, it was time to trim the edge off all that captured industry the changelings were making use of. Vanhoover’s position as a port meant material could be shipped there from Olenia or the Changeling Lands as well as through transport planes to the city’s airport or on overland railroads. It’s use as a supply nexus to funnel reinforcements, fuel and material to the invasion needed to be clipped, and soon.
The Lancaster heavy bomber, christened as the White Castle, an image of the famous palace in Canterlot painted on her nose, flew for the first time into combat. With her were an entire armada of aircraft, eighty seven bombers of various types flown from several airfields at once to converge here and mob the Hegemony air defense. Supposedly, there had been over a hundred, but a few had been shot down by bushwacking fighters or had to turn back for various mechanical reasons. That still meant the overwhelming majority were bearing down on the occupied city, bays full of explosive fury.
Escort fighters flew beside their lumbering charges, sheep dogs herding the flock and watching for wolves. While it was true that there were plenty of Hurricanes on the bombing formation’s wings, there were more Spitfires than before, and newer Beaufighters outnumbered the Blenheims still in service. Though there weren’t as many Beufort bombers here, plenty of old Wellingtons and seasoned Halifax bombers were in this formation alongside the brand new Lancaster, a mighter flying monster best described as a metal dragon, ready to drop fire and death on the enemy far below.
Paige lamented her own waxing eloquent as White Castle flew in their midst. The student in her still desired to transcribe what she saw around her in a form best described as poetic or novel. Plenty poetic to be written about here, though none of it was pretty. The black clouds of Olenian flak (mostly changeling guns they had been given to operate) detonated around the bombers, but it seemed this was a lucky day today as few of the Equestrian aircraft had fallen. No fighters had risen from Vanhoover to challenge them either, though this was equal parts the cloud cover that the bombers had used to approach and the fact that their target lay on the other side from the city airfield, and local infiltrators from resistance ponies had sabotaged the local radar facility on orders from S.M.I.L.E. Today, as well as the arms factories and depots the changelings had captured and converted for their own use, the bombers would be hunting for ships and crippling the port itself. If enough munitions were dropped on it, the changelings would have to dedicate a large amount of resources to restore it, or let it sit in ruin and go without. Either way, it would be of large benefit to the forces grinding towards Marechester, as Hegemony forces would be harder pressed to keep panzers fuelled and troops supplied through strictly overland routes. It didn’t matter if your tanks and guns were superior to your enemy if you couldn’t use them.
Lieutenant Ace had put White Castle into position with the rest of the bombing group, watching out for enemy fighters to dive on the formation. More heavily armed and with much experience turning the tables on enemy fighters who got cocky about going against a relic like No. 83, her crew was plenty ready to spring the trap with a rapid fire surprise. Plenty in the craft, just as the whole formation or even the whole Equestrian military, were champing at the bit to serve up some revenge after the Hegemony razed Tall Tale to the ground just the week prior. Plenty of ponies had lived there before the war. Others had family there. And most were simply outraged and horrified by such a blatant loss of life in what was obviously a terror attack.
"I heard they did it with carriers and battleships," said their new flight engineer, Dapper Maverick over the intercom. Formerly an aviation mechanic for a civilian liner before the war, he had been scooped up by the Princess’ Levy and originally put in for ground crew before the stallion put in a request to train for aviator crew. He did fairly well, or seemed to as far as Paige could see. Nestled up in the bombsight, with her two Nickers guns, observation camera and a spare map taped to the hull, Paige only had one real issue, and it was with Maverick; he did not know how to stop talking.
“I didn’t even know the bugs had carriers at all,” the brown stallion with a star cutie mark kept going, seemingly unperturbed by a lack of response. “But I got a line out from one of my buddies, he flew over the city the day after it was all done. Word was that enough aircraft pasted Tall Tale with incendiaries that the place burned for days. Bastards.”
The earth pony flight engineer spat out the curse like it was natural, and Paige wondered at that. Equestrians had their own cutesy little replacements for swearing that neither griffons nor Riverponies bothered with. At first, she had thought them to be the literal translation in Equusian, but the more time went by the more obscenities seemed to emerge in ponies’ mouths. It was almost as if the longer violence and war wrapped up the land, the more Equestrian ponies were willing to discard such frivolous notions. Paige had studied the phenomenon known as the ‘magic of harmony’ a bit back in Hoofington U. In Griffonia, it defined an ideology mostly leaning on pacifism and cooperation, where the peoples within acted more as an extended family than a nation, though this obviously varied as one could hardly compare the Griffonian Republican version under Kemerskai to the military regime once practiced in the minotaur island of Asterion. But in Equestria, it seemed an effect to wrap the land, pacifying animals and applying a layer of peace across all aspects of life. That, it seemed, was no longer the case from what she knew. Feral animals no longer came to engage ponies in peaceful activities, the land was becoming more wild and dangerous and the ponies themselves were less and less inclined towards their previous fanatic pacifism, as if the ‘magic of harmony’ was some fantasmic spell being slowly unwound the worse the war got.
Solar Ace didn’t reply from the pilot’s seat, but Sweet Static pitched in her own piece. Ever the radio talk host, her place was from the wireless station, listening to the channels and trying to apply electronic interference, in case the changelings or Olenians tried to find them with radar guided searchlights. She had a much more technical job now compared to her time on No. 83, no more scanning for a target up above, though she absolutely thrived in her role.
“Y’know, I heard they weren’t very big. If the Hegemony are experimenting with carriers, they’ve got to just be getting started, or they would have used them more by now.” Paige could hear Static turning to speak to the Navigator, the intercom picking up all the awkward scraping and shifting of the pilot’s thermal gear and creaking of their compact seats. “Whaddya think, Dusk?”
Dusky Eventide, a thestral scooped up from one of numerous office buildings in Manehattan’s Bronclyn district, didn’t give a response at first. That wasn’t unusual, like Solar Ace she was a bit of a stoic. Her normal operating hours, like many thestrals, were focused mostly in darkness, and as a result she’d had trouble adjusting to daytime operating standards, also like most thestrals in the Equestrian military. It helped that her station was separated from the rest of the craft by a thick curtain, so she could carefully plot their course and relay directions to Ace, all of which she was very good at. When she finally did respond, it was with as few words as possible, as if the Royal Air Force was charging her for every one she spoke.
“No report of changeling carriers before now. It’s certainly worrying.”
“Like I said, they’re just starting out,” Static continued on, taking the brief statement as accepting her view like she usually did. “They probably converted a few cruiser hulls or a dreadnought. It’s not like it's a strategic concern to us yet.”
This began a new debate between Static and Maverick about the merits of having only a few such ships versus what the Equestrian and New Mareland fleets had in terms of carrier capacity, and if it really posed so severe a threat and spiraled into an argument about airships armed with cruiser grade weaponry and aircraft hangers and how to Static they were either the greatest idea anypony had ever had or the stupidest thing Maverick had ever heard. Through it all, Paige was merely glad to be focusing on her bombsight, watching the outer districts of Vanhoover roll by under them. It was far more sedate up here, no need to dive on their target. Simply fly to a certain place, at a certain height and push a button. It felt like back in the Crystal War, though the White Castle flew far higher and had more risk from the more advanced enemies she faced.
Then again, Paige considered as she felt the craft rumble and tilt when Ace brought them on approach to hit the factories below, Sombra had returned again and was helping himself to changeling equipment as much as he pleased. In a dark mirror sort of way, things had not only changed, they also stayed the same.
Finally, she spotted their target far below. The dark blue waters of the harbor slipped into the outer rim of her bombsight, and Paige took a heartbeat to check what was directly below her. A few hundred feet up it was all squares and blocks, a few rhomboids and other such abstract shapes. Black puffs popped into few as the flak continued chasing after the bombing formation. The fighters would be on them any second now. To his credit, Ace had brought them over a target rich environment. This would have to do. She reached over, waiting only a breath before pressing the bomb release, calling out “Bombs away!”
The mighty clunk and scrape of the payload leaving through the open bomb bay doors resounded through the craft, seven tons of high explosive bombs streaming out in a rain of death, falling away towards the ground. Around them, the other craft in the bombing group did the same, leaving trails of fire and ruin beneath them as the bombing run carved across factories, munitions stockpiles, vehicle staging points, military occupation posts and anti-air defense posts, the ordnance they dropped cutting huge, fiery lines across the city and leaving nothing but smoldering, smoky ruin behind. A few of those bombers, Paige could see, were twisting away with fires of their own, smoking from engines as they tried to leave the airspace. Two were already plummeting nose first towards the ground. Far better than what had been done a year prior with better odds. It was grim and twisted to look at it that way, as ponies were still soaring towards their sudden and fiery doom, but it was a reality. Cyril would understand, she knew.
With all that weight suddenly absent, the White Castle abruptly rose, though Ace was a veteran enough pilot to anticipate this, using the ascension to rejoin the rest of the bombing formation as a dozen craft twisted around, preparing to head back towards friendly lines, their job done and the flak popping off around them.
This was when the sharks descended.
As Paige clambered up out of the bomb aiming station, a roar cut through the air as a silvery shape tore by, guns blazing. Paige’s eyes widened in shock. Rather than catch the Equestrian planes on the way in as a solid formation, they leapt on the bombers as they pulled out in disarray, scattered and distanced from their escorts. Already, she could hear the clanging of rounds tearing into the aluminum skin of the White Castle and the hollering of her fellow crewponies. Hurriedly, she threw herself back down and clambered into the nose turret, powering it up and cocking the Nickers guns before glancing out, searching for a target. White Castle twisted around as the flaming wreck of an RAF Spitefire spiraled past, dying engines shrieking as it plummeted away. More bombers were falling from the sky now, lines of tracers between dueling fighters signaling the dogfights as the escorts did their damndest to protect the squadron. If she had to be honest, while the sight filled her with despair as usual, Paige felt a twinge of remorse and horror as she realized she had become all too used to the sight of Equestrian planes going down in flames. True, they were not receiving as bad a flank kicking as they had in times past, but with the bombers lost before and just estimating the smoke trails here, they had to have suffered seventeen lost birds up to now. She had no idea how many fighters had been lost, they were flashing by too fast for her to get a good look at.
Ace flexed every ounce of his expertise, hollering something she couldn’t decipher. A second later she decided it must have been something like ‘hold on’ for the entire craft twisted into a barrel roll, flipping her upside down in her hastily buckled harness for far too many heartbeats. When the bomber finally leveled out, they were on their way out of the city, heading south and back towards friendly skies. They weren’t safe yet, however. Another fighter buzzed directly at them, (an Sv.111 if she saw it correct) and in the half second she had she triggered the machine guns, letting a line of rounds stitch up the changeling plane’s black and silver hide as it fell away out of sight, its own guns chattering back. She had no idea if she had downed the aerial predator in that moment, but a whooping over the intercom from the tail gunner (a stallion she and Static not so kindly referred to simply as ‘Meathead 1’ while his companion in the upper turret was ‘Meathead 2’ as the arrogant and overconfident stallions were practically uncanny twins) confirmed the airplane’s fate.
“Holy heck, Turner! Down she goes! Scratch five bugs!”
She felt a swell of pride fill her. When she had flown in the Crystal War, she had been happy to be a bombardier for the simple fact that she never had to face who she fired on. It was one of the reasons she volunteered for the Air Force instead of the Army. She didn’t want to have to come face to face with whoever she was trying to kill. But now, the downed heavy fighter she had blasted filled her with a sensation of warmth and…honestly, the desire to get more. This type of aggression wasn’t unfamiliar, and right now it wasn’t unwelcome. But as a 109 swung up into her gunsights chasing a slower Hurricane while Ace maneuvered towards safe air, she felt little hesitation as she mashed down on the firing stud again, letting a stream of tracers fill the air as she tried to chase the enemy fighter. Unfortunately it zipped up out of sight, breaking off its pursuit of the Equestrian craft to get out of her killzone. That was how it was for these bomber turrets; they were unlikely to actually get a kill, and existed more to make fighter craft give them a wide berth.
Before she knew it, White Castle was leaving Vanhoover behind, though the dogfight still raged behind them, and anti-air batteries didn’t let them go unmolested, puffs of black clouds popping off all around as they fled back towards friendly lines. Paige let out a sigh of half relief at leaving the enemy nest and half disappointment. Projections had stated the foe would be crawling all over Vanhoover, the air thick with craft. But the changelings hadn’t even struck until the bombing run was mostly complete. That implied a shortage of aircraft, or at least that they were strung out along the extended front.
The fall of Dodge City earlier that week had meant a vicious air battle was renewed in the skies over the Central Plains. With all eyes on the crawling advance towards Canterlot, aircraft were being pitched into the skies over the heart of Equestria. This bombing attack was an attempt to slow down such an advance, to try and choke their overland routes and let the Royal Army either finally take Marechester or counterattack on Dodge City.
Maybe both.
But Paige knew it probably wouldn’t be both.
April 25th, 1012 Near Imperial Occupied Westkeep, Aquileia 3rd Armee, 19th Panzer-Division ‘Landgraf von Aiwlen’, 205th Schwere Panzerabteilung ‘Kampfgruppe Lehr’ Battle of Westkeep, Day 32
When Imperial landsers got their claws on a soldier caught behind enemy lines or in the midst of a fight as they surrendered or were unable to keep fighting on, they normally tried to restrain them or take them prisoner. It was the honorable thing to do with enemy soldiers, those who had fought so valiantly in the name of their nation and cause. But in Westkeep, the rules had been rewritten. Many civilian partisans had rigged bombs to detonate when Imperial patrols passed by, cut fuel lines on panzers and trucks or stole ammunition and rations to try and drain on the Kampfgruppe’s morale and ability to keep fighting. They played games of guerilla warfare, and what was worse was they were damn good at it. A skirmish would break out between guerillas and a patrol, but when the landsers moved to respond they would walk into a machine gun killzone, or mortars would be dropped on their pre-sighted position or the approach would wind up being rigged with dynamite. It wasn’t two weeks of this before General Van Zieks gave the order; for every attack, every sting, hostages were rounded up from the surrounding buildings, Aquileian civilians herded out into the street for all to see. The rules were simple; if the attackers did not give themselves up or were not found in an hour, the hostages were lined up and shot. At first, it was simple. Two or three at a time. But as the days passed by and more and more attacks stacked up, the landsers were shepherding dozens out at a time. Today, a ten griff squad was wiped out by partisans who had used grenades, machine gun ambush and sharpshooters to kill all the soldiers on that patrol. The panzer that had spearheaded the push to secure the area hadn’t bothered with suppression. A few shots from its cannon and the building holding the machine gunners was flattened. They rounded up forty hostages after that. Drakes, formels. Some as young as teens. When no partisans came forward (no surprise), the hostages were lined up in front of the panzer in question. Three machine guns chattered, and after ten seconds they stopped.
The Aquileians, the partisans still fighting inside the city as well as the MPA fanatics that threw themselves at the walls of Westkeep time and time again, executed Herzland grenadiers differently. If the Reichsarmee executed prisoners, it was typically by firing squad, though high level prisoners like enemy generals and leaders were given a showy end on the gallows. But the Aquileians clearly relished the noose, and beheadings. Everytime they caught an Imperial soldier outside the walls and beyond the rat’s nest of trenches and barbed wire fortifications, they hung him or her, and attached a sign to them. Typically crude, made from whatever they could get, at times the victim had the sign nailed directly into their corpse. Sometimes, the feathers, fur and uniform had obvious signs of knife use or singeing, evidence of prior torture before the unfortunate victim’s end.
As Isegrim passed beneath the archway out of town, two landser corpses were being cut down by a clawful of Aquileian civilians under watch by Imperial troopers, submachine guns carefully held on the impressed workers flapping their wings to reach the rope nooses. Cyril, standing in the cupola, shook his head. The battle of Westkeep raged on, and on and on. And at this rate, it was a question of who would disappear first; the civilian population stuck here at the Kaiserreich’s mercy, or the stranded Imperial garrison.
The flow of troops and supplies coming down the Gap had thickened, though still not enough to allow an effective push. Sporadic infantry companies, supply trucks, artillery batteries, even replacement medium and light armor, along with some panzerjager to help the desperate situation. But no heavy panzers could be spared to run the gauntlet, and no skilled replacements could fill empty slots in these special vehicles. Consolidation and substitution had followed. Isegrim, though battered, could still fight. She rolled at the head of the column, fearsome gun watching the trench, barbed wire and wreck strewn countryside. Behind her was still Brunnhilde, Vise-Feldwebel Schwarzplume following exactly as he was supposed to. But where they might have had two more Grytas in this platoon, four Greifkonig medium panzers rumbled along in column. With brand new thick armor and a powerful 60mm gun, the Panzerkorps were lucky to have them here on the line, and Kampfgruppe Lehr especially so. Brand new, they had just come through the Gap the other day to fill in the open slots. Some were crewed by experienced tankers, though much of their personnel were obvious raw conscripts. But Kampfgruppe Lehr was out on a shoestring supply line, and quality allowances could not be upheld in this situation. Should the main advance finally catch up with them, that would likely be corrected. But for the time being, Cyril was glad to have so many brand new 60mm cannons around him, ready to hunt Aquileian armor for the first time. They might not have been the Grytas they were supposed to be, but a sign that the war might advance with such innovation was certainly uplifting. Aquileia’s more up to date armor such as the medium Fantome M.1 had been spotted by elements fighting to the northwest. That wasn’t good, all the Fantomes were supposed to be in the Greifwald or Fezera, but it seemed the MPA assault on Westkeep had gained enough attention to warrant a drastic shift in priority.
Pushed back into the city proper, the Kampfgruppe’s infantry and light armor elements were preparing for house to house combat. But, as had been learned, these conditions were poor grounds for heavy panzers, and for once it seemed Van Zieks had come up with a good idea; to use the Grytas to hold the villas and plantations outside the city. Booby-trapped they might largely have been, the panzer guns were far more valuable here in the relative open than stuck in tight city streets. Cyril could hardly believe the general had thought of it. So far the Battle of Westkeep had been fighting two enemies; the Aquileian enemy in front and the battalion’s own incompetent command staff. Those griffs actually able to rub two brain cells together like Heimclair were essentially the only reason they hadn’t been pushed back into the Gap to be slaughtered.
Cyril glanced southwards, towards the distant, snow-capped peaks just visible beyond. The reason Westkeep was so valuable as a defensive zone was its prime location. With thick forests and rivers to the north and an impassable mountain range to the south, the city was supposed to keep enemies bottled up and out in the hostile hinterlands. Even occupying the place, the Empire was having one hell of a time sticking it out. It turned out the fortress was just as hard to hold as it was supposed to have been to take. With the rail line to Flowerino in the west running smack dab into enemy lines and the geography keeping them bottled up, it was a bitter, hollow trophy that tasted of blood and iron.
”Brutus-2, this is Anton-3, over.” Leutnant Machinki’s voice came in over the radio headset, and Cyril blinked out of his musings to glance over towards the identical column about a hundred meters to the northeast, running parallel on a separate road from them. With the battalion so strung out, elements of each company were separated to provide support to one another, concentrating armor where possible instead of simply worrying about unit organization. For this operation, patchwork kompanies were the order of the day holding the roads in and out of Westkeep. To be fair, Cyril had no problem working with Machinki. Any apprehension he’d felt had been cast away by their conversation in the trenches back before Adelart. Had that really only been a month ago? It seemed impossible now.
“Anton, this is Brutus. Go ahead Ink, over.”
”Radio protocol, Leutnant,” Machinki chided him briefly before continuing with his actual message. ”My scouts just reported sighting Aquileian armor to the south at one of the villas. I believe we are about to disrupt a flank attack, over.”
“Copy, get a bearing and let’s start pincering those frogs. I want to get back to base for some of the bratwurst they brought in. Over.”
A rare moment where Machinki eased up on protocol passed, as he chuckled over the net.
”I thought you of all griffs would be eager to get stuck in with the enemy, over.”
“Oh I am. I’m just eager for actual food more.” Three weeks on tinned rations and preserved foodstuffs (they could no longer count on what they took from local sources after all) and Cyril had been left convinced his tastebuds were going to leave and form a union for abused workers. “Angle to the north, I’ll angle south. I want to pocket these bastards. Over.”
”Copy, Brutus. Anton is maneuvering now. Over and out.”
Indeed, on the opposite side of the hedgerows, Cyril watched as Machinki’s Gryta Sokoły slowed, pivoted and plowed through a fenceline across an abandoned field, the other Gryta and two Griefkonigs behind following him in a rough but quickly developing line formation, peeling off to circle around. While Machinki had gone through the same command course as Cyril and was proud of his Reformisten standards, when it came to panzer combat it quickly became clear that, outside the classroom, Cyril was the veteran. That suited the Gryphussian just fine, and though they were the same rank he often submitted to Cyril’s authority. There were other things he could get Cyril back for later on, and he could already feel the welts on his claw from the sword slaps he’d receive from the Opinicus Templar later on.
Tapping on the top of the turret plating out of habit, he leaned forward on the Mg 131, field glasses in claw as he scanned the countryside ahead. Hedgerows, abandoned farms, overgrown fields and vineyards, with the occasional stand of trees mixed in. Perfect panzer country. If the enemy was out there, it was all a matter of who spotted the other first. A flight of Imperia Habichts roared past overhead in a vee, angling for the south to cross those imposing mountains and chase after Republique bombers. With the shift in priority, the Lufstreitkrafte’s support was making life a little more bearable now. Aquileian close air support was still a pain in the tail regularly, but the days of Type-87s and LN.305 dive bombers marauding Westkeep with little to answer had come and gone. Now, when they could manage it the enemy tried to hit Westkeep with higher altitude BM-175s. All Cyril had to say to that was he was glad he wasn’t in Westkeep to prove a target of opportunity to the on again off again air raiders. The nights where the flak guns thundered and he could see the outlines of aircraft both friend and enemy wheeling above gave him no end of anxiety, knowing how much damage that ordnance could do.
“Spots, new bearing coming in. Take us south by southeast, we’re going to be lining up on a few frogs trying to bushwack us.”
Almost as soon as he finished speaking, the Gryta rumbled as its engine roared beneath armor plating, the clattering of the tracks on the road becoming slightly more muted as the massive vehicle plunged off into a grassy meadow. They’d needed to do some shuffling to accommodate their new crewmate. The panzer-Vollstrecker contingent hadn’t fared well during the MPA assaults either, leaving Haul as one of the few survivors remaining. Slots on Grytas were a priority to fill, and Haul literally had an image of a shell on his flank. Brightclaw seemed more comfortable manning the radio regardless, but Cyril hoped he didn’t start preaching like his father the bishop. Still, it was good to have Haul back, even if the circumstances were not ideal at all.
He had grieved with Cyril and Spotsley upon learning of Eihol’s death. After a few days of quiet contemplation, he had abruptly stormed in with a maintenance report and a fury burning in his eyes. According to maintenance reports, all of Brutus Kompanie had been given older surplus masks from existing stocks to make up the shortfall instead of brand new off the line models like everything else the 205th was -supposed- to have gotten. Chemical protection, the report had listed, was a secondary priority. The pony had regained the trust of his crew immediately with that one, simple act. True, they’d had to do a little bit of reaching to accommodate him, and Spotsley was no Eihol behind the wheel. But years of experience and close familiarity with Cyril and his style of command meant the dog had picked up the basics speedily enough, and keeping an experienced loader in his role of expertise was critical.
As Isegrim cut through rough terrain, Cyril opened the zugchannel to his adhoc platoon, filling them in on the details they expected to run into. He had yet to memorize the Greifkonig commanders and crew, so many new faces and names to learn, but for now he hoped the ability to list off numbers would be enough. As the panzers plowed through the Aquileian countryside, Cyril kept his head out of the cupola, though the trees were getting thick enough he was forced to duck down behind the gun. If the terrain got much rougher, they would have to go back onto the road. He had seen some of the ancient Aquileian hedgerows resist all but the most powerful of line-clearing explosive charges, the roots digging deep since the days of the First Kingdom. If they ran into one now, they could call off this strike. But then he saw sunlight again on the other side, and knew they were exiting the treeline into another overgrown field. This was wheat, tall and healthy though shot through with weeds and the occasional green spurt of a sapling. After just a month of being abandoned, this year’s crop was already poorly neglected. It put him in mind of the fields of Yale and Angriver in the Herzland War, though by the time they had rolled through there the crops had often been replaced by sprawling trenchworks and piles of corpses both Imperial and Holy League.
He shook his head as the day came back to him, focusing again on the way forward. They had a battle to fight, here and now.
The piece of land they were maneuvering towards wasn’t just a countryside villa or a mansion house overlooking a large plantation. What they found instead looked more like a small town, a series of low one story houses and shops with decorative walls and fields spilling out on all sides. It reminded him of photos he’d seen of Sicameonese haciendas, a contained community in the guise of a sprawling farmstead. If the place had a name, he didn’t know it, and it likely didn’t matter. The important part was smashing the Aquileian armor before they could use the place to stage another assault. The MPA drive was already up against the city’s outskirts, the hills surrounding Westkeep full of wrecked armor, abandoned trenches, strings of barbed wire and mounds of corpses yet to be recovered, all from both sides. In a sense, it greatly resembled the carnage still being cleaned up in south Feathisia, Greifenmarsch and Yale. Only this far out could one find the clear, clean landscape of abandoned countryside instead.
As the armor platoon advanced on the villa, Cyril spotted a flash of movement. It looked like the barn was holding something inside, and he nodded in approval. Such a large building would make a natural place to hold armored vehicles. Though what size was still in question, and he didn’t think the Aquileians had a heavy panzer to match the Gryta. The rest of the villa was suddenly abuzz with movement, as camo netting and branches placed to hide vehicles and fighting positions from aircraft and scouts were abruptly thrown aside, revealing armor plating and gleaming gunmetal. Winged figures took to the sky briefly before settling down in trees and on top of houses. From somewhere nearby, a machine gun started chattering.
“Brutus-2 to all zug elements, hostile contact made. Seeing seven enemy medium panzers and two panzer-zerstorer guns, plus foot mobiles. Engage at will, prioritize enemy panzers. Let’s get to work.”
A bullet suddenly shrieked past Cyril’s ear, and he flinched only a little, as if the realization that he was still out and exposed to danger had been a minor annoyance before he ducked down, pulling the hatch closed above him and turning the locks. He preferred to be out in the action where he could both see the enemy better and engage with the machine gun, but panzer shells were known to be bad for one’s health, and plenty of braggarts had been killed by stray rounds before. Regardless, as he flopped down into his seat of the noisy, rattling panzer he called out on the intercom “Mask check!”
Eihol’s death still fresh in their minds, the crew immediately sounded off that their masks were close by and ready to pull. With how easy it was to cram chemical payload in an explosive, there was sometimes no warning before a cloud of poison was suddenly in the air. If it was chlorine as had been used in the first engagement, they would come out okay. The same if phosgene was in the air, and mustard gas could be endured so long as you didn’t breath it in (though a lengthy recovery time often made veterans say they wished they had been killed outright). There were some things even a gas mask didn’t protect against, however. Cyril’s quickly assembled briefing in the Westkeep fortress had named off a few horrors like adamsite which slipped past a mask’s filters and caused the victim to puke without hesitation, and white phosphorous didn’t need to be breathed in to cause horrific damage to its target much like mustard gas. Still, better to have it in the chance it could protect them.
More machine gun rounds rattled off Isegrim’s hull as well as a few thumps that had to be grenades, either claw thrown or rifle fired.
”Brutus-2, Anton-3,” came the radio report over Cyril’s headset. ”Moving in from the north. Looks like you’ve got them very upset. I’m seeing at least seven medium panzers in the villa, over.”
“Enemy panzer, front!” called Eisenwing, her eyes already buried in the gunsights. Cyril peered through his own periscope, immediately finding the enemy armor she had seen. Tall and boxy at 2.8 meters, with a low and smooth turret that seemed entirely out of place on the chassis, it still sported a powerful 75mm gun almost as destructive as the 76 mounted on the Imperial Gryta, outclassing the brand new Greikonig 60mm cannons. This was the Fantome M.1, Aquileia’s newest medium panzer, and it commanded respect from the Imperial Panzerkorps. But, fortunately for the Reichsarmee, the Fantome had a glaring downfall; substandard armor thickness.
“Identified!” Cyril called out. “Load armor-piercing!”
Immediately, Haul had opened the hatch to the shot locker, extracting one of the shells in question and slamming it into place.
“Up!” Haul shouted, ducking back to his seat to avoid the lurching movements of the gun.
“Arcturius, god of war, protect your stalwart servants! Dull mine enemy’s blade, corrode his armor and weaken his resolve as we do battle in your name!” Brightclaw recited over the intercom as the breechblock clattered down. No one dared object to the litany.
“Fire!” Cyril barked, the order sharp and severe. A heartbeat later, Isegrim rocked as the massive gun spat fire. In respect to Aquileian engineering, the Fantome did not split open or tear apart like the older EMC mediums had before a Gryta, but that armor was still not sufficient enough to save it, and the more modern panzer lurched before clattering to a halt, flames spilling out as hatches flew open. Surprisingly, a mostly pony crew tumbled out, scrambling away as machine gun fire licked their surroundings. Their panzergrenadier escorts had finally caught up to the split panzers, and were even now beginning the assault, their opposite number in blue-gray pouring fire back from improvised fighting positions and spider holes in the buildings. Imperial feldgrau figures moved through the brush and fencing around them, working towards the structures while steel monsters dueled around them.
“Target destroyed!” Cyril relayed out, and even as he watched another Fantome shuddered as a track was ripped off, leaving it a wreck and unable to move. He wasn’t sure if one of his own had gotten that one or if it had been a long shot by Machinki’s panzers. He wasn’t complaining. As a third panzer, an EMC this time, took a shot that cored her and left little doubt as to whether the crew had survived, the radio crackled again.
”Duskwing, movement in the barn!” came Vise-Feldwebel Schwarzplume’s voice. He sounded pretty distressed, and while he was normally a worrier the old noncom needed a lot to get really rattled. Concerned, Cyril wheeled his periscope around as he squinted, trying to see what had gotten Schwarzplume worked up. As he watched, a high-velocity slug went rocketing in through the side of the barn, sending a shower of splintered white wood flying in its wake. And, even audible over the battle, the faint ringing of metal reflecting metal, as if something struck a giant bell. A second hole appeared in the roof of the barn as the deflected shell reappeared and tumbled lazily through the air, coming to rest somewhere out of sight.
In another moment, the rumbling of an engine was in the wind, and the clattering of titanic tracks crunching through broken wood. Whoever was behind that steering had decided they weren’t coming back, as the vehicle destroyed one side of the doorframe, taking half the barn’s wall with them. Before Cyril’s eyes, possibly the largest armored vehicle he had ever witnessed, bigger than even the Gryta he currently rode in, rumbled out of the ruined building. For a moment, it seemed more train or ship than panzer, its length and riveted armor suggesting older building materials placed onto a newer design. This wasn’t a Dassault Gros, a relic of panzer format laughable even to Equestrian designers. This was something else, something rushed into service against the Imperial advance. Something monstrous and archaic, like a dragon come to do battle with fighter craft.
To his shock and relief, Cyril found his reactions already on autopilot.
“Heavy panzer sighted! Eisenwing, put one in her flank!”
A big, wide open span like that was a juicy target. As long as the panzer was, it made landing a shot on her less well armored side much simpler. Dutifully, Eisenwing put her eye to the sight as she drew her bead, waited for an opportune moment, then let fly. The heavy shell erupted like the last, flew across the short distance to the enemy and then bounced off the foe.
“What in accursed Maar’s name?” Brightclaw yelped, watching from his own scope. It was, indeed, quite the surprise. Nothing they had seen had been able to deflect a direct impact from a Gryta’s 76. Not bunker, not panzer, not fortified building.
And then the enemy gun spoke. Some massive, primordial thing at least as big as the Gryta’s own, perhaps even bigger, the shell roared away before smashing into a Greifkonig advancing to provide support to the grenadiers attacking the villa. Fortunately, like the Fantome its armor plating was thick and advanced enough that it wasn’t destroyed outright, but the Imperial machine certainly caught fire swiftly, greasy black smoke pouring out from under the turret ring. Only the commander and driver managed to clamber free before the panzer brewed up, fuel and ammunition igniting.
No. This was not going to happen again.
“All Brutus panzers, concentrate fire on the enemy heavy! Bring that monster down!” Cyril hollered. Near him, another empty shell casing clattered to the deck, the breechblock closed and Isegrim’s gun thundered again in defiance. As he watched, this one sank into the Aquileian heavy’s flank once more, but this time it sank deep, punching a hole in and out of whatever all that extra equipment on top was and spraying out oil and shards of steel. The heavy, trundling away from the barn, abruptly stopped as gray smoke billowed up and out. More shells smacked off it, but Machinki’s panzers were in a bad angle to attack the monster. Sure, they had cleaned up the panzer-zerstorer cannons, but this left them firing at the heavy from near dead on. Shots bounced off the glacis plate like hail off a brick wall, and the Aquileian turret swiveled around to find its next target.
The shell that finally killed it, however, came from Brunnhilde. Schwarzplume, recognizing the danger immediately, had maneuvered his Gryta around the heavy’s rear, destroying an ELC light panzer in the process before putting one more shot through the barn’s wall and sinking it into the guts of the enemy heavy. With a roar and a shriek, the smoke billowing out turned black. As if in a final act of defiance, the main gun thundered once more, smashing into one of Machinki’s Grytas and bringing it to a shuddering halt. In response, both of Machinki’s surviving Greifkonigs landed shots in its sensitive rear as well, and that was the end of that as the monster finally brewed up, flames licking the engine and underside of the turret. Amazingly, even though they could hear detonations inside, no crew bailed out and the vehicle itself retained good structural shape even as its engine erupted. Whatever this was, it took one hell of an effort to kill.
The silence that settled in after a clash of armored chariots wasn’t really silence. Engines still rumbled, flames licked at dead machines, the wounded in the near distance screamed in agony, infantry skirmishing or artillery rumbling in the near distance. But compared to the clatter of tracks, the roar of cannons, arguing and panic of crewgriffs and the destruction of their surroundings, the absence of such chaos was practically silence to Cyril’s ears. Even as he heard the grenadiers making the final assault on the main house, breaching doors and windows with shotguns and machine pistols, grenades clearing rooms and close combat slamming against walls, he stood and pushed open the commander’s hatch, head swiveling as he slowly rose, scanning his surroundings. The villa grounds were a devastated landscape as a microcosm of this war as a whole. Shell craters littered the ground tearing up the loamy soil and ripping up overgrown grass, corpses from Aquileian soldiers unlucky enough not to get down in time were sprawled across dugouts, piece of cover or out in the open like broken toys, armored vehicles smoldered as their cannons pointed askew, turrets tilted in broken mountings. Buildings, fenceline and wagons were little more than splintered wrecks, ad hoc cover and fighting positions no threat for the fury of the explosive brawl that had raged here. Imperial vehicles and corpses were little distinguishable from their Republique counterparts apart from color, splashes of green-gray and black versus blue and tan. True, there were more Aquileian dead than his comrades, but at this moment he had trouble distinguishing wrecks and shattered bodies as more than just debris and piles in the battle.
His radio headset crackled.
”Brutus, Anton here. I’ve no movement on the north side. How’s your side looking, over?”
A quick scan showed no movement in his immediate area, aside from Imperial troopers moving into the villa and nearby buildings. Isolated gunshots and indistinct yells told they were almost done with clearing the area, and the enemy hadn’t had the time to lay a thousand small surprises like they normally did. Cyril cautiously leaned over to bring his mouthpiece closer.
“Nothing moving here, Ink. Looks like we win this one. Over.”
”Copy. I’ll set a few pickets in case the survivors regroup, over.”
In Cyril’s opinion, it was unlikely there had -been- any survivors. A hammer and anvil pincer like this typically didn’t allow much room for them. Still, the majority of military actions ended with one side driving off the other instead of destroying them in detail. It would be foolish to assume they had killed every Aquileian soldier at this position. Some of them had to have escaped.
*****
Occupying the villa didn’t lift their spirits much. Yes, they had won a fairly crushing victory today. Greifkonigs, trucks and halftracks were much easier to replace than the heavier and harder to transport Grytas. Yes, they had killed more than they had lost and destroyed a staging area before an attack could be launched. But at the end of the day, they were still surrounded, and the rest of the Imperial line was still so far in the distance you couldn’t see it on the horizon without an airplane, and nogriff dared to go awing if they could help it.
They set up in the villa, recovering the dead as best they could. The enemy they dug a mass grave for with the clawful of POWs they’d rounded up (few Aquileians surrendered these days) while the Imperial dead were stacked and prepared to load onto trucks for proper recovery, tags collected and names recorded in case they had to leave in a hurry. No fires were lit tonight. They weren’t sure if the foe would make a counterattack to seize the villa, and they were still too far removed from friendly lines to think they were completely secure. The enemy in this area could reinforce at their leisure, the city of Illeagle just over the mountain to the south allowing them to flood this area from the rail hub. Another armored thrust could threaten the city, or cut off the ad hoc force from resupply. They needed to be ready to move.
So the landsers dug fighting positions and set up machine guns, and the surviving panzers hid in the brush and hillocks around the villa, going hull down where they could but mostly restricted to whatever precautions the crew had thought to add to their mounts, such as sandbags and sheet metals strapped to the outer plates. And they slept, when they could, at their positions. Panzer crew dozed in their seats, grenadiers in trenches, sometimes behind the very machine guns they crewed with one talon on the trigger. Nogriff complained about that kind of risk anymore. Not with partisans and Rangers skulking in the dark, and the need to start shooting before you were fully awake.
The wounded had been moved to the villa, deposited in a salon that must have once been modestly nice for a country estate. The room had the largest amount of space for the medics, and they did their best to make the casualties comfortable on their bedrolls, bandages and gauze and morphine fighting against bullet wounds and shrapnel and burns. Some of them had been coughing and hacking for the past few days, like many back in Westkeep itself (the word ‘plague’ had been whispered a few times out of Vollstrecker hearing), and it was likely some kind of trench illness. Those were separated in the most rudimentary quarantine possible. Nogriff knew if they were staying or if they’d be forced to pull out at a moment’s notice to plug some other hole or fall back to avoid being cut off. Hauptmann Stahlbeak’s order had been to hold, fortify and await further orders.
Inside of Isegrim, Cyril sat peering over the cupola, watching the darkness beyond. He didn’t even dare lift his cigarette enough to take a drag, for fear the red hot end would attract a sniper’s attention. Instead, he kept it inside, leaning down for a puff or two before sitting up again and resuming his sentry. His other claw sat on the machine gun, idly clenching and relaxing on the grip. He knew he should get some sleep. This detachment was technically under his command, after all. Machinki had the far side, and between the two of them were a dozen panzers of varying mass and over a hundred halftrack troopers in support, armed with machine guns, mortars and a few with flamethrowers. That -should- give him a measure of comfort. But the responsibility of it all weighed on him, tugged at his soul. They hadn’t seen anymore of the Aquileians' devilish radio controlled explosive tracks today that had slaughtered his panzerzug, nor had the enemy brought dive bombers down on their position. But the rumble of artillery in the distance and the flashes of the shells landing on Imperial Westkeep and the streaks of rockets flashing away from the city towards the foe drew his eye over and over again, silently wondering.
The panzer crew were catching what rest they could. Spotsley snoozed at the wheel, her snoring practically rattling the panzer. When it came right down to it, sour and bellicose as she was, little actually got under her skin. Brightclaw sat next to her, his radio headset on as he scanned the frequencies, reading a dog-eared but clearly much loved religious text entitled the Codex Triarii. Being the son of a bishop had to be exhausting work, but the lad never seemed to absorb anything but holy and military literature. Eisenwing and Haul were quietly maintaining the gun, the breechblock open as the pony ran a dirty rag inside, his uniform sleeves rolled up as his hooves were covered in grime and gun oil. Haul and Cyril hadn’t spoken much since he’d rejoined, but what little they had said was mostly in relation to Eihol. Now was not the time for reminiscing, however. They’d have time to reconnect back in Westkeep. If they made it back.
His mind turned, as it so often did lately, across the sea once more. The sharp sting that had once been present everytime he thought of how much he missed Paige and how long it had been since he’d heard from her had faded to a dull ache. His mother and sister had also told him no mail had arrived from her. Had she not sent a letter? Was she dead? Did it get lost and she was now wondering the same thing as he was? Or did she simply no longer care?
Over and over again, he went down these tracks of thought, looping back around on himself as he did the math. On average, it had taken about a month for a letter to make it across war torn countryside, across U-boat infested waters on tightly packed convoys as close to shore as possible before the mail traveled through neutral nations. The unfortunate fact was, trying to find answers had told him the nasty truth; there was actually no direct mail from Equestria to the Herzland anymore. Despite the two nations not being at war, anything coming to the Empire likely had been through Nova Griffonia first and sent over on a colonial vessel, therefore subjected to a transfer and reshuffling. And Nova Griffonian mail ships, despite being neutral, were sunk plenty on the route between Weter and Rottendedam, if not by U-boats then by Entente raiders. The truth did not make him feel better about knowing the reason for the long shipping times back and forth. But he liked understanding it, for while he communicated with his mother, sister and uncle regularly, the extraordinary length of time between his and Paige’s letters left him with too much idle contemplation time.
The radio suddenly buzzed, and Brightclaw sat up in his seat before glancing up at his commander.
“Sir,” he started quietly. “Message from the rear position. We have a courier visit.”
A post carrier? At a combat position? Somegriff back in the city was feeling generous. Normally even multi-day operations would have the post held until they returned to a more permanent holding or a supply point or command center instead of the letters coming out to them. Unless the ‘courier’ was more of a sealed order carrier. When it came to wireless, the Aquileians were less than hopeless. About one in six of their panzers had a radio mounted in it, and even their infantry units preferred to rely on signal flags instead. If Cyril remembered his briefings, they were concerned about Imperial interception, and as a result the Reichsarmee had abused the hell out of radio use in return, but sometimes sensitive orders meant running the message out by claw the old fashioned way regardless. If Stahlbeak or Heimclar was about to order the detachment into a move that was supposed to take the frogs by surprise, Cyril could see them sending a runner instead.
He nodded, stubbing out the cigarette on the armor plating before taking up his submachine gun, checking its magazine and replying “Tell them I’ll take it up at the house,” before tugging off his headset, clapping Haul on the shoulder to wordlessly let him know he was in charge for a while and clambering out into the darkness. In a moment, his wings spread and he was flying quietly back, gently coasting over the treetops for only a minute before the villa swung into sight, the enforced darkness still interrupted by the lights of the medics working inside and the occasional red pip of a cigarette or pipe in the blackness being smoked by a dug in grenadier who likely was just as unable to sleep as Cyril. As he settled down (the all too familiar sense of disappointment for his flight being ended so quickly), his metal wing folded up along his back with a quiet rasping as he stepped towards the villa’s foyer past the splintered ruin of the front door. Waiting there was, of all things, a pegasus dressed in Imperial feldgrau, the black pins of Reformisten Longsword barely visible in the darkness. For a moment, Cyril’s heart irrationally jumped at the familiar shape, at least similar to who he had so often thought about. But this pegasus was stockier than Paige was, and her coloration was a dull yellow with a mane of blue, and one puckering scar across her face that twisted her muzzle into a perpetual grimace.
The mare saluted as Cyril entered. Like him, her uniform was grimy and likely had been that way since just after she had arrived. There was no time for a battalion laundry, and every soldier here had gone through each set of fatigues at least three times.
“Leutnant Cyril Duskwing?” she asked by way of confirmation as he returned her salute, letting her drop her hoof. “Gefreiter Grüne Gnade. I’ve a message for you, marked urgent priority by Abteilung Kommando.”
“Well, let’s see it then. Must be important if Heimclar marked it priority.”
Urgent priority meant a battalion commander had personally ordered it reach him as fast as possible. He felt his gut sink a bit. That meant they would have to move as quickly as they could. Were they counterattacking a Republique night attack? Were -they- about to be encircled and Heimclar wanted them withdrawn quietly so the enemy would commit resources against a position no longer occupied? He wouldn’t put it past the old knight.
But the envelope the pegasus withdrew was plain paperstock, with postage stamps and everything. Confused, Cyril took it over to a nearby lantern set up to allow passage without stumbling over objects or personnel in the way, a deep frown on his feathered brow. Sure enough, there was the red stamp on the front marked DRINGEND in large ink characters, but behind it was his mailing address for the unit, and a small cluster of postage stamps up in the top right. He was about to ask Gnade the meaning of this when his eyes finally fell on the sender, printed in top left.
And his heart practically stopped.
Without another word, he tore the envelope open with a talon, claws trembling a little as he tried not to damage the contents within.
“Uh, mein herr?” Gnade asked quietly. “Do I have your permission to return? I do have other things to attend to.”
“What?” Cyril muttered, eyes already flitting across the letter, still unbelieving of its existence. “Yes, uh. Yes, you’re dismissed, Gefreiter.”
He didn’t even notice when she saluted, turned, and flew out the door.
*****
Delivered Via Skyway Express Airmail Sent April 20th, 1012
Dear Cyril,
I only got the message about my last letter being sunk a few days ago. I’m so sorry, you must have been waiting forever to hear back from me. Well, good news! The Royal Air Force commissioned a new airship service to fly the seas at its narrow point. They had memos for it posted all over the airbase. I guess lots of ponies are trying to reach others back in Griffonia. Who would have figured?
Okay, so that means I have a lot to catch you up on. Months, in fact. We’re holding the changelings as best we can, though the news probably already told you that. But we had to retire old No. 83 not long ago. Turns out, her engine just couldn’t keep up anymore, and they’ve been taking Blenheims off Bomber Command’s active front for a while now. We’re one of the lucky crews, if you can believe that. That airframe has a pretty high crew mortality rate. But the good news is we’ve moved on up to a Lancaster. Go figure, they’re calling it a flying fortress. True, it’s not the Arisian B-17, but we’re plenty proud of our own. Our new ride is called the ‘White Castle’, and I do honestly feel better for it not seeming like a suicide mission everytime we go out. So I want you to feel better knowing I am, if not safe, at least a bit safer. Knowing your appreciation for armored plates and extra weapons, I’m sure you can grasp the details.
I don’t know where you are now. From your last letter, I know you were telling me you were deploying to the Western Front, which likely means Aquileia or Verenia. And if that’s the case, I need you to tell me you’re okay. The news here is very much skewed in Aquileia’s favor. They’re making it sound like the Empire is grinding itself to death on walls and trenches and the battle is going to turn any day now. Since I know that can only be partly true, I need you to tell me you’re at least not dead in a wreck somewhere. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard from you, too.
I haven’t heard from my parents in a long time. I’m just happy they got out west in time. The news outlets are calling the chaos back home ‘the Riverlands Anarchy’. It’s a war just as vicious as what’s happening here and over with you. Only less mechanized with more senseless bloodshed. Because why are they fighting? Because a Prince wants to resurrect a dead empire? It makes less sense than any other war happening now. Is this just how things are? Is the entire world just going to drown in an age of blood and fire and we all just go down with it? I don’t understand anything anymore. Ponies here keep talking about life going back to normal any day now, and we can all forget this ever happened. But we both know that’s never going to happen.
Sorry. Guess I got caught up in rambling.
I was sent a notification that my letter had been lost a few days ago. Can you believe that? A slip of paper after they ‘confirmed’ it was indeed there. The worst part of losing your letter is the package that went with it. I wanted to get back into the old cycle where we shared books and gifts. It’s been so long, and the two wars have caused so much distress in our lives, I thought a little something familiar would be good. I bought you a copy of Saratoga, which I know is not quite the kind of book you normally read, but given what you’re surrounded by everyday out there, I thought something gentler would help you out. It’s an Equestrian romance, so it’s written in Equusian, but it's about a mare coming home to New Horseleans after living a lifestyle of wonder and excitement in Griffonia and forgetting about the magic of harmony, so a stallion she falls in love with has to teach her and-(a word is scratched out) Yes, I know it’s trite and so stupidly a bid to tell a moralist story. The description of Griffonia is that it’s nothing but a land full of violence, greed and selfishness that apparently one has to be saved from. It came out earlier this year and I saw it on the Daily’s Best Reader’s List. Honestly, I don’t know who it was that reviewed it, but from what I know of griffon culture I was offended on your behalf. But it was what I could get my hooves on, and the romance itself was sweet once you get past the harmony pandering. Maybe it's a good thing that particular book is sunk. Not my best choice.
I’m sick of talking about war. So I will tell you about Equestria. Spring has come here, and with it the most beautiful landscape I have ever seen. Whether I’m on hoof, flying in the Lanc or stretching my wings, this place still seems to retain its splendor everytime I see it. Emerald hills rolling away before my eyes, every river clear and clean, forests of tall and wondrous trees. I swear, everytime I look out on the horizon here I think I see a rainbow, though given the amount of weather control pegasi they have (had) here, that may just be an extra touch. I wouldn’t be surprised. I know Equestria has tons of monstrous creatures in the wilds, but you’d never think it just looking at this place. Even living here for years, I still love watching the landscape. But I’ll be honest, if I ever get out of here I don’t think I’m going to stay. It’s not home. I don’t even think I’m going to finish my schooling here. And all this time I’ve seen it just drives home the point to me. I think I’ve only realized it now, when I couldn’t talk to you.
(The next line has the ink smudged in a crease, as if the author had folded the letter up and come back to it later)
Static and Ace say hi. We’ve got a few new crewponies here too. A Lanc is a lot bigger than a Blenheim, after all. There’s Eventide, Maverick and the Meatheads, and they’re okay ponies (except the Meatheads, there’s two of them and it's for good reason the rest of us call them that). Big adjustment to be a bombardier on a heavy model again. Gives me a lot of memories of the Crystal War. Didn’t things seem so much simpler back then?
I realize I am rambling with this now, so I will close out by doing all the things I’m supposed to do with a letter. I miss you, now more than ever. Your words are a connection to everything I had before and if we both get through this a beacon towards my future. My parents are somewhere in the Empire. And you will be there too. I keep going over your old letters about when we just had to talk about our lives and wonder at our future, when we would finally see each other again and everything after. I miss talking to you about books and moving pictures, hearing your earnest opinions on things in the world, looking at your sketches. I miss not needing to watch my words with you because you always like things straight forward. I even miss our disagreements. I think when this war is over, it's time to come home. To you. So wait for me, however agonizing this is. Because the second I am able to, I will be on the first boat or plane or airship or even a dragon if I have to in order to get back to Griffonia. And I will never leave as long as I live.
May we never be interrupted again.
Love,
Paige.
*****
Cyril read the text several times, eyes tracing the neat, precise script of Paige’s hoofwriting. It had always mystified him how a creature with hooves could write so nicely when his own clawriting looked like scratches on a door (and then he could go and sketch landscapes, go figure), but he honestly couldn’t care what the answer was right now. He absorbed her words, drank them in like a creature dying of thirst in the desert drinks the water of an oasis; greedily and without pause, going back for repeats far more often than he needed to but with no concept that it was no longer essential. But this -was- essential. He could feel months of frustration and anxiety rolling off his shoulders like shrugging off a heavy jacket, and even as he was engrossed in the letter his wings stretched slightly, almost flaring of their own accord.
How was he so caught up in this? How was it that after months of no word, he could get a notice from a mare and get so giddy and full of mirth that just these words were enough to put his mind, if not at ease, then at least not so on edge?
In the distance, the guns rumbled again, Imperial and Republique artillery trading fire, the shriek of shells and scream of rockets in flight. The ground rumbled and shook, dust and debris raining on his head. Nearby, a few isolated pops and cracks of rifle fire rang out, joined by a nearby machine gun chattering away into the dark, all of it dying away after only a minute. The lantern swayed, and he was forced to put the letter down to steady it. The reminder of his current location brought him back to the danger his circumstances had dropped him into, a cold splash of water onto the sparking hopes and dreams in his head. He would do Paige, his mother or his sister little good if he went and got killed for being a lovesick idiot, he decided. Tucking the letter away carefully in his jacket (right next to Paige’s old one), he returned to the shattered door, almost running into a pair of landsers rushing past, a third propped up between them with streaks of dark liquid splashed across her greatcoat and facial feathers.
With that little reminder that death waited for him around every corner here, he gripped the machine pistol tightly, peering out into the blackness as his wings twitched in anticipation. Explosions glowed in the distance. Something closer to the villa was on fire, but still too far to see what. Everything seemed much brighter, but also much darker. His previous malaise, the isolation and separation, had lifted somewhat. He was still in hostile territory. He was still far from home and his loved ones, surrounded by death and despair. But now, he had to be careful. That piece of paper in his jacket had reminded him of what he had to live for.
With that, he ducked low, clutched his weapon close and made his way back towards Isegrim. With snipers around, no point taking a stupid risk flying back.
Delivered Via Skyway Express Airmail Sent April 27th, 1012
Dear Paige,
I don’t know the words to express just how overwhelmed I am with joy to hear from you again. I had carried your last one around with me for so long, the paper is weathered as parchment and the folds are about to fall apart. I had even begun to fear the worst. Though I obviously don’t wish for it to be a permanent thing, I am grateful our delays were caused by mere distance and a ship sinking rather than an unfortunate turn to either of us. I am writing you this letter by candlelight in a trench, because the day is full of fighting and at night we must keep the lights obscured or the Aquileian artillery can find us much better. While we have heavier guns deployed, theirs are very accurate and they have superb spotters and information from guerilla spies. The fighting has reached the city proper, and it will not be long before we are unable to deploy the heavy panzers out into the countryside. The battle here is done street by street, house by house, with the range varying from down a long avenue to knife range inside the buildings. The fighting is hard, but I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that part. All I can say is that we hold the line.
The news reported here tells us the Equestrian effort is constantly faltering, that you will collapse any day beneath the changeling swarm. Given how we both know news reports can be rather biased, I knew the truth lay somewhere outside of it. Something is changing in the high kommand’s attitudes on the changelings. Something I can’t quite put a talon on. They are spoken of less in speeches, there are fewers praises spoken of them on the radio, and the newspapers do not speak of them as much. Given what you have told me and the more lukewarm version of events I am presented with, I wonder perhaps if the Royal Army might win after all, and how we will react to that.
I’m happy for your new plane. I will admit I don’t know much about Equestrian warbirds myself, but I have heard of the Lancaster. Good things, for the most part. But I would learn my emergency exits if I were you, as a precaution. Many a panzer crew have survived their chariot brewing up by being able to evacuate quickly. Then again, you are just as experienced as I by this point. I’m sure you know what you’re doing.
I cannot speak much of the Gryta I command. Though their existence is now well and truly out there, they are still new enough the enemy likely does not know much of their ability, and I am still forbidden to reveal anything, lest the censor get cutting. But my own ‘Isegrim’ is quite possibly the most powerful panzer I have ever seen, short of one truly behemoth Aquileian landship we dispatched a few days ago. In case you didn’t know, the name Isegrim comes from the old Herzlandisch name for wolves of evil intent, who are common in dark stories meant to frighten children and stir the soul. The crew agreed to it to show we are hunters of dread legend. Most other panzertruppen in the Reichsarmee are suitably dramatic as well.
It occurs to me I need to tell you of something; Eihol is dead. Killed over a month ago by poison gas. It feels so much longer than that. Watching him die was more unpleasant than many other deaths I’ve ever witnessed in the Herzland War. I have lost many under my command in the past month, and watched many more die in senseless, horrific ways. I wonder how much horror one can absorb before the numbness settles in, because I would rather be numb to the sights I am seeing for at least a little while. I will spare you the worst details, because this is supposed to be a happy letter.
I’m beyond touched by your proposal. To be frank, you are right. The news we are receiving from the Ostwall is beyond bad. The strings of refugees are cut off by the fighting, and apparently the Princely forces are rounding up entire columns of ponies trying to flee and taking them away in trucks. I don’t know if they are being jailed or conscripted. Perhaps both? The news is not encouraging. From the sound of it, the Riverlands are embroiled in a trench war even slower and more horrific than our own, as the Riverlands have few modern panzers or airplanes to break the stalemate. So you are right. There is nothing to go back to. I have always wondered how I would take you around Griffenheim in person once you’re here, and now my imagination has been refueled tenfold. With you there, life after the war seems even bearable. And I have no doubt you can finish your education. The Herzland is home to some of the most prestigious universities in the world, or in Griffonia certainly. Though I am not certain we could live off my mother for too long. A caring formel for sure, though not one given to meaningless frivolousness. She would demand we find our own place before too long.
It feels surreal, in the middle of all this death and after so long in isolation to be back to planning what we want from our futures with you. But I need this. I need to be able to think of after the war, when life can go back to normal, and we walk away from this dark time in our lives. It’s hard to get through the day, and I often find myself sinking into my anger and despair at the same time. But for the past three days I have tempered that with reading your letter again, thinking of your words and what they mean. I am happy to be home for you, and to think of what that kind of life will look like for us. Because I have to believe it can happen.
I look forward to talking with you again, and keeping it up as we go forward.
-Love,
Cyril.
P.S.: Honestly, after your description I wanted to read Saratoga just to laugh at it. At some point, some terrible literature turns into a funny story.
P.P.S.: For obvious reasons, my time sketching is limited. But I have sent you what I can. Apologies for the poor paper, I do not have a proper sketchpad.
Enclosed is a thin stack of notebook paper, upon which are rough but detailed sketches of various scenes. One seems to be of the inside of the turret from Cyril’s perspective, looking down into his panzer with the commander and gunner’s stations visible. Another is of a line of uniformed griffons and a few dogs and a single pony sharing a trench in the middle of a ruined city landscape, poking at their rations. A third one shows a horizon of smoke trails, wrecked buildings and a dozen planes flying overhead. A fourth one shows a cluster of civilians taking shelter in a storefront, one brave child (male or female is not clear) standing out in front with their wings flared at the Imperial soldiers passing by. The last one shows a griffon and a pony smoking together behind a sandbag barricade, the pony asleep and slumped over with her cigarette dangling from her lips as the griffon reads from a tattered book. These sketches are, quite plainly, Cyril’s best work even if they are rushed and on subpar material.
Delivered Via Skyway Express Airmail Sent May 8th, 1012
Dear Cyril,
I’m so sorry to hear you lost Eihol. I know he was a good friend. I almost feel I knew him too through your letters. He’ll be hard to replace, but he’s in a better place at least. Much better than where he was. I’ll say a prayer for him tonight.
I had to blink twice at your choice of words. Proposal kind of has a lot of weight, don’t you think? Still, it did make me smile. Maybe we should wait a while before we start that kind of talk again. Then again, you are officially a knight. Maybe this is the novel where the noble foreigner sweeps the damsel away before they even see each other. Apparently those sell pretty well out here, like I think Saratoga was meant to be. Just goes to show the career editors must have gotten drafted too.
Our flights have been concentrated on disrupting Hegemony logistical capacity lately. Bomber Command is convinced that if we destroy enough supply depots, trains and ports the changelings will be forced to rely on trucks alone. Intel says they simply don’t have enough of those to keep up with this massive front. If it goes all the way from Dodge City to Marechester and on to Ponytown (that’s in the Crystal Empire for you who has no atlas handy), I can see their point. I don’t like to think about the civilians we’re hurting on our own soil by dropping our munitions. Certainly not all of them made it out, especially in big places like Vanhoover. I’m sure you heard of Tall Tale and what happened to it? Yeah, the Kriegsmarine used hundreds of sorties to flatten the place. Nopony got out. A ‘demonstration’ their leaflets say. After that, I really don’t want to picture hitting our own to try and fight back, but we are forced to do what we must. I’m sure you know all about that. I’m sure you heard the army retreat from Blackthorn again. What a waste. Months of attack and what do we have for it? Well, now the next place to hold out is Hope Hollow. Then Luna Nova. (A line is scratched out)
Believe it or not, there was a time I thought of going to Griffenheim for university. How our lives would have changed with that. But my father, being who he was, demanded I never set hoof in an Imperial college, and Luna Nova’s arcane studies program was of such a pedigree that when I won the scholarship I just had to go. So, I hopped a train going west and you know the rest. But if I do resume study in the Herzland, I wonder if they’ll have a magical studies course. There will certainly be enough ponies in the Empire when this whole war is done and over with. I realize, now I look back over that sentence, what that implies. Yes, I do think the Empire will win, or at least survive in some way. Most ponies here don’t have the same information coming in that I do. They think Aquileia will triumph to protect harmony, hell some of them think the Revolutionary Republic will survive. I have no real malice towards either of them, but I can see which way the war is turning from the pieces of news I have.
In an ironic twist, I did meet some Nova Griffonian mercenaries the other day. A rather shocking surprise when we ran into a bunch of griffons in the mess. They spoke Herzland with this odd accent, and no other ponies there spoke it so they mostly left them alone. Distrust, naturally, was very thick. But I struck up a conversation with one of them. He seemed surprised I could speak it, but I simplified the issue by telling him I was Rijekan and he let it go. He was part of the Schwarze Lanzenträger Landsknecht, hired by the RAF to provide additional security to some of our airbases. An outside solution to solve the infiltration issues. There are maybe about fifty of them now, pulling perimeter at the entrances and inside the airbase. I know they’re more Equusian by birth, but it was nice to hear a few tongues from home. But don’t worry; you’re the only drake I want.
It is more of the same here, honestly. We flew a mission to bomb Dodge City the other day. That was a nightmare in itself. I think the city still has most of its civilian population there. The generals never thought they’d need to evacuate it. I don’t know who we’ll spare to go take it back, but I know for sure I hate bombing it. I’m too high up to know what I’m doing. Who am I hitting? Which of us is worse off, you for seeing your enemy up close or me for never knowing if I hit him at all? Like I said, more of the same.
Still no reason to worry. We’ve been getting Wonderbolt escorts more and more often. I get the feeling a lot of these missions are pretty important. But it means I have some of the best air cover in the world. Flying in the Lancaster is at least much safer than the Blenheim. ‘White Castle’ is sturdy, and the airframe doesn’t feel like it’s going to shake apart. For now, it doesn’t appear the enemy has sent any new fighters at us. We’re getting better, it’s not like a year ago where we got chopped out in droves. I do hear about airbases being sabotaged and infiltrated still, but it hasn’t been us yet. I’m starting to think we’re lucky.
If I’m really lucky, maybe this war will end tomorrow, so I can go back across the Celestial Sea. Until then, all I can do is send you my best wishes.
Love,
-Paige
May 23rd, 1012 120km northwest of Pelis, District of Rila Republique de Aquileia NMRS Aruna
It was usually very unusual to see a destroyer off, nearly alone in the Celestial Sea as the storm blasted on. Her Commonwealth ensign flapped and fluttered from her lines, the alicorns and stripes blazing boldly in the sea sky. Far from home and steaming even further north, the Aruna almost seemed like she was wandering, if anything. But she had direction, and purpose. The New Marelander merchant fleet had taken sharp losses to the changeling U-boat menace in the Celestial Sea, mostly hit outside the range of land-based seaplanes and spotter patrols. The lifeline between New Marelander factories and ports shipping necessary war material and troops west to battered Equestria to fight for the mother country had begun stuttering like a gushing artery, with many freighters and their crews now resting at the bottom of the ocean, Commonwealth and Equestrian both. So many had been lost, in fact, that freight was attempting to be shipped from other, neutral ports like Aquila, Rila, Pridea and Haukland. Canny and daring Armada U-boats had taken the risk, however, and come so close to the coastline that many had been spotted from many beaches, but their gamble had netted them the sweet reward of catching these roundabout trawlers here in distant waters. While the Griffonian Empire shared a friendly connection to the ‘lings, Aquileia held no love for the shapeshifters, and instead gratefully sold war material to the Commonwealth effort. But with Skyfall now in Imperial claws and Haukland caught in the middle of a massive naval struggle, the only ports open to the gambit now were Aquileia’s own, and Hegemony killers still lurked outside those places looking for the right ships.
The former Kingdom, for all its youth, had assembled a decent naval force in thirty years. While the Imperial Kaiserliche Marine had been mighty in its time, economic collapse and the Revolution of 978 had resulted in their designs falling behind the times. Aquileia’s secession, meantime, had allowed the new Kingdom’s navy to flourish. Even two bloody Revolutions of their own hadn’t slowed naval development down, as the Revolutionary spat at sea in the first had barely deserved the name of ‘fight’ and in the second one the only fleet supporting the royalists had been Pridea’s own, trapped in port by the combined Nationale Marine and the Flotte de Rila. Sweeping up Dennis Discret’s remaining ships after the port fell had strengthened the Republique’s fleet even further.
But it didn’t matter how many ships the Republique possessed, thought Lieutenant Commander Amber Gem bitterly as she squinted out beyond her bridge towards the foggy, choppy sea beyond. If Aquileia was still fighting the Empire, they weren’t fighting the changelings. And if the Empire was fighting Aquileia, -they- weren’t -helping- the changelings.
“Which is why we’re here…” she muttered resentfully under her breath.
“You right, Cap’n?” asked Lieutenant Dapper Daze, his peculiar Outback twang laid thick on his tongue as he glanced up from his station. Her executive officer examined Gem’s face carefully, frowning as he did so. “Ye buggered, ma’am?” he continued, a tinge of worry in his voice.
New Mareland had picked up two different kinds of accents, both of them a product of colonialism. While many, like Amber Gem herself, spoke with a smoother New Marelander tone resembling several types of Equestrian accents, the Outback drawl was all over the place, chewed up and spat out by the variety of cadences and tones Griffonia had produced until it almost didn’t resemble Equusian at all. And the slang used by New Marelanders was equally alien, the product of separation by a vast ocean and relative isolation from the mother country and lack of immigration from over the heavily guarded border. Until the collapse of Black Wednesday in 999, more griffons came into New Mareland from merchant ships than overland.
Gem shook her head, glancing to the helmsmare as she did so. Last thing she needed was to show weakness in front of her already small crew.
“Neg, Leftenant. Just thinking of how we’re stuck in this bloody mess.”
“Struth, Cap’n. It’s a right muckabout, yar?”
Sometimes, even Gem couldn’t piece through Outback. As if to show mercy on her senses, Daze usually tried to pick words that only took a few seconds to sort through, though his terminology could hardly be called inaccurate. The Aruna, alone in these waters, had been chosen to escort two merchant vessels, stragglers in a convoy that had already blown through here two days ago. A U-boat scare had caused the convoy to break apart and scatter, and the pieces were slowly being pulled together to venture towards Rila. The two tramp steamers, the Coastal Holiday and Happy Traveler were steaming towards an Aquileia more and more battered into the ground. With the Empire back on the offensive and making gains again, the Republique was more and more desperate for the same materials New Mareland and Equestria needed. Many of these ships sailed with less than full hulls of goods both ways, and now was no exception. In exchange for valuable aluminum and crystals harvested from the bauxite ridden hills of the New Hoofington region, Aquileia opened up the massive fields from which they harvested vast tracts of wheat, potatoes, oats, barley and sugarbeets, as well as exotic goods shipped north from Les Meridiennes, specifically the valuable rubber farms so tires and seals could be manufactured. A hundred other, smaller transactions normally took place under the umbrella of this massive strategic exchange, but ever since the Empire had broken through the Peripherie there had been less and less available for New Mareland to purchase, as more and more Republique infrastructure and goods had to be dedicated to the nation’s defense. True, the UKA was more than willing to compensate, but the loss of such a close trading partner hurt the Commonwealth greatly. Not helping was the fact that convoys to and from Aris across the Middle Sea were just as vulnerable to U-boat attack, if not moreso in the open ocean. And the quiet admission was that Aquileia’s fortunes were, in the current situation, least priority to Commonwealth planners compared to that of New Mareland and Equestria.
They continued to steam north, their two charges in distant sight. The main convoy had four more escorts like them, and Gem would be far happier once they managed to slip back under the umbrella, though at this rate it seemed the rest of the convoy might just be back in Pridea already, turned away by the terrible weather. That would just figure, Gem grumpily thought. Here they were, victims to possible U-boats getting a lucky catch on them and the rest of the convoy safe and happy in port. They couldn’t have spared a few more pegasi to clear the way for the convoy? Merchant escort was long and tipped between uneventful and full of dangers. They really should have three times the security they did, but most Commonwealth naval assets were scouring the seas for U-boats or holding back the Grand Armada. A few destroyers and maybe a light cruiser and some aircraft were all this convoy got.
A distant peal of thunder sounded, but Gem’s ears perked up. It seemed…off. Like it was lower down to the water. And it rumbled for a quite a bit, more pounding than rolling like thunder normally did. The booms that came after were lighter, and happened to stretch on as well…
Gem’s eyes widened, and she spun to Daze, immediately snapping off orders.
“Get me a lookout on deck, I want eyes bearing three-thirty to three-forty! Raise the steamers, alert them to deviate course!”
Both Lieutenant Daze and the helmsmare gawked, trying to process the sudden turn of mood and attitude, and Gem screamed internally. They clearly had not caught on that those were not peals of thunder in the far distance, and she didn’t have time to spell it out for them.
“Now, Leftenant!” she snapped, to which her officer returned to his wits, finally aware he was being given an order.
“You ‘eard the Cap’n! Get me an observer, port side, sweep bearin’ three-thirty to three-forty!” He spun on the radiomare, who had fortunately reacted faster than the lieutenant and was already pounding out the message on her telegraph. As her wheelhouse turned to frantic activity, Gem picked up the hoofset and keyed the button.
“Attention, all hands! Beat to quarters, battlestations! I say again, battlestations! This is not a drill!”
As the deck beyond the foggy, water riddled front window suddenly exploded in activity as her crew rushed to their duties, she stepped out of the door and into the salty, wet and windy air. The fog and clouds ahead still refused to surrender anymore than vague shapes across the dark ocean. But was that a flash she saw in the distance?
“Cap’n!” Lieutenant Daze called out after her, and she reached back and took the binoculars he offered, scanning the horizon as best she could. Where was it? She knew it had to be out there…
There! Finally, she had eyes on it, a series of flashes obscured by the weather. If she was right, and she prayed to Celestia and Luna she was as wrong as could be, it was just to the northwest of them. But this close, they could still wind up caught in the middle, or subject to its after effects.
“We buggered, ma’am?” Daze yelled over the howling wind, and she shook her head, not daring to take her eyes away. More flashes, more thunder, shrieks on the wind as if from sea beasts. She could actually make out outlines now, and either they were tremendously closer than she had thought or those shapes were enormous. Perhaps both.
Finally, the lookout hollered out.
“Ship sighted! Port bow, bearing three-thirty, range about six leagues!”
Six leagues! That was, in generous terms, only about eighteen miles! Gem cursed.
“Hard to starboard, Leftenant! Get us out of here!”
“Aye, Capn’! Hard to starboard, all ahead full, get us away from the shootin’!”
Because it was shooting, and as the Aruna banked away towards the coastline in the distance, the fog finally cleared up enough. Even as the lookout began frantically screaming about seeing another ship, then another and even more, Gem lowered her binoculars, ignoring the rain. She didn’t need them anymore. Arrayed before them was a line of vessels, battleships, heavy cruisers and destroyers of a foreign fleet. Even from this distance (which was most certainly not eighteen miles, she scowled) Gem could see the naval jacks flapping in the wind. The banners of the Republique de Aquileia, the Revolutionary Republic of Griffonia, the Kingdom of Vedina and Skyfall in Exile hung from radio masts and conning towers, flapping in the winds. This was the Entente Combined Fleet, a massive juggernaut of an allied force that could compete with even the United Kingdom Navy not only in numbers but also gunnery wise. Or, it could have.
As Gem watched, one of the Aquileian battleships nearby listed to port, her guns no longer firing as she began her slow descent to the bottom, griffons and ponies frantically trying to abandon ship. In this storm, flier were battered out of the air, lifeboats were flung and smashed against the hull and many figures simply disappeared as the waves crested and crashed back down, swallowing them into the sea. Most of the heavier ships, she noted, were Aquileian. An escort carrier nearby was aflame, her deck split and broken aircraft dangling over the side like foal’s toys. A Skyfall destroyer was going down nose first, her decks already abandoned and empty. Nearby, an Aquileian light cruiser thundered her guns, the name Gloire painted proudly on her bow. A screaming from the sky sounded, and Gem tilted her head back just in time to watch a quartet of shapes descending on the cruiser. One of them took a hit from the Gloire’s anti-air guns and went down, flames sprouting from a ripped wing and destroyed engines before it slipped out of sight. But the other three were steady on course, and a cluster of bombs dropped from the diving craft, tearing through the thin foredeck of the Gloire and detonating in her magazine. The cruiser blew spectacularly like a Karthinian candle, her hull rupturing and the nearest turret flying liked a kicked can. The carnage, so far as Gem could see, stretched on past the horizon, sinking or wounded ships firing into the distance against their foe. Somehow, the trio of Commonwealth vessels had stumbled on one of the largest naval battles ever seen, and now they were doing their best to get out.
Gem turned to shout more orders, only for a rasping, terrible shrieking to ring out, getting louder for only a moment before splashing down about a hundred yards away. The shell was massive enough that, when it detonated, the wave and geyser it produced still rocked the puny Aruna, and the commander gasped in shock. Those had to be battleship grade cannons firing on them! They were about to get bombed by an enemy who didn’t even know they were there!
Another drumroll barrage rang out, a Revolutionary destroyer nearby firing everything she had. Cannons, machine guns and torpedoes were all loosed as the AA turret thundered. Closer in, Gem spotted a shape moving out of the smoke, cutting across the waves as she watched the smaller escort’s battery smack into it. The shells cratered the hull, machine gun rounds bounced off, the torpedoes smashing into its armor belt. The shape finally resolved itself, revealing a heavy cruiser sliding quietly out of the smoke, the Kaiserliche Marine naval jack flying from her conning tower. KMS Grifftonia was printed on her bow, and under the gray paint she could see the remnants of the old green and tan camouflage pattern, sometimes used by Aquileia. Or Skyfall.
Grifftonia weathered the barrage, tilting as smoke boiled out from her underdeck. Those torpedoes had done some damage after all. Perhaps not sinking the cruiser but doing enough the Imperial warship was beginning to veer off. Moving to this knife short range in the first place was dangerous enough for a modern warship, but for large vessels like a heavy cruiser to do so put it in unnecessary danger, as now smaller vessels could get a shot at her. But Gem now had her answer to the question quietly wondering in the back of her mind; who could subject a force as large as the Entente Combined Fleet to this kind of punishment? The Kaiserliche Marine was too small to force a breakout this dramatic.
Well, they were before they restored the ships they had taken from Skyfall.
Another destroyer, this one from Skyfall in Exile as well, let out a barrage of torpedoes. This did the trick, as flames erupted from the Grifftonia as the explosives shot out and lanced her hull. She groaned, listing slowly. Unless she was recovered quickly, the cruiser was done for.
The convoy finally pulled away from the battle, the mauling of the Entente fleet slipping back into the fogbank. Gem let out a sigh of relief, shivering as she noticed the wind and the rain for the first time. The chill rolling over her flank, however, was only half to do with the cold weather.
If the Empire had gained enough ships to break the blockade, what else were they capable of doing now?
30 km North of Haukland KMS Gerlach, Hochseeflotte, Sky Bay Squadron Operation Seelowe
When she had been launched, her namesake Grand Duke Gerlach (now one of the Kaiserreich’s regents) had attended her hull being pushed out of drydock in 1010. With the Herzland War raging on, her launch had been covered widely by various news outlets, from Equestria to Kiria. Though she was not the first like her sister ship Gabriela, the Gerlach wound up being heavier as by the end of her fitting in February of this year many lessons had been applied to her hull, such as corrections to certain coverage of the armor plating, protecting a vulnerable rudder and covering her upper decks with even more anti-aircraft guns. Such improvements had yet to be added to the Gabriela with the pressure on Rottendedam from overland and the constant attacks by the Entente blockade necessitating many repairs, but the new mold was laid out. Displacing forty-two thousand tons of water, the only other ships heavier than her were down south in hippogriff claws, and her offensive capability was unmatched by another other ship this far north. In short, Sparkclaw thought her a monstrous mountain of steel, immovable and likely damn near indestructible.
Kapitänleutnant Magnus Sparkclaw was what many in circles that spoke Equusian referred to as a ‘Mustang’. To the Kaiserliche Marine, he was a See Hund, though he was griffon instead of dog, an old sailor who had come up through the ranks too slow, and was now lodged firmly in the lower ranks of command with little chance to climb higher. When the Revolution had struck in 978, the city of Skyfall had seen their chance and murdered the local garrison to abduct the majority of the Imeprial fleet. At that time, Sparkclaw had been a mere rating aboard the KMS Odin, and had escaped the mutiny in time to retreat north with others to reach Feathisia. The past thirty-four years, he had served honorably with the Ducal Fleet, the last navy the Kaiser had left. True, his Katerin dialect and bluntness had put many of the Feathisians he served alongside off, but he had decided that the sea was his home, not some destitute, plague-ridden landlocked province in perpetual revolt under a duchess who seemed more and more unhinged. And, if the Herzlard War was any proof, Sparkclaw had been right.
The problem was, his lack of schooling and connections meant he had to work his way up from the bottom, and now as old as he was he had likely hit the ceiling for what he’d achieve. But he didn’t regret it or resent it. He had lived long enough to see the Kaiserliche Marine restored, and the Ducal Fleet built back into the symbol of Imperial might it had once been. He had sailed against pirates off the Zebrides and seen ports across the world. He had fought through storms that had smashed lesser vessels and watched modern guns kill sea monsters. Now, he served aboard a mighty and new battleship, commanding the ship’s anti-air batteries. True, he may not move up in the world much more, but he was right where he wanted to be.
Sparkclaw blew out a puff of smoke, enjoying the Golden Griffon luxury cigarette he had managed to squirrel away. Normally only affordable by nobles, he’d won these off a naval aviator back in Rottendedam who was the daughter of some landowner from the Grenzwald before the fleet had launched, and he was trying to savor them as best he could. Off the starboard bow, he had an amazing view of the sea that was Sky Bay. In centuries past, this had been an Imperial lake, as safe as houses from piracy thanks to a naval base in Haukland and batteries up and down the coasts of formerly Imperial Fezera and Cloudbury. To think of how things had changed sometimes made his old gut sick that had nothing to do with sea sickness he had long grown out of, but he managed to tough it out sure as sure. Besides, there was plenty more to see that set him back to rights again, and a smirk came back to him as he took another drag and glanced up at the carriers riding escort for the Gerlach.
The KMS Falcona had always been an Imperial ship, in one way or another. Before being a carrier, she was supposed to be laid down as a dreadnought, named the KMS Grover V. But massive ships like that were expensive, and Feathisia's economic downturn had resulted in many cuts to the Ducal Fleet. Until 1002, she had languished in drydock half completed until the idea had been put forward to turn her into an airplane carrier. By 1004, she was the second of such Imperial carriers, though the lack of funding and later the Herzland War had slowed any further carrier development. In fact, only one other aircraft carrier, the very modern Herzland-class KMS Herzland had launched as well by 1011, bringing the total number of Imperial airplane ships to a stunted three. Old time attitudes and a lack of experience meant the prevailing attitude was that the battleship was king of the seas. But times were changing. The hippogriffs and Equestrians had proven carriers more than viable, though the Kaiserliche Marine had taken much longer to admit it.
When it came to naval aviation, the Kaiserliche Marine was not very imaginative. Instead of taking a leaf out of the page of mighty carrier navies like Equestria or Hippogriffia and developing dedicated carrier craft, the much more limited Marinefliegerkorps were provided with navalized versions of their land-based air counterparts. Given their low priority, that meant Adler fighters, Greifvogel dive bombers and Gans torpedo planes instead of Habichts, Karakara and Fischadlers respectively. All that separated them were arrestor gear to land with and an M in the name to designate their use by naval forces. But, as Sparkclaw watched a Griefvogel (M) take off from the flight deck, slipping off the bow before rising to soar into the wing and begin its journey west, he came to the grudging admission they had at least been given good, proven and reliable planes. Out at sea, that often mattered more than if the craft was dedicated or not.
At his shoulder, another servicedrake cleared his throat to get his attention. “Hey, Greis. Got a smoke?”
His accent, light and airy compared to Herzlandisch, told that he was a Southerner. Most Imperial marines, known as the Seetruppen, were from Feathisia, Cyanolisia or Gryphus. The southerners, as it happened, possessed the most amphibious experience of anygriff on this side of the world on Griffonia, a lot of it earned during Operation Tartarus last year in bringing the heel down on the minotaurs once and for all. Feathisian ships had taken part in that operation, smashing the Asterionese fleet like cardboard houses. It was there that the idea to marry south and west was born, and now they had things like Seetruppen training centers in Cyanolisia and her scattered islands to compete with the Naval Akadamie in Rottendedam. There weren’t many of them, certainly not compared to naval dominant powers like Equestria, Bakara, Aris or even Aquileia, but they had been trained to be the best they could be, kommandos shaped by a Reich with a long legacy of turning out elite forces. The drake at least deserved his due.
Sparkclaw thumbed open his lighter, flicking the wheel to produce a small flame, holding his other claw up to protect the small flame from the ocean spray while he lit his own Golden Griffon, taking his time on purpose, trying to signal the marine that it was probably time to go. He knew this particular marine, of course. Oberfeldwebelseetruppen Walter Stolzflügel was an old friend of his from their time back in the previous Kaiserliche Marine, two ratings caught up in the revolution and its chaos. Where Sparkclaw had remained, Stolzflügel had returned home to Thymíaustadt to protect it against minotaur indogenes and Asterion raiders. When the south had rejoined the Kaiserreich, it brought with it a glut of years of expertise battling for their homeland in first conventional warfare, then guerilla resistance on the parts of many griffs before their liberation, then amphibious experience storming enemy shores across the Minogulf. Stolzflügel was Sparkclaw’s age, but carried with him a glut of different memories on into a position that actually demanded respect.
With a pop and the whine and crackle of static, the intercom blared out ”Attention! Attention! Task force has entered operational zone! All hands to battlestations, all Seetruppen prepare for deployment! Attention!” Stolzflügel took his time, letting the flame lick over his cigar before taking a long pull, igniting the stogie and leaning back, exhaling a long cloud. Sparkclaw, a pipe smoker himself, frowned in disapproval.
“Don’t you have a landing to coordinate? We’re about to start the bombardment.”
With a maximum range of thirty-six kilometers for the eight big guns, the Gerlach was already within her bombardment zone. Most Seetruppen would be down in the landing craft, preparing to wade ashore in the Pioneer Landing Boat 10s (known more commonly as ‘Pilabos’). Not as familiar with amphibious warfare as the current leading world’s experts in Hippogriffia (or was it Aris now?), the Kaiserliche Marine had also refused the method used by the Changelings and their Olenian allies, which was to use amphibious tractors like the Landwasserschlepper to haul assault barges up under naval barrage followed by shallow draft catamaran Siebelfähre powered ferries. No, for the Kaiser’s Seetruppen a proper answer was needed, and behind the Pilabos would come Marinefährprahm loaded with trucks and more vehicles with Calico and Stahlschild panzers (hand me downs from the Reichsarmee)...and then yes, Landwasserschlepper tractors with barges behind them. The Imperial copy of the changeling design was an exact replica part for part, as honestly it had been a very good design. The point was, everything was ready for the invasion to start, and even thirty kilometers out the assault parties needed to finish the preparations they had started hours ago.
But Stolzflügel waved a claw in arrogant ease, taking another long pull on his stogie. Due to enlisting from the bottom, not many knew he was the scion of a minor noble house, one of those who had lost land as a result of the Revolution and taken what they could in Cyanolisia. By all rights, he should have been an officer like most from the peer who entered the service, but Stolzflügel always sought a challenge. His casual disregard for danger had led him straight into the Seetruppen, and it was clear that had not faded with the years gone by since Sparkclaw had last seen him.
“Relax, Old Drake. You worry too much. Then again, you are a Fleet sailor.”
“I’m not that much older than you,” Sparkclaw pointed out, not even bothering to rise to the interservice rivalries that had been laid out. “And a little worry saves plenty of lives.”
“Fine, Mutter. Since you obviously want me gone,” Stolzflügel waved a claw dismissively, smiling and chuckling around his cigar to show there was no malice behind it. “When did you become the responsible officer, Magnus?”
“A long time ago…” Sparkclaw muttered, regardless clasping claws with his oldest friend. “Take care, Walt. It’s going to be bad out there.”
Stolzflügel laughed aloud now, giving Sparkclaw’s grasp a firm shake. “If it's even half as bad as Kerato Beach, we’ll be walking into a meatgrinder. So I’m positive we’ll be fine.”
*****
Haukhamn, Haukland Operation Seelowe
When the attack struck, it did with a vicious drumroll. The red/white checkerboard and gold gear banner of the Skyfall Federation flew over the airfield as Griefvogel (M) dive bombers plummeted on the planes parked there, an eclectic mix of Skyfall, Aquileian, Republic and looted craft from when the pirate renegade Meyer ruled the isles. Though the airfield’s defenses barked and hammered, sending clouds of flak into the sky, they weren’t expecting such fast moving targets. They had been briefed on the high flying medium and heavy bombers the Empire was more likely to send. Nogriff had expected the Kaiser’s navy to answer the challenge. While most of the craft pulled up smartly and wheeled away, several blossomed plumes of white or black smoke, and of those a few careened over to the ground before detonating spectacularly. But the job was done, as row after row of planes detonated spectacularly. The largest was the airfield’s fuel reserve tanks, as three bombs slammed into this vital deposit and set it alight, destroying both the storage and the hastily erected maintenance shed near it on the overpacked field.
Other AA guns across the city thundered as planes flashed by, more dive bombers and escorting fighters. Fortified positions within the city were suddenly turned to scrap and fire as explosives found them, though quite a few bombs intended for actual targets went wide and smashed into the street or nearby shops. The civilians, already used to military action when Skyfall took over their island a few years before, were already fleeing to cover, either basements or fortified structures. Federal troops, the defenders Skyfall had left, moved to their positions. Where was the fleet? Why hadn’t they been warned of this? But of course, they received no answers. Bodies lay bleeding in the street, some in tan with the Federal flag, some civilians with bad luck. A truck came roaring past, a mounted machine gun blazing into the sky before another Imperial aircraft sprouted flames and pinwheeled away. The gunner raised a fist as he whooped in celebration, wings flared.
At the shoreline, bunkers were being filled as the alarm klaxon rang. Air raids were plastering the city and military sites around, but so far had avoided the main harbor and beach. At first, the officers overseeing the defense were confused. This would be the most obvious method of invasion for amphibious troops. Why were they being left alone? The answer came quickly as faint forms on the horizon were spotted by Federal lookouts, and the news was grim.
“Schlachtschiff!”
The outlines were positively identified. Expert mariners and experienced sailors, Skyfall’s soldiers had been briefed to know exactly what to expect from the Kaiserliche Marine. There was the Gerlach, one of the two Regent-class heavy battleships in Imperial service, paired with a Kaiser class and Kronzprinz class, likely the Grover III and the Konstanter Warwick, though there was no chance to identify. The planes meant a carrier lurked somewhere offshore, or perhaps two. Around them was a small picket of heavy and light cruisers and practically a forest of destroyers screening the entire assembly. A veritable armada. Flashes abruptly streaked across the horizon in double quick time, faster than the lagging speed of sound.
The barrage wasn’t just the Imperial battleships, of course. This close, the heavy cruisers and even destroyers of the fleet could draw targets on the bunkers and machine gun nests. Many Federal troops fled, wings flapping as they tried to fly from their roosts, officers and sergeants screaming at them to man their doomed positions. But when the thunder sounded in the distance and the shells started falling, it quickly brought the horrors of the overland war to this island. Geysers erupted on the sandy shore, clouds of black explosions destroying warehouses and piers in the harbor, hunting for machine gun nests and fortified positions seen by Imperial spotters and recon planes. Two destroyers, left in harbor for repairs and rest, were caught trying to prepare to cast off and respond, heavy shells more akin to landbound howitzers raking their decks. It wasn’t long before one began sinking, even as more shells struck her, while the other began burning in her mooring, crewgriffs abandoning her deck into the air or the water. On shore, Federal soldiers ran in disarray, trying to avoid the barrage that hammered away like the demented tune of some devilish drumline played by the darkest of gods, the shells moving up into the city proper now. The first line of buildings were annihilated into little more than rubble, clogging up the roads and turning response into clustered knots of confused griffs. Many of these were then set upon by dive bombers and further bombardment.
On shore, in the surviving bunkers, a cry was set up; “Eingehend!” But it was not ordnance coming in this time; it was a line of boats. At least thirty in the first wave, they were released from troop carriers that had moved closer to the shore under cover of the bombardment to release their precious cargo. Some of them had been secreted aboard the larger ships and released from further out to stagger the assault, though only the big landers could survive the rougher seas. The surviving Federal defenders tried firing back, and to their credit, they still had a stiff array of field guns, howitzers and machine guns. They struck back with every intent to land revenge, and with sinister pride they saw more than one barge sputter and sink, or list aside aflame as distant figures tried to bail out over the sides. To their horror, thunder ripped again. While battleships possessed the gut curling firepower of their massive batteries, the light cruisers and destroyers had more accurate guns.
The first Imperial Pilabos that smashed into the beach were answered with a rain of fire from machine guns emplaced behind the trenchline, and both rifles and submachine guns that knew all they had to do was focus on the ramps. And indeed, as the ramp fell the gray green figures inside fell in bloody clumps, their wings wide and fumbling in broken heaps. Some fell to the surf and sand they had worked so hard to take, reaching their destination just to fall here. Some fell in the lander itself, dead before they could take one step out of the boat. Others fell as they advanced across the beach, struck down as they fired on the move, trying to claw their way up. The Pilabos each released a pair of Calico light tanks, treads digging into the sand before pulling them forward, bullets sparking off their armored plate like raindrops on a roof. Their cannons, pitifully small against the more formidable panzers on land, were perfect for supporting the Seetruppen as they fell in behind their armored comrades, machine guns chattering as they swept the trenchline. The response was insufficient. Nogriff had actually banked on an amphibious assault from the Empire being this dedicated and well equipped. They had no panzer zerstorer guns, and the flak guns were armed with shells meant to destroy aircraft, useful against infantry but useless versus heavy plate. One of the surviving howitzers could kill a panzer with a direct shot, but at this range it was practically point blank range, fired over open sights.
The next line of craft, the Marinefährprahm mixed among Pilabos, pushed ashore next to their comrades, many of which were empty, full of the dead and dying or on fire. This next wave dispatched even more Seetruppen ashore, followed not by Calicos but by ADGZ armored cars and a half dozen Stahlschild medium panzers. This, as it happened, was the clincher. The shore defenders had no answer for this line of steel as it swept up what was left of the beach, Seetruppen taking awing to jump over the lines of barbed wire and land in the Federal trenches, the fighting come down to melee range as claws flashed, trench guns boomed, submachine guns chattered and both knives and entrenching tools flashed. Blood splashed on the ramparts from both sides, and both tan and feldgrau clad corpses slumped over each other.
By the time the third wave of even more Seetruppen, halftracks laden with supplies and aid vehicles to recover casualties made it in, the shore defenses had crumbled, and the assault moved on into the city.
Six hours of vicious urban warfare later, the Imperial banner flew over that same airfield bombed in the early minutes of the battle.
Six days later, the last of the garrison surrendered to the Kaiserliche Marine, handing over the Skyfall Federation in exile ministers they had fought beak and claw to protect. With that, and the annihilation of the Federal Remnant fleet in the Battle of Pelis, the Entente found itself short one effective partner.
The War had taken one step closer to finally being won. But the waves on the beach ran red with the blood of fallen Seetruppen, corpses scattered in clumps across the sand. The ruins of bunkers and destroyed armor clustered together, and the streets ran red with blood from bodies caught under the rubble, both invader and defender. The islands had been seized, and paid for with the blood of brave griffons on both sides.
A grim portent.
Delivered Via Skyway Express Airmail Sent May 25th, 1012
Dear Paige,
I had heard of the losses Equestria has suffered. I am afraid that the news here does not sound good. It's not even celebratory. The newspapers aren’t crowing it as loud as they might have a few months back. There’s even renewed mutterings about Tall Tale. I don’t know what it all means, but Equestria losing at the hooves of the changelings doesn’t seem as wonderful a thing as we thought it might have been. I always worry about you flying in that plane, no matter how sturdy. I have seen many heavy bombers shot down over here, from both sides. It never bodes well for the crew inside. Please stay as safe as you can, and I will do my best not to overwhelm you with my concerns.
We are fighting inside the city itself now. The mail is slowed down by a few days as we are pushed further into Westkeep. The Aquileians seem to be running low on MPA fanatics to throw at us, but that seems to have been replaced by regular fusiliers. The flow of troops and material coming through the Gap has strengthened, but in this place it has done little more than turn it into a meatgrinder. We cannot move forward, and our heavy panzers are becoming a hindrance in the city streets. I have had to turn Isegrim into a fortified position many times. Last night we were struck by another attack and took many casualties (thirty eight dead and one hundred and nine wounded from the reports) and the Aquileians lost even more. We are not always able to move the dead and wounded, but every now and then truces are called to do so. The Aquileians also evacuate civilians from their homes as they advance. I’m glad they do so. It lessens the number of guerillas left behind, but I also don’t like the idea that we are clashing in this bloody exchange while innocent griffs suffer for it.
I am sorry it is taking me longer to write. The fighting is constant, so I don’t get much sleep or free time. I live in my commander’s seat now, quite literally. My clippers are dull, so I have begun growing a mustache and beard. I don’t like them. Trimming with a knife like some of the other veterans is an art that has escaped me, and I don’t like the idea of accidentally damaging feathers I will have to rip out. So I wait. When they can finally relieve us, I would like to find a barber and get rid of this pointless facial hair.
I heard we captured Haukland. And the blockade is essentially ended. Both good things. I hope this means I can talk to you more often. I would write more now if I could, but I am bloody tired and sore and cannot keep focus. I will send this to you, knowing your next one can reach me that much easier and quicker.
Always praying to see you again.
Love,
Your Cyril
The operation carried out on the 23rd of May, 1012 has been confirmed to be referred to as ‘Operation: Seelowe’ by the Kaiserliche Marine. This seems to be the result of weeks if not months of planning, perhaps back to the beginning of the Entente-Reikspakt War. Connections lead to Admiral Hellcrest, Admiral Hardbeak, Admiral Raincrest, Admiral Von Sprache and General Vogelbeck to name a few (full list attached to report). For context, ever since their defeat by the Empire last year the remnants of the Skyfall Trade Federation had set up a new capital in Haukhamn, on the Haukland Islands midway between the continents of Griffonia and Equus. From here, the ships they had remaining could work with the Entente Combined Fleet, using the Haukland Islands as an anchor in a blockade stretching from the island harbor of Winterhold and ending in the Aquileian port city of Rila. This fleet could use the three ports with assistance from Vedina and the Revolutionary Republic to effectively sink any Kaiserliche Marine vessel that came close to the blockade and put an end to all merchant shipping going to Rottendedam or occupied Skyfall or Grifftonia. This blockade has been in place since the war’s beginning.
Agents infiltrated in the Empire as well as attaches to the Revolutionary Republic and Republique de Aquileia reported that, as of Skyfall’s occupation, between sixty and seventy percent of the Skyfall Federation Fleet had been captured by Reikspakt forces. However, due to crew sabotage, difference in gauges and several of these ships already being in port for maintenance, the Griffonian Empire was unable to make use of these vessels. This gave the Combined Fleet time to assault Skyfall with port strikes, naval bombardment and commando infiltration to keep damaging these vessels or even sink some. As of May 13th, 1012, it was reported thirty percent of the former Skyfall fleet was damaged beyond use.
On May 23rd, reports from vessels such as the New Mareland destroyer NMRS Aruna delivered the startling realization that the Kaiserliche Marine had restored enough of the old fleet to functionality to launch a coordinated assault on the blockade described above, referred to herein as ‘Operation: Seelowe’ (translation: Sea Lion). The Kaiserliche Marine split its main force (referred to as the ‘High Seas Fleet’) in two; the Rila Squadron and the Sky Bay Squadron. Rila Squadron was given the KMS Gabriela (a Regent-class battleship) as the flagship, while the Sky Bay Squadron was given the KMS Gerlach (the second Regent-class battleship in the Kaiser’s navy) as a flagship. Both squadrons were given aircraft carriers, battleships, cruisers (both heavy, light and battlecruisers) and destroyers to engage their targets. Submarine squadrons were tasked with watching for reinforcements and sinking damaged Entente vessels that tried to escape. (Fleet order of battles are attached).
This report is by no means exhaustive, as our operatives were unable to attain a complete layout of the Operation or the specific order of events. More data will be incoming. For in this preliminary report, we can say for certain that the Rila Squadron engaged first, attacking the Combined Fleet with a heavier number of capital ships to draw attention to their location before attacking the reinforcements with submarines and aircraft, both shore launched and carrier launched. The result is that the Entente Combined Fleet has been reduced in strength by an estimated sixty percent, while Rila Squadron was reduced by thirty percent (many of those being restored Skyfall vessels and several out of date). Between crew and aircraft losses, casualties of both fleets are about similar due to Entente efforts at search and rescue being easier thanks to proximity to Aquileian shore patrols.
While Rila Squadron engaged the Combined Fleet, dual amphibious landings were executed to take the port of Haukhamn and the surrounding Haukland Isles as well as Winterhold. Without the overwhelming might of the Combined Fleet, what response the Skyfall in Exile, Vedinian and Revolutionary navy could send were not enough to fight back the enemy, and both port cities were seized by Imperial Marines. By the writing of this report, all targets seized are still in Imperial claws.
In conclusion, while information is still incoming at this time, we can say for certain that the Entente blockade is broken and the Griffonian Empire is now in control of the Haukland Islands and the Kaiserliche Marine now dominates the northern half of the Celestial Sea. In the short term, we may see our trade convoys to the Entente disrupted or seized by the Reikspakt, and more military aid sent to the Changeling Armada. In the long term, this may spell that imports from Griffonian ports aside from New Mareland is no longer safe or possible, and military aid for Entente nations should be restricted as a result. In this agent’s humble personal opinion, the chance of war with the Reikspakt is likely low due to the ongoing conflict on the Griffonian continent. We have no worry of the Reikspakt entering the Great War.
The design of the Kaiserliche vessels remains fairly conventional, though extra concern is to be laid upon the Regent-class. While data on their particulars remains scant, the information we do have to hoof indicates the use of changeling optics, eight 15” guns on four fast moving turrets and a thick armor belt (actual composition to be determined) as well as three geared steam turbines. This makes the Regent-class a fast moving, very accurate and hard hitting vessel. Extra attention should be put onto gathering intelligence on the Kaiserliche Marine, as earlier estimates of the backwards nature of Imperial naval technology are clearly no longer valid.
-Excerpt from report by Agent Chariot, from the Secret Military Intelligence League of Equestria (S.M.I.L.E.) Naval Intelligence Department, May 30th. Delivered directly to Princess Luna.
June 7th, 1012 Griffenheim Herzland
It had been a bit of time since Vollstrecker Helga Grimwing had seen the Imperial City in daylight, even if this daylight was closer to sunset. So much of her work both official and covert took place at night or out of the city for so long that she had almost forgotten what flying in over the capital looked like. The fuming smokestacks of Industrie in the distance, the noble mansions and palaces near the city center, the splendor of the Grand Temple and the Palace both and the Griffking River as it met and split here, almost as if the water was wound through the city instead of it being built across the river fork.
Today, this impression was marred. Industrie still churned out massive clouds of smoke, but not all of them were from the factories, though she noted that had hardly faltered as even those damaged by the air raids were still as active as they could be, running what machines were still operable. Many bridges in the city were shattered, roadways full of rubble and automobiles rent into little more than crushed wrecks. The wreckage of autos and boats both poking out of the mighty Griffking presented a hazard that was hard to remove, and slowed river traffic to a crawl. Anger simmered in her gut as she noted even the Grand Temple and Palace had not escaped from aerial bombardment, as work crews repairing damage to roofs and windows on the massive structures could be seen even from up here, swarming like worker ants over the dozens of rents in such sacred structures. Oh sure, she could see that many noble estates were also pretty badly messed up, but that mattered less to her, in all honesty. The aristocracy always had the money to throw at fixing what they had, and if they were busy fearing for their lives and restoring their estates it left them less time and money to screw up the Empire. The cost to the common griffon wasn’t a fair exchange, however. Housing districts that crumbled under the concentrated bombing, power outages at all hours of the day, sometimes for a week at a time, emergency services hindered by blocked roads and cracked water lines. She flew over a line of apartments, where a worker crew were flying from roof to roof as they shoved debris from rooftops and holes blasted into walls so the trucks below could come collect it. In peacetime, this kind of damage would be irreparable, but for now the Imperial coffers were contributing lucrative incentives for noble landlords to repair their tenants’ residences no matter the cost or effort. She also knew of many who had refused and been brought up on charges by the Reichsbeirat for conspiracy to disrupt the war effort. After the first dozen or so, the attempts at petty rebellion had stopped, and now apartments were given all the time and money needed to be restored.
They never came in the daytime, when the Imperial Guard and Luftstreitkräfte fighter patrols could respond in force, and the hundreds of anti-air guns were actually capable of spotting their targets. That was how Helga knew the Aquileians were cowards.
Shaking her head, Helga turned towards the Imperial Square, the Kaiserlicher Platz. The grand, splayed out entrance before the bridges that led over the Griffking and into the Palace grounds sat at one end, where massive iron gates sat secure and prepared to repel any and all invasions. Guarding this entrance were knights from the Order of the White Lion, resplendent in white and blue with their leonine helms marking their affiliation. For over a century, they had been guardians of the Imperial City itself, and only ever took in griffons of the best character and ability, trained to become quite possibly the deadliest individual warriors on Griffonia, only outmatched by the fanatically loyal Barkginian Guard. Even the ever pervasive corruption of noble influence and nepotism hadn’t touched their ranks to ease in politically motivated candidates. Backing the knights were the common griffs of the Imperial Guard, though even these soldiers were still some of the hardest fighters in the Kaiserreich’s service. Veterans of a dozen different wars, their blue coats and shimmering spiked pickelhaube marked them out from the more boring Herzland Landwehr in khaki and gray, with coal-scuttle helms and service caps. Ever since the infamous Barracks Revolt and slaughter of the Regency Council (which had paved the way for the resurgence of the Reichsberat even in a time of Regency), the Guard had received the best the Imperial arsenal had to offer, and of the ranks of bluecoats she could see, most if not all of them were armed with blue shimmering crystal rifles like their knightley counterparts, and some even wore what looked like armored breastplates.
As she observed, she realized the square was packed with soldiers of one type or another, and not just the gate guardians. The Imperial Square was jammed with military personnel and vehicles from the six-columned Kaiser’s Gate to the other two exits at the Archon’s Gate and the Noble’s Gate. Normally, traffic flowed both directions through all three, but this time the stream of various colors was disrupted by the green-gray Imperial Feldgrau of military Vasalls and Katzes crammed in, Reichsarmee griffons flying around the square as they secured it, weapons in claw as they looked for additional targets. In the center, several wrecked vehicles surrounded a blast crater in the flagstones, scorched black by whatever explosive had been detonated to cause this chaos. And then, she spotted the ambulances and cursed under her breath as she saw the figure she’d been looking for. She tucked her wings in, diving towards the square as she went, cap threatening to fly off and greatcoat fluttering as the wind tore at them both.
As Helga pulled up and came in for a landing, two nearby Reichsarmee Feldgendarmerie (known commonly as Feldjagers) both drew pistols on her, advancing with their own wings angrily flared. They wore distinct gorgets on chains around their neck that pictured the Imperial Griffon, stretched out above the word ‘FELDGENDARMERIE’ below.
“Freeze! You’ve entered a military cordon! Give your passbook, schnell!”
She complied with little complaint, quickly furling her wings as fast as she could to not present a threat. The coat and medals she wore meant nothing in the grand scheme of things. Uniforms could be stolen, but papers were harder to fake, requiring a forger who not only had the right type of camera but also was caught up on the composition and layout of the book and could get a claw on the necessary stamps and codes to cement the forgery. Unfortunately, while difficult, it wasn’t impossible.
The one Feldjager examined her passbook with a critical eye, glancing back and forth between her photograph and her face before nodding, passing it back over.
“Apologies, Vollstrecker,” he said curtly as she accepted the documents back. “Everygriff is told to stay on high alert. No one in or out without being checked. We’ve had incidents with civilians trying to get to their vehicles.”
Military police troopers, the Feldgendarmerie were one of the few branches of the Reichsarmee that were given large exceptions to their interactions with Vollstrecker. True, they were still as culpable to military justice, but Feldjagers were the common eyes and ears for the political enforcers, and as a result they were handled less roughly than the common rank and file, and given a touch more respect.
The second Feldjager gestured behind, towards the ambulances.
“I’ll take you this way, ma’am.”
Clearly, the two had recognized the name, and as such were just as eager to move Helga along. She waved a claw to allow them to lead her on, then followed them through the ruin of the Square. Cars that had slammed into each other formed makeshift barricades through and over which military and medical personnel traveled, and more than one of those smashed automobiles held more corpses that were carefully being pulled out by figures in green gray or white with red highlights. Judging from similar efforts a short distance away, some civilians must have been trampled or knocked to the ground from great height in the panicked fleeing from the scene of the bombing. Griffenheim’s citizenry had gotten used to immediately clearing the site of an explosion, as the months of aerial bombs dropping on the city had helped teach them the value of such a thing. The closer she got to the blast zone, the more the damage to the vehicles was from flying shrapnel, thrown debris and massive explosive force slamming into them. Streaks of blood and white sheet covered forms paid grim testament to the results of such an attack, clusters of singed feathers and tattered clothing spotted occasionally among the ruins.
Finally, Helga spotted her target, and shoved past her escort to close with the formel being attended by the medics. She didn’t seem all that bothered to have half her face bandaged, one eye swollen shut and her neck in a brace as they prepared to load her up on a stretcher. In fact, Ela Grimwing seemed downright chatty as she conversed at (a more accurate statement than saying she conversed with them) the grim-faced medics loading her up. Nearby, several other griffons in black coats and high peaked caps stood, submachine guns clutched in their claws, another griff dressed in a plain suit standing by Ela’s side, a notepad and pen held expectantly. One of the Vollstrecker, noticing Helga approaching and recognizing her as a fellow comrade, waved her onwards before turning back to scan the area.
Ela Grimwing, the Eisen Adler, head of the most powerful counter-intelligence agency in Griffonia, glanced up from the stretcher and waved at her daughter approaching.
“Helga!” she called out, causing several to swivel their heads towards the newcomer. “Mein leibe, how did you get here so quickly?”
“I was in town for an after mission briefing,” Helga said shortly, knowing her mother likely was already aware, and either so high on morphine she was having trouble keeping her thoughts straight (hence the recorder standing nearby in case Ela spluttered out something top secret and who else might have heard it that needed to be contained) or was simply going through the pleasantries in her own unpredictable way. “A car bomb, mutter? Really?”
Her tone might have said she was mad at the very victim of said bombing, as if the explosive planted in her undercarriage had been her fault in some way. Helga wasn’t familiar with worrying. She was familiar with fury, with adrenaline, with the threat on her own life and the concern for her teammates. She knew patriotism and the anger associated with dealing with those who betrayed her nation, such as yesterday when she led a team of agents to raid a warehouse full of illegal weaponry coming into the country to fall into the claws of Republican cells inside the Kaiserreich. But to be concerned about her mother, the rock of her life standing statuesque and immovable while everything around them erupted and eroded? Helga was not familiar with taking that kind of soft touch.
To her credit, Ela simply snorted in amusement, wincing a moment before giggling again. Yep, definitely the drugs causing this. Sighing, Helga nodded to the paramedic, allowing them to take her away. She didn’t bother telling Ela goodbye or wishing her well, knowing her mother wouldn’t remember, stepping back to scan the Square around her. At least with her mother and the other injured civilians on the way to the hospital, (and the doctor would likely be poking at her for some time) the Vollstrecker had been given at least a few hours to investigate for herself, gather what clues and data she could and then head over to talk to the ‘primary victim’ when she was a little more collected.
Hopefully.
Even here in the Imperial Square, these semi-sacred walls were not immune to propaganda posters, advertisements and political flyers. Underneath, alongside and over the top of flyers for local businesses and products (an aged flier for Golden Griffon cigars and luxury cigarettes made her chuckle, as inflation and scarcity meant the common griff could no longer hope to afford them) were pasted up, older posters urging enlistment barked at her from every direction she looked alongside encouragement for the common griffs to purchase war bonds, give blood at the local hospital, return recyclable material and, most important of all, report suspicious activity. That one Helga knew was both the most honest and the most dubious. It was no secret that Kemerskai and Verany had both seeded infiltrators into the Empire far more effectively than MfÖS could do in return, and the amount of pro-Republican and anti-war messages she could see either having not been removed yet or the tattered remnants of the sheets from where they’d already been torn down both caught her eye. Having the entire population on alert was certain to cast their net all the wider, but it also meant plenty of false reports were collected in as well, neighbors who wanted to settle grudges, exes with an ax to grind or just plain paranoia making griffs scared of those they saw as different. But upon scanning the walls to orient herself and start looking for clues, two new styles of poster caught her eye, and she stepped closer to examine them.
One had several ranks of mostly griffon soldiers, each of them dressed in some form of feldgrau uniform, be it Reichsarmee, Luftstreitkräfte, Kaiserliche Marine or one of the auxiliary services. Male and female both, they were all smiling towards some invisible sight while the only concrete differences were the flag armbands they wore denoting their nationality. One was from Yale, another from Katerin, another Feathisia, Strawberry to name a few. A Bronze Dog wore the shielded mountain of Bronzehill, a Zebra wore the colonial emblem of the South Zebrides, and so on and so forth to include all the parts of the official Herzland and her colonies (Skyfall and the Whitetails were conspicuously absent, she noticed) all crowded together and represented by a different illustrated servicegriff. They all had rifles shouldered, marching in unison, and behind them the flag of the greater Griffonian Empire filled the sky out behind them, and near the bottom was a single large word:
’Together!’ Underneath that in smaller type stretched the phrase ’To protect our Empire.’
Next to it, another poster depicting heavy guns crewed by griffons wearing the flags of Aquileia, Skyfall, Vedina and the Revolutionary Republic, firing on a lush, verdant green valley between two rivers, a city that was evidently meant to be Griffenheim on fire under the illustrated shells. At the bottom of this poster were the printed words ’This is how it will look in Imperial lands if the Entente reach the Griffking’. Simple, but effective storytelling.
“Verdammt, that’s good,” she muttered, perusing these new posters that she assumed had only recently come off the mill. She had never expected to become a connoisseur of propaganda sheets, but after raiding so many republican, socialist and even Borealist hideouts and finding stack after stack after stack of the simple to spread messages, her eye had begun appraising them. The Borealist messages were vicious, simple and monochrome with their messaging and criticism of the nobility and sinners, but she felt they tried to cram too many letters in there. Aquileian posters were, like Imperial ones, simple and straight to the point, but they relied too much on well known political cartoonists and seemed to print new messages every week, clearly indicative of the shifting focus in the government. Socialist posters were always the simplest, but often threw out political terms the common griff was unlikely to understand too well. And Kemerskai’s lot were the least imaginative of all, mostly relying on printing the tricolor or the Iron President’s portrait and putting the single word of ‘Liberty’ or ‘Revolution’. It never varied and never changed in thirty years, and if this hadn’t shaken the common griffs’ mind by now, it wasn’t likely to.
Reluctantly, Helga tore herself away from the poster-covered wall, eyes scanning the square. The ambulances and Landwehr troops had mostly addressed the corpses, but the blast area, wrecked cars and bloodstains still provided hints to the scene. The Polizei would not be included in this investigation, save what MfÖS released to them. The needs of the Reich came first, and the civilian authorities would have to live with that. As a Vollstrecker, Helga was a representative of the Ministerium and thus had top priority to inspect the crime scene unless the Regents or Kaiser directly appointed an investigator. For now, it was her. But the search turned up inconclusive. The problem wasn’t a lack of evidence, there was plenty here to indicate what had happened. Likely the bomber had wired her mother’s car with the explosive’s detonator under the accelerator, so that it would only explode when she got in and moved to pull away. The problem was, the amateur had seemingly put the explosives in the trunk, or that was Helga’s best guess. It was the only way Ela had survived. It could not have been very large either. Individuals with suspicious packages they couldn’t explain were stopped by both polizei and military patrols in Griffenheim all the time, usually just a cursory inspection or a quick review of paperwork. Not to mention the paving stones and asphalt were not catastrophically damaged in a wide radius, meaning it had a light dose of high explosive material. Small and concentrated, probably relying on the car’s petrol tank detonating to do most of the work. Not the kind of weapon to take chances with, as was evident here.
Now that method and means had been established, Helga had the difficult part. They had no suspect, and she doubted they’d get a party stepping forward to accept responsibility for a failed assassination attempt. So, she would have to guess. Was it the Rebels? Kemerskai’s revolution was not averse to stooping to such tricks, and from all reports they were committing scorched earth and guerilla warfare across Cloudbury to slow the Reichsarmee down. Assassination also wasn’t outside their repertoire, and had happened plenty of times in 978 and ever since then. They were also more likely to infiltrate an agent through their ranks, as they had native Herzlanders among them who didn’t have to fake an accent or mannerisms. But why target Ela Grimwing? Sure, killing the head of the MfÖS would be worth bragging points, but this was the Republic’s last gasps with the Reichsarmee bearing down on their capital, however slowly. Surely they’d have more important things to focus on.
Aquileia, then? During both of their own Revolutions, planted explosives had been widely used, more often in the more recent one of course as car bombs had eliminated key figures from the government and royal army. Aquileia’s own spies were also actively trying to infiltrate the Empire, as their military struggle was far more successful with the Imperial offensive slowed in several places. After the Battles of Pelis and Haukland where the Entente had suffered crushing naval defeats and Skyfall finally knocked out of the fight for good, the frogs had to be scrambling to pull another victory out of their hat. But this too didn’t seem to be their modus operandi. For a strike of this importance, they wouldn’t send an amateur. Verany’s griffs in the Deuxième Bureau were too good at their jobs, and unlike the Republic they had a structured system in place, much of it inherited from the former kingdom’s La Chouette. This wouldn’t be the mistake their agents would make.
She came to the third and hardest to prove of all. The Black Claw was as tightly wound an organization as she had seen. They were deeply wrapped and hidden away, following a strict cell structure. None of the agents she had found possessed any data on the others, meaning she had to work from a cold trail every time. Interrogations didn’t work either, as none of their agents could tell her anything regardless of what kind of punishment she and her comrades inflicted on these captives. From what she’d seen, she was certain she had only disrupted a single cell, and poached a few lone agents embedded in the Imperial military structure. If the Black Claw and their nebulous intent were behind this, she had no way to know and likely wouldn’t find any.
This all took only about two hours to puzzle over. Frustrated at her lack of progress or killing time, she decided she might as well collect a few pertinent files from the Home Office before trying to go see her mother again. By the time she got to the hospital, she had far more questions than answers. Cross referencing the data against what her investigation at the Square could tell her kept looping back around on the three choices again and again, and while she was certain Kermerskai’s lot couldn’t have done this, she kept her options open until she got more actual proof.
*****
When Ela Grimwing awoke, she smelled coffee, cigarettes, disinfectant and blood. The last two she understood, though her brain struggled through the pounding migraine to answer the first. She cracked an eyelid open, hissing at the bright light and vowing by the name of the Three she would shoot the first griff she saw.
“Sit up slow, Mutter,” said a familiar voice nearby, lowered to an almost quiet murmur. After a moment, a claw slipped behind her wing and shoulder, helping the secret police chief come to a sitting position. Moaning, Ela slipped a claw over her face as a wave of nausea struck. She would not puke in a hospital bed, that was something commoners and people under torture did. Fortunately, whoever was watching over her (she had a good idea who, but the haze was slowing down her thoughts, however obvious the answer might have been) pressed a glass of water into her talons, followed by a pair of small pills. Ela gladly swallowed the medicine down, then sipped the water, eyes still squeezed shut.
In a few minutes, the artillery barrage behind her skull eased up to a never ending buzz from a machine gun, and she found the pain tolerable enough to open her eyes and take stock of her injuries. To her dismay (and sardonic humor) she saw that only half of the lights in the room were on, indicating an extreme sensitivity to light. That likely meant concussion, if not brain injury. The nausea and weakness in her limbs lent credence to that theory, and she had to struggle to stay upright. One of her eyes had trouble opening, which was probably from where she had slammed against the dashboard. Her right arm was in a cast, though she considered that better than a broken wing. Still, that was her shooting arm, and she would most certainly have to go through physical therapy to regain its use. A collar around her neck restricted how much she could move, which meant she had wrenched it. If she had broken it, she’d likely be dead or in traction. So, an improvement then.
At the door, the familiar form of her daughter, sans cap and jacket, was talking to another griffon who looked equally tired. They both pored over a clawful of paper sheets, likely some kind of missive or report that had just come to their attention. She knew the other by name at least, though introductions had never been made. A drake by the name of Ludwig Blaukralle, and Helga’s partner in most of her investigations. What kind of mother and secret police chief would she be if she hadn’t kept tabs on those her daughter worked with, especially a male?
She could hear the tail end of the conversation.
“-say he matches the description. Not sure if he’s our griff, but he’s a good start.”
But Helga shook her head dismissively.
“No. A Nova Griffonian landsknecht just so happened to be sighted in Osnabeak yesterday? It’s far too obvious. More likely he’s the fall drake, somegriff for us to chase after while he leads us off from the real target.”
A pause, then Blaukralle groaned, rubbing at his face in frustration.
“Well, it’s what I’ve got Helga. I’m going to run him down if I can. It’s better than doing nothing. Do you need anything while I’m gone?”
Helga didn’t comment on Blaukralle’s retort, which meant she probably saw the sense of his statement.
“No,” she replied, handing the sheaf of papers back to her partner. “I’ve got everything in claw and the building is secured. You go do some flying, at least we can say we’re still on the case. Call that Guardsgriff you mentioned, what was her name?”
“Eisenplume.”
“Eisenplume, right. Get her testimony. It’ll be tough to get anything on the Imperial Guard, so tread lightly.”
That statement wasn’t hyperbole, Ela considered as Blaukralle nodded his assent and closed the door. The guardians of the Imperial Palace had a level of authority that exceeded most of the rest of the Empire’s defenders, almost higher than the MfÖS. Almost. The point was, if they handled the Kaiser’s guards poorly, they could wind up in political hot water. She was glad her daughter was so warned about such a delicate situation, quietly grunting to herself and taking another swig, eyes closed against the headache. She heard the door close again and the scrape of talons and boots as Helga returned, and she turned her head as much as she could. Her daughter stood there sans cap and longcoat, a mug of coffee in her claw and a cigarette smoldering low in her beak. She reached up, plucking the smoke out and stubbing it in the nearby ashtray after examining it and scoffing at how little was left. Ela noticed the ashtray had the remains of a dozen more cigarettes. She had deep bags under her eyes, but not so deep as to be obvious, and a sniff revealed the faintest trace of military issue deodorant powder. So long enough to miss out on sleep and go through several smokes, but not enough to have faded any kind of previously applied care.
“How long?” the secret police chief croaked. Her daughter shrugged.
“Thirteen hours, I think. You should still be under with how much juice they pumped into you.”
“You should know better, meine Tochter” Ela answered in what was supposed to be playful scorn but instead came out as a rasp. “I have worked extensively to build a resistance to anesthetics and other drugs that play loose with the mind and mouth.”
Helga snorted in reply. It was exactly the kind of wild boast she had come to expect both from her mother and the leader of the Empire’s counterintelligence force; it sounded both impossible and the kind of screwy thing a spy would do to make themselves a more effective agent. In the habit of such brags, she let it roll off her shoulders like water off her wings. She took a swig of coffee, setting the mug down with a clink that told Ela it was now empty before tugging out her lighter and another cigarette. Ela held out her good claw, set the water glass aside and then reached to pluck the smoke from her daughter’s beak.
“Mutter!” Helga snapped in irritation. Ela ignored her, placing the cigarette in her beak and taking a puff before coughing on the drag. “You know, doctors are starting to say cigarettes are bad for your health.”
“Bah,” Ela coughed again, blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Smoking is bad for you now? Twenty years ago it was drinking, now smoking kills? No, that’s a load of scheisse.” She looked Helga up and down with her good eye skeptically. “And if that’s the case, why are you doing it?”
Helga shrugged again, tugging another smoke out. “My line of work, I’m more likely to meet death by lead poisoning than anything some quack doctor comes up with.”
They smoked their cigarettes down in silence together, Helga picking up a dossier nearby and perusing it as she flipped between various papers. At first, Ela thought she was wasting time to fill the silence, but a glance at her daughter’s eyes revealed Helga was skimming the documents, not staging an act. She had clearly read these paper’s earlier, but was searching them again for some clue, some small slip she had missed. Ela’s heart swelled with pride. Helga had always wanted to be a soldier, a front line warrior in the Kaiser’s army, especially after her father had been assassinated. But Ela’s insistence on keeping an eye on her meant she was destined to be part of the family business. As a Vollstrecker, she saddled the line between the two, and it seemed this was where Helga had always been meant to end up. She would go on to do great things in the future. Maybe she could fix it where her daughter took over the MfÖS when she retired? That sort of thing had been perfectly acceptable in ages past, and still technically was today in an aristocratic Empire of all places, but attitudes were changing. Who knew how much longer that would be seen favorably? And despite all appearances, MfÖS needed cooperation from the military, nobles, politicians and people to function.
But her whole body ached again, and she was quietly reminded she was not invincible. The time to see such arrangements was clearly approaching quickly. She stubbed out her smoke, gesturing to the dossier Helga held.
“Case file on me?”
Helga nodded, not looking up, not even realizing her cigarette had burned out in her talons.
“Ministerium report. The explosive was placed in your trunk and wired to the clutch. Fairly standard stuff, though clearly a rush job. If the bomber had time, he would have placed it under the driver’s seat or in the engine. The Kaiserlicher Platz must have been too busy for him to do it right.”
“You don’t think he was a rookie?” Ela croaked, pressing the question. But Helga shook her head.
“Everything else was handled perfectly. Infiltration, the actual wiring job, exfiltration. An amateur would have bungled up the set up, not the bomb placement. He must have realized he was out of time, or a patrol interrupted his work. So he did his best with what looked natural. Nogriff would look twice at a drake rummaging around in his trunk.”
“Good points,” Ela whispered back huskily. Now she took up her water again, taking a painful sip. “Any suspects?”
“Our primary is a Nova Griffonian mercenary. Famous for bomb making, noted to do some of the terror bombs in Westkeep and Rila during the Aquileian Revolution. Spotted by a polizei patrol in Osnabeak yesterday, which would place him in the Herzland hours before the bomb detonated. No sign of him since.”
“Too obvious,” Ela stated, as if she had come to this conclusion herself and not listened in on their conversation. “He fits the bill far too perfectly. You couldn’t find a drake more typical for a job like this.”
“Ja,” Helga grunted sourly, finally tossing her butt into the trash nearby. “But it's what we have. We’re sending out notices to all train stations and airports. See what we can dig up.”
Ela nodded. In the absence of a better option, they were tugging on the obvious bait to see what fell out. It was what she would do, but then she also had better resources with an entire organization to claw. Helga had pull as a special agent, but that still meant she only had her immediate team to work with. They were quiet again for a few minutes as Helga poured over the typewritten words on the sheet of paper. Ela eased back, finding it just as painful to lay in her bed as it had been to sit up. The mountain of pillow behind her head made it a little easier to stomach, but not much.
“I need to tell you something,” she finally said out loud. Helga grunted as her subconscious recognized her mother had spoken, but then glanced up as she realized her mother’s tone was soft and hard, nothing like the usual wistful and superior edge she normally took. She waited while Ela turned her head as much as she could to look over at her daughter. “Something important. Something I shouldn’t be telling you, but…it is clear information is leaking out. Somegriff wants me dead. And if that happens, this intel needs a worthy guardian.”
“Don’t you have an entire department of that? Agents who can step in to take over? What about your Grand Inquisitor?”
Ela gave a short, barking laugh. She immediately regretted it as the pain in her ribs caused another coughing fit. Helga retrieved more water, and after a minute or two of frantic activity, the fit ceased.
“The Ministerium is compromised,” Ela began. “Despite our efforts to root out enemy agents, it has to be. Any large organization inevitably begins to sprout holes. What happens if you try to stretch out an old tarp? Eventually, the further you pull it, the more it begins to rip and tear. I know it has to have been compromised. Which is why this is not an MfÖS affair.” She chuckled as she remembered the second question. “As for Erlinger…much as he is dedicated to destroying our enemies and hunting down communists, he is a focused drake. This is not something he would want to become involved in. Primarily because there is nothing he can do anything with.”
Like Helga, Erlinger was very much dedicated to -doing- things. Hunting down infiltrators, traitors, digging up information on the Black Claw, heading up investigations and tightening security. These were all things the Grand Inquisitor could carry out. His business in the Grenzwald with the flood of Lake City infiltrators and socialist agitators hidden in the refugees meant he was too occupied to stay in the Herzland. A pity, Ela thought wistfully. One should never mix work with pleasure, but that drake lit her fire in ways she hadn’t felt since Helga’s father…
Oh, right, Helga. She was still staring at her mother, waiting for her to continue. Likely believing this pause to be a way to play the drama or heighten the tension. Ela chided herself for becoming so distracted and absent-minded. More chemical tolerance training was in store, she thought bitterly.
“Do you know what Var-Silfur is?”
Helga’s brow shot up. That was certainly not what she had been expecting.
“Some place in Bronzehill, by the sound of it. What about it?”
Ela cackled, gently, then leaned towards her daughter, trying to ignore the way her muscles screamed in protest.
“It technically doesn’t exist. Not in any official document that can be accessed outside of a -very- specific ministry, of course. Years ago, it was nothing more than a valley in the mountains, a place near a lake that was very difficult to reach. Extremely self-contained, even to winged creatures. But Duke Bronzetail built a testing center there, to work with the Exchange. We used it to develop our rocket weapons and make the Nebelwurfer the Reichsarmee uses today. We’re still using it to develop Project Eyr…but we can discuss that one later.”
“I thought Krallestein was the center of all the Empire’s wunderwaffe?”
Ela cackled again.
“Oh, meine Kinder. It is a poor secret weapons division that relies on a single secret site to develop its prototypes. Krallestein works with more…esoteric craft. Enchanted armor plating, crystal rifles, chemical weapons, radical experimental aircraft development, and so on and so forth. Bunch of nutters, those lunatics.” Ela shivered at the thought. Some of the projects she had read about going on down there made her glad beyond all belief the castle was stuck in a valley as well, right next to a hydroelectric dam. If what they did in there ever went too far, the Empire could easily wipe the evidence away. She continued on. “And what’s worse, it’s known! Well known, by every Tom, Dick and Harry with two idols to rub together and simulate brain activity. Scientists and generals there are -interviewed- for Boreas’ sake! On television and the radio and the newspapers! It was the setting of that serial drama about the project to bring Grover II back to life. No, the project I’m talking about started there, but we moved it to Var Silfur last year, too much public attention on Krallestein.”
Helga rolled her eyes, already tired of this story.
“And why should the MfÖS care about a new rocket? Or a test range? Mutter, where are you going with this?”
“Ah, ah, ah! Patience, you little brat!” Ela chided, balling her good claw into a fist. “I still have enough strength in me to wallop you.” A pause. Then Ela lowered her fist, grunting as she took another drink, relieving her aching throat. “I must tell you. If I die, the project loses the sane, stable MfÖS contact who would do whatever it took to keep it safe, secret and secure. And to be honest, there is nogriff else I trust more than you, Helga.”
For a moment, she smiled at her daughter. Honest maternal warmth seeped through. Perhaps this was all coming too late to repair the neglect, for she had most certainly neglected her child to delve into her work. Her revenge. But she could lay the bricks down for her daughter to stroll forward.
“So…we moved the project. Years ago, it was a bunch of physicists toying around with a few elements and exotic metals in Yale. Honestly, the Reichsarmee didn’t care about it. The promised results were obscure, too dependant on lucky breaks and too expensive. So it remained a theoretical project. Until…until a chance discovery came along. Now, we’re no longer dealing with maybes and perhaps. The Herzland War set the project back years, but it allowed us to wipe all evidence it ever existed away. Now, however…now we know our rivals are working on it too. The changelings, for certain. The Riverlands may have had a program at some point, but now we can be assured they’ve lost whatever gains they may have had. Barrad may actually be in the lead by this point. And now it has come to my attention that the hippogriffs are sprinting to close the gap with that new prodigy they have leading the program.”
Ela paused, realizing she was babbling and running around in nonsensical circles. She took a deep breath, seeing Helga’s confused, annoyed but expectant and attentive face.
“They’re doing something astounding up there, the latest in scientific weapons development. Project Arcturius…you know what uranium is, yes?”
Somewhere in the Crystal Empire…
Beep-beep-beep.
Beep…beep…beep.
Beep-beep-beep.
“Hello? Can anypony hear me? Are you receiving this? This is Sergeant Merry Weather, of the Aquivitae Regional Militia, over.
Princesses, is this even getting out there?
Listen, whoever is getting this, you -need- to warn the Crystal City! I’m out here in a snow shelter on Shale Ridge, and I can see them! Stretching across the horizon! They’re coming! I can see them heading…uh…south east! Somepony get the world out!
Sombra is coming! And he’s got a whole bucking army behind him! Changelings, polar bears! Ponies…yes, ponies! With Royal Army tanks! Somepony needs to -stop- him!
I’m leaving the snow shelter…I can only hope this got out. This is Sergeant Merry Weather, over and-”
[The last of the message is cut off by a vicious snarl, a tearing sound and a shriek.]
”The war against the changeling never ends. It only changes form. I watched a city die, and I learned something that day; no bastion, no nation, maybe no faith is impregnable. The agents of the enemy are -everywhere-. Watchin’, plottin’, waitin’. Only thing to be done with bugs…is to root them out. With fire. And steel.” -Lance Corporal Breezy Sands, flame trooper, 17th Onhooves Division, in an interview by the Equestria Daily war correspondent on the risks of Queendom infiltration, near Hope Hollow, June 1012
June 7th, 1012 Royal Ministry of Defence Canterlot, Equestria
It was fair to say the Ministry of Defence Headquarters lay in the shadow of the Princesses. The military had always been overshadowed by the efforts of Princess Celestia to maintain peace, and often that meant resorting to solutions other than armed force to solve problems that cropped up in the land. Often, the solution would be something connected to the Magic of Friendship, her personal agents the Elements of Harmony or the recently discovered Pillars of Equestria. Occasionally, Celestia herself or her sister would intervene, their powerful alicorn magic more than enough to settle whatever issue had arisen (sometimes being -too- much, hence the restraint). But the army? The navy? Even the Royal Guard were all essentially sidelined and relegated to a non-factor. Equestria was the largest nation on Equus. The Griffonian Empire collapsed decades ago, leaving rump states and successors squabbling eternally over the pieces. What was there to fear?
The Storm King. That had been a close call. The changelings, the first time. Chrysalis had nearly succeeded, after all. And finally, Sombra’s return once more to the world of the living. Nopony had seen that coming.
Luna had seen some sort of need, she had to admit. As had Blueblood. But Celestia was not one to leap to conclusions. She’d always taken her time to ponder, and think things through. Sure, her solutions were often rather long winded and indirect. But she had always intended to be able to step in should they go awry. But that night last year when she and Luna had stood on the balcony as the Hegemony’s forces gathered on their border and she finally told Luna to do whatever it took to save their little ponies, it still haunted her. A glaring reminder of how she too could be wrong about these sorts of things. Chrysalis’ mad conquests had not exposed her instability to the changelings as she had imagined. No, the exact opposite. The collective desire for power, control and revenge had enabled the Mad Queen’s rampage in the first place, united the hives and put a vast industrial power in the hooves of a maniac.
And Celestia had misread all the signs.
She sighed as she looked out over the streets of Canterlot below. The sight was not encouraging. Entire blocks had been knocked flat by relentless bombardments, wings of Hegemony bombers overhead dropping tons of explosives onto the city. True, there were the city’s magical defenses granted so long ago and empowered by Starswirl the Bearded and the Royal Mage Corps, but these could only do so much. The Palace’s shield every night stayed active, with all lights on. For those ponies remaining behind that had not yet evacuated, it was a beacon, a symbol. And a target. From hundreds of feet in the air, such a target was an irresistible opportunity for all but the most skilled or disciplined bombardier, and despite what S.M.I.L.E. agents had delivered to her as reports of very stringent orders and briefings, large portions of the hammering continued to target the glowing palace. The changelings just couldn’t help themselves, like moths to a zapper. Every one of them wanted to claim the title of Shield Buster, the one who destroyed the Palace (even though the shield held out against the bombardment with little damage as a result). Dozens of bombers had been brought down in this predictable manner, the RAF planning ambushes both on the approach and on the return, Wonderbolt ace pilots zipping and bringing down whole wings at a time.
But the rest of the city was still hard off. She had seen photos of the cities of Griffenheim and Aquila, having been relentlessly pounded in extensive bombing campaigns as well. If she could say so with but a little bias, Canterlot looked ten times worse. The previously beautiful flagstone avenues were ripped up and choked with rubble, white structures torn to pieces as if by some vengeful giant. Even now, fires raged across the city despite the raid tonight being rather short. The bombers had gotten smart in their payload if not their approach. Now the first wave dropped high explosive munitions, followed by sinister incendiary type devices. The dust and debris, shattered and rendered flammable and explosive, easily caught fire. More ponies died of asphyxiation in the more recent waves due to backdrafts than from shrapnel or burning, as the flames rapidly consumed the oxygen around them. The fire brigades that responded often could not put the fire out because their hydrants’ pipes were cracked and required unicorn magic or pegasi weather control teams to take over putting out. Electrical power had been cut off to many parts of the city, casting them into darkness for days at a time. Those ponies who had not fled the capital in droves to the coast had erected bomb shelters in basements and yards, and were exceptionally skilled by now at using them. The underground trains no longer ran, as too many tunnels had collapsed. While the city was patrolled by civilian militia, Royal Army, National Guard and Royal Guard, suspicions of changeling infiltration rendered the populace paranoid and frantic. Anypony could be an infiltrator in disguise. Plenty of sabotage had proven that fact, and the fact that only three in ten arrests actually turned out to be infiltrators did not dissuade any of the witch hunts that swept the city. Friendly fire incidents were on the rise, as exhausted and flighty ponies shot first and asked questions later, often to their regret.
Needless to say, when Princess Celestia took over for Luna on nights when her sister was too busy commanding the defense of their nation, she rarely saw dreams anymore. She witnessed nightmares, fuelled by hate, fear, sadness and desperation. The dream realm had become a toxic, polluted place to traverse, dangerous even to the alicorns that tried to protect their little ponies. Occasionally, creatures of dark magic, Sombra’s most sinister umbrals, would slip in and cause even more damage, whether overtaking a pony’s mind or causing even more fear and robbing them of sleep. The war of magic raged on just as viciously as that with bombs and bullets.
Maybe she really was no longer fit to lead, Celestia pondered as she turned away from the ruined cityscape of Canterlot. It was not the first time she had thought on this, remembering the protests and angry newspapers from those whose bitterness and frustration were too much to swallow. The ponies held firm to their hope, but blind faith was a fickle thing. Some were running out of it, turning angry and cynical as their goddesses seemed no longer able to save them. Worse, some were instead turning to their faith to save their sanity, preaching themselves to religious fanaticism. She had been well aware of the worship of Nightmare Moon in the thestral population, and even some of the other pony tribes as well. But now, something sick was arising around a sun motif, based on the principles of using fire and righteous fury to cleanse corruption and heresy, scorch the changeling foe away leaving nothing but ash behind if necessary. It made her ashamed to be the icon of a movement so utterly charged with hatred and loathing.
She tugged the blackout curtain shut behind her with her magic, moving back into the room. For the purposes of secrecy, this meeting was not happening in one of the Ministry’s war rooms, with banks of radio and telephone operators, great dossiers constantly being updated on Equestria’s assets available to contribute to the war at large or massive map tables where every move the changelings made was slowly being plotted out…when the bombs did not cause mass evacuations to the armored shelter in the basement. In fact, most of the primary war room had been transferred underground already, so the organization of the struggle could not be interrupted. But tonight was far less formal. More in line with a meeting of minds, and certainly on no itinerary. The word that came to mind was a quick brainstorm, while some of them were all in the same place.
Aside from the Royal Guards, the only ponies present were herself, Luna, Blueblood, General Arcane Nova, General Candy Garden, General Bernard Hoofgonery, and Princess Cadance. Like she always seemed to lately, Luna wore her enchanted arcane battle armor, black to Celestia’s own gold and with the addition of a self-stylized black general’s cap that could attach to the enchanted helm. The Warleader herself, a new incarnation of Nightmare Moon some said. Prince Blueblood, the commander of the Luna Line, looked haggard from lack of sleep, his uniform rumpled and a coffee stain he had failed to hide under one lapel. Ever since the Spring Offensive had failed (dragging into summer and leaving nothing but blood and misery behind) he had worked feverishly to hold the Hegemony back, though the fact he had kept an ocean at bay with only his two hooves (figuratively of course) was nothing short of miraculous on several levels. According to his adjutant Captain Maud Pie, Blueblood had worked many sleepless nights trying to halt every step the enemy moved closer to Canterlot. The effort was clearly taking its toll.
Arcane Nova was a new face to this council. A top unicorn prodigy in the Mage Corps, according to Neighsay she was likely the most powerful non-alicorn spellcaster in Equestria aside from Starswirl himself. From Neighsay, that was high praise. Her marks in military service had carried quite a commendation as well, carrying her all the way to the top to become one of the highest commanders of all of Equestria’s magical affairs. Anything to do with magic had her hoof in it, from crystal rifles, the prototype magitek engines being developed for Royal Army tanks and Navy ships, new methods of enchanting armor plating, all of it. The influence of the arcane could even been seen physically, as her lovely brown mane had developed streaks of white only a shade brighter than her offwhite coat. Though, worse luck, Celestia knew she was a dedicated solarist, one of the fanatics who looked to her as not only a goddess to worship fervently, but that all of Equestria (and perhaps the world) should do the same. Everytime they were in the same room, Celestia felt those sharp ice-blue eyes fixated on her in fascination and devotion. Yes, Arcane was not the kind of mare Celestia wanted at her side. But the time for choice was long past.
General Candy Garden was not new. Celestia and Luna had met with her several times during the Crystal War four years ago, when Commonwealth troops landed on Equestrian shores to help fight Sombra’s last attempt at wide scale domination. She was now back with a much larger force, largely responsible for command and coordination between Equestrian generals and those of the Commonwealth Expeditionary Force. In her was a stark pragmatism that helped underline many deficiencies in the Royal Army, and several catastrophes had been averted because of Candy’s advice. New Mareland forces were skilled in force multiplying strategy to use defense to turn into offense, often drawing the foe in before pinching his flanks when he was over committed, and right now that was exactly the type of expertise they needed. Needless to say, she and Blueblood got along like a house on fire.
General Bernard Hoofgonery was an unusual fit to the group. A recent addition, he was a career military figure, and that meant the green stallion had served a large part of his career in academia. Nopony said he was incompetent, but the term ‘unimaginative’ and ‘rigid’ had certainly flown around the Ministry a few times. He had been on the ground when the Severyanan Revolution had kicked off, and was more than willing to march the National Guard in to put the revolt down until Princess Celestia had called off the entire operation. Thoroughly unlikeable, undiplomatic and married to his media personality, he was nonetheless fairly confident. His divisions were responsible for holding the new southern front as they tried to retake Hoofington, and it was only thanks to him that Pharynx hadn’t blasted out of the desert and smacked up on Canterlot already. So, despite his shortcomings, he still did his job and that meant quite a lot in the end.
Then came the last member of their meeting. Princess Mi Amore Cadenza, ruler of the Crystal Empire. Deposed once, forced to flee twice, impersonated in 1002. Her husband, returned from a long stint of being missing in action, had returned to the front lines to hold Sombra’s advance back, with socialist tanks at his back and Equestrian planes overhead. As a precaution, Cadance had brought her daughter Flurry Heart to Equestria for safety. While the Crystal City was under siege, it was no place for the heir to the throne, though lately Canterlot was no longer the place of refuge and safety it had once been. Queen Velvet and Thorax had already left on Luna’s orders, taking boats to New Mareland to escape the nightly bombings along with many other VIPs they could not afford to risk exposing to such danger. Celestia hoped she wouldn’t have to tell Cadance to do the same. Come to think of it, she hoped she wouldn’t have to flee herself. The fact that was now a real possibility terrified her, in a deep place she would rather forget about.
Oh, there was actually one additional figure in the room she had nearly forgotten. Tucked away in the corner, quiet and practically still, was a mare with a cream coat and a mane of both darkest blue and pink. She wore a suit tonight, though she had forgone the glasses she usually sported. In the field, who knew what she would need? Agent Sweetie Drops was a veteran deep cover infiltrator, and now put to work as a key part of Equestria’s desperate counter-intelligence program under S.M.I.L.E. to uproot changeling infiltrators both in the Royal Army and in the civilian workforce. So long as these shapeshifters continued to do their work, they could carry out sabotage, commando raids, leak intelligence and assassinate key personnel. Already, the past year these spies had claimed a reaper’s harvest, leaving S.M.I.L.E. scrambling to respond and the populace at large paranoid and suspicious. If your neighbor was doing something strange, that might just be changeling activity, and needed to be reported.
Celestia sighed internally as she rejoined the secret meeting. It was the old ages coming back to haunt her. A millennia of peaceful rule had left her forgetting how things used to be in archaic times, and she had to scramble to pick up the old habits. Not since the old days of Nightmare Moon’s rebellion had such mistrust between ponies gripped the land. At least Luna, still preserved in her old militant mindset, was there to help her catch up, a way for the old style to educate the new, in a strange paradox. But above all of that, she would rather not learn any new or old lessons, to instead spare her ponies of all this hardship and distrust. The Magic of Harmony seemed to unravel more and more every day this war carried on. What would be left in the end?
She felt the twinges in her head again, and tried to ignore the pain. It wasn’t easy.
“The enemy is battering on Hope Hollow’s door,” Prince Blueblood was saying. “We’ve lost Blackthorn entirely. I’ve ordered Bales to focus all effort on holding the Oleander Valley, but Cloudsdale is tied down assisting the Ponderosa Line.”
Blueblood glanced over at Hoofgonery, their current resident on the southern front. With Applejack still dug into her strongpoint in Ponderosa it fell to the green pony to keep her flank and hold the unforeseen door to Canterlot closed. There was little secret to the rivalry between Blueblood and Hoofgonery, as while the two were extremely bloodyminded and rather blunt in their plans, Hoofgonery was more prone to cautious defensive maneuvers and conservative attacks, preferring the old style of warfare in using his fortifications to do the work for him, where Blueblood, a student of the Griffonian ways of war, used his forces as a sledgehammer instead of waiting behind the trenches for the enemy to come to him. Unfortunately, the failure of the Spring Offensive had soured Blueblood’s reputation, and he could no longer verbally browbeat Hoofgonery with the same impunity he once had.
Hoofgonery cleared his threat, leaning forward as he studied the end of his cigar.
“General Applejack says Hoofington is falling and when it does, they’ll be able to blast straight through to Ponyville. If that bastard Pharynx breaks through to the plains, I will throw everything my force has against him, but it might be better to withdraw to Ponyville and Buckcastle, let the forests do the work for us. Those changeling panzers are murder over open ground, and the RAF can’t give us the support to slow them up.”
Luna nodded sagely, as her eyes seemed to disconnect and stare off into the distance. More than anypony else, Luna knew the divisions, air groups and fleets of Equestria off the top of her head. Literally, in this instance. She had spent long days memorizing the registrars of the nation, committing force deployments, inventories and unit makeups to memory, able to transmit orders from the field with only minutes to be updated on troop movements. Give her a map, and she could likely give you a real time layout of the frontline.
“I could dispatch the 5th Royal Guard Division from Whinnyapolis to Hope Hollow. Perhaps with support from Fighter Wing No. 222, I believe they’ve just been resupplied with Spitfires and replacements.”
Replacements. A cold, simple world to describe sending new soldiers up to take up the slots left behind by old ones. Celestia hated it. Despised what her nation and ponies had been forced to do, consider individual lives as little more than numbers on a sheet. Her headache flared up again, and something…darker lay beneath. She resisted, turning back to the meeting, trying to remind herself to speak with Soarin. As the commander of her Royal Guard, he was supposed to be privy to all movements of his ponies, but quite a lot had been lifted out of his hooves, and that fact bothered her greatly.
“Grand,” Blueblood replied dryly. “I would recommend we start pulling more divisions from the Crystal Empire, if we can. While Vasily’s mob will gladly stop a march directly on a path with Stalliongrad, I doubt they’ll shed a tear over Equestrian soil. The commies can start pulling their weight.”
Cadance’s breath caught, and Celestia once more was reminded of just how cold Blueblood had become since the war had started. One might think him spoiled, sloppy and egocentric in private conversation, but when it came to commanding armies he was ruthlessly pragmatic. This had paid off in dividends, of course. If not for his decision to start sending the National Guard in to get chewed up against the changeling war machine meat grinder while the Royal Army mobilized, the Hegemony might well have made it to Canterlot months ago. But it had come at a vicious cost, one of those being his continual voicing of the idea that Equestrian divisions needed to withdraw from the Crystal Empire and defend the south. In his mind, with Stalliongrad on their side to stop the foe in the north, Equestrians could be pulled to defend Equestria. This, of course, was incredibly insensitive to voice in front of Cadance, whose realm was only holding out because of the alicorn diarchy’s troops standing by them. Blueblood’s words could easily be read as disregarding the defense of a partner to see to their own needs.
Quickly stepping in before yet another argument arose between the two, Celestia finally threw her word into the fray. She knew she wasn’t as useless in these affairs as she felt, especially in the diplomatic realm. After all, her push to attach field hospital so close to the front and active combat units had saved countless ponies’ lives. If she could do that, this rift could be mended quickly. It had to be.
“Perhaps we can pull some Commonwealth battalions north in the meantime? General, do you happen to have any to spare?”
Candy Garden sheepishly nodded, the same way she always did when Celestia spoke to her directly. Not quite a solarist, as far as Celestia knew, Candy was still an avid supporter of hers which wasn’t rare in New Mareland but had become difficult enough during her period of passive non interference.
“We might, Your Highness. Word from the homefront is ‘nother batch of fresh divisions is set to take the boat over. ‘Soomin’ they don’t get torpedoed, we can have ‘em in Whinnyapolis by the end of the week.”
That was indeed heartening news, and suggested a compromise that would satisfy both Blueblood and Cadance. But Celestia was concerned Governor Jet Set was overstretching himself. New Mareland’s population wasn’t very high to begin with, even after compromises and negotiations with the native griffon clans had brought them more fully into the population at large (very strange, seeing non-mercenary griffons amongst the ranks of New Mareland colonial forces fighting for a pony nation). According to his missives, Jet Set had been forced to consider widening his conscription pool once more despite the massive numbers of volunteers and mobilizing several Militia brigades to come overseas. With New Mareland having to prepare for a possible showdown with Wingbardy and Beakolini’s puppets should the worst come to pass, Celestia wondered if the small colony was up to the challenge already set before it.
Still, this set both Blueblood and Cadance to nodding, and Celestia turned away, satisfied by her quick thinking. The alicorn of the sun was still relevant after all. As she turned, though, she locked eyes with Arcane Nova. Despite the others looking over reports or even staring off into the distance as they tried to formulate their thoughts and ideas at this informal meeting, Arcane’s eyes remained fixated on Celestia herself. She didn’t like what she saw in those ice blue spheres. There was something…worrisome there. The unicorn was almost reverent in how she addressed Celestia, and the way she was looking at her now was almost in wonder. This wasn’t a respect for a beloved sovereign like Candy Garden’s, this was beyond that. Arcane was known to worship the Sun Sister in private, and while that kind of adoration had been ongoing for centuries, the idea of elevating Celestia herself to goddess level had reached its peak only in the past few years. Apparently, desperation drove many ponies to seek answers and relief through prayer
“I believe the time might have come for bold action,” Hoofgonery was saying as she and Arcane locked eyes, clearly oblivious of the internal conflict roiling in Celestia’s soul. “I’ve been speaking with Thunderbolt Sentinel. Good colt, very innovative. That pegasus has got me thinking about a few options that have opened up since the front has drawn so close to Cloudsdale. A few dozen transport planes, an armored corps and a good opportunity, and we could kick the bugs out of Oleander Valley before they get too dug in.”
Blueblood snorted, rubbing at his eyes.
“That’s bold, especially for you Bernard. Maybe too bold.”
Luna tilted her head to the side, too drawn up in the debate and planning to notice Celestia’s small crisis either. Celestia wondered if such inattentiveness had contributed to Nightmare Moon’s emergence so long ago (where had that come from?).
“Has anypony attempted a drop of that size?” Luna queried, looking both concerned and curious, as her mind began running the numbers, considering what they had to hoof and what an operation of this scale would need. “It’s going to leave them out and rather exposed, isn’t it?”
Celestia winced as her headache returned again, stronger this time, practically a migraine. It worried her, as she looked into Arcane’s eyes. That expression held nothing good in it for the future of ponykind. And a small voice in the back of her mind whispered to her…
’Why not? Why shouldn’t it be good? You have led Equestria for a thousand years alone. All you need is to be stronger and you could be even greater…there is nothing stronger than faith. Deep inside, you know your own power…”
She slammed the door on that line of thinking, and the headache slowly receded. It was not the first time she had heard the voice, tempting her with power and love beyond that which anypony knew. A way to save Equestria from the changelings, it promised. A way to unite ponykind into a force which the world would never dare to threaten again. But the price it promised and the terrible things the voice swore to do chilled Celestia to the bone. Nothing could be worth that. She would never give in to the temptation.
But she had mentally already given the voice a name. Made it an entity in her head. And if Luna could fall to Nightmare Moon…
Celestia finally broke eye contact with Arcane, just for a moment, to look over at Cadance while Blueblood, Hoofgonery and Luna were arguing over the values of a mass air drop. Apparently, the Wingbardians had done so in the Second Falcorian War and something similar when they had swept up Griffonstone. Therefore, it was indeed theoretically possible, but certainly very costly. The Princess of Love, at least, was looking up at Celestia with an expression of curiosity and concern. While a solid partner of Equestria, she was most certainly a junior voice here and Celestia suspected depression might have contributed to muting the pink alicorn’s voice in many of these meetings. She opened her mouth, clearly about to say something to Celestia-
The air raid sirens began blaring across the city. Celestia spun around to the window again, ripping back the blackout curtain. Mere heartbeats later, the anti-air batteries began thundering, a swarm of tracers streaming into the sky followed by the occasional glowing magic bolt or fireball from unicorn spellsnipers on the ground. Up there in the nighttime clouds, where the flak detonated spectacularly, the ghostly outlines of changeling bombers could be spotted, once more pounding the city with all they were worth. It wouldn’t be long before the Royal Air Force responded, and they had made several breakthroughs with experimental night fighters. In the meantime, munitions detonated on city streets, sending ponies scurrying for shelter. Automobiles and carts abandoned on the road erupted in spectacular fashion as the bombs found them, and the buildings that remained standing crumbled under the barrage, those already in ruin subjected to even further brutal punishment. Above it all, she could see the Palace overlooking the city, its purple shield glowing vividly as ordnance rained onto it, rippling pulse of magic energy cast like stones across a pond’s surface. Celestia gasped, feeling her headache return. She was indirectly tied to the shield, and to keep it going all hours of the day and night she fed part of her magic into it. Such power was needed to keep the barrier up, but it hurt so much when these air raids came in the middle of the night, when she was at her weakest. She staggered, as if struck by a blow. Somewhere in the building, a mare shrieked as bombs hit the Ministry building, glass shattering and furniture exploding into splinters and shrapnel.
The door flew open, revealing Captain General Soarin on the other side, officer’s cap affixed and perfectly placed on his ears.
“Air raid!” he shouted unnecessarily. “Bad one this time! They got past the pickets through the south and headed right for the city!”
“Everypony out!” cried Luna, magically amplifying her voice to be heard over the bombs dropping closer and closer to the Ministry, one of the Hegemony’s prime targets. “To the shelters! I need to rally Cloudsdale and Bales!”
Celestia turned to follow the fleeing commanders, Soarin falling in at her flank as he pulled his Limestone gun, checking the chamber as he went. Before the war had started, she had looked at her Royal Guard as more of an appeasement and final precaution than an actual protective force. She’d been on a good personal relationship with many of them. They were her friends. But when the Crystal War had begun, she’d started turning to Soarin more and more. With Luna so busy with her thestral rights campaigning and war preparations, she had found herself alone again, a strange sensation she hadn’t liked at all. Now? Now, just knowing her Captain General was so close to her in her time of need assured her. It should have been the other way around, honestly.
After they rode out the storm of this air raid, the small council members would likely go to their own command centers and coordinate for a greater, more detailed version of the informal ideas they had drafted up here, but Celestia dreaded watching them go. Every death in her land was a hammer on her heart. Lately, that had felt more like a jackhammer, or a machine gun.
Another stick of bombs laced across the palace shield, and she cried out, faltering. Her head was aching once more, almost unbearable. She couldn’t hear Soarin’s concerned tone as he stopped and doubled back for her. The changelings were employing heavy bombers against the shield on a regular basis, keeping up the punishing pace. If it continued like this, she didn’t know how much longer she would hold out. Focusing, breathing deep, she closed her eyes, centered herself and pooled her magic power in her alicorn frame. She had to dig deep to get what she needed. Her rainbow mane rippled, and without knowing it the colors flowed and brightened until three turned, for a brief moment, into two.
Then, with a gasp, Celestia returned. Her headache was gone, and she felt much better now. The bombers hammered the shield, but she only felt them as pinpricks now. Much, much better.
“Your Highness?” Soarin asked again, concern in his voice and plain on his face. But Celestia answered his concerns with a smile, not even a hint of pain or exhaustion present.
“I’m fine, Soarin. Just had to recharge after the shield was hit. Let’s go.”
But as she turned to depart for the shelters with the other ponies, she caught General Arcane Nova at the door, staring at her. Not in that intense way of reverence she usually wore in Celestia’s presence, but with something approaching…rapture.
Feeling -extremely- uncomfortable now, Celestia gestured to the door.
“Shall we, General?”
Nova didn’t respond for a moment, nodding slowly as she schooled her features.
“Yes, of course Your Majesty. After you.”
And, as Princess Celestia swept past, summoning her golden arcane battle armor as similarly gold-armored Royal Guards with glowing purple crystal rifles took up their places around her, General Arcane Nova reached up, touching the small sun pendant hung around her neck.
“The God-Empress is real…” she whispered. “She has shown herself to me…”
Hegemony Occupied Vanhoover
No bombers tonight. To be honest, Jester Zircon wasn’t certain if that was good or bad. Luna’s moon was out for all to see, and despite the cloud cover provided enough light to look up at the sky and watch for planes. But the only planes he could see were Hegemony fighters as they flew their defensive patrol. It didn’t make much sense to Jester in his head. Flying at night seemed to be a dangerous proposition. Why would anypony do it without wings? Then again, changelings could see in the dark -and- had wings. Maybe he just had the wrong idea about airplanes. He was just a factory worker, after all.
The blue earth pony shifted, feeling his saddlebags shift higher up on his aching back as he lit a cigarette for the walk home. Ever since the changelings had moved into Vanhoover, shifts in the factories they took over had gotten longer. Eight hours with a lunchbreak turned into twelve hours with the chance to eat while working, sometimes going into fourteen hour shifts. This was a six day a week deal, and the factories themselves had replaced the foremares and managers with changeling representatives, either from their army or some company back in the Changeling Lands that had taken over on the army’s behalf. It was brutal work, and many ponies had either become so worn out by it they were let go from their jobs or didn’t come to work, either arrested or run off on their own. Occasionally, a workplace accident would claim another worker, either in an injury or sometimes a death. As Jester worked in a steel mill, the line between the two was quite thin indeed. But they had gone from making steel for railroads and industrial use to constructing armor plating for changeling panzers and forging ingots for a thousand different spare parts. Some factories, Jester had heard, were converted to arms manufacture, making shells and bullets in their tens of thousands to keep feeding into the war down south. Some of them were even producing aerial bombs or naval torpedos. But for him, it was enough that he just make the armor plating, and not risk the sickness that those handling cordite and explosives often caught. Not to mention accidents there tended to wipe out whole shifts.
He stepped off the streetcar at his stop, along with several other workers just getting home from their shift. The power here hadn’t come back on tonight. He didn’t know if it was because of the Royal Air Force’s last raid and the city’s power plant hadn’t been restored properly or if the changelings were doing it on purpose. Most houses had thick curtains or boards across windows that had long ago been blown out, and they kept their lights low at night even when they did have electricity. Equestrian bombers may have been on their side, but how accurate could bombs be when dropped from hundreds of feet up? The answer; not very, especially when he’d seen several of those planes chased by changeling fighters. That had to be hell up there, with the flak hammering the sky and being chased by flying hunters. He’d seen both daytime raids and nighttime ones, and neither gave him the impression that RAF aviators were too concerned with what they hit down below as long as some of it was enemy. He didn’t know how to feel about that, but anything that hurt the bugs had to be good.
He glanced away from the sky to realize his mistake. He’d been so distracted wondering what was up there, he had lost track of his surroundings. Now, straight towards him came two soldiers in dark uniforms. The other ponies had already scattered from the trolley stop, and these two were very much locked in on him because he hadn’t run in time. One of them was a deer, from neighboring Olenia. They made up a good portion of the occupation forces, and in Jester’s experience that was a mixed blessing. While not as capable or competent as their masters, Olenians were far less professional and thus far more willing to resort to things like extortion, random beatings and snap arrests. More than once, an Olenian had held Jester at gunpoint and threatened to report him as a socialist unless he paid for their silence. The other soldier was a changeling in Heer gray. They were also a mixed blessing. Though unnatural, able to hide amongst the pony population and very astute and watchful, they were also far more disciplined and less likely to abuse the occupied population. Give them a reason, however, and they were more than capable of putting a round in your heart from a long distance.
The two approached, and Jester felt some relief upon glancing at their rank badges and noticing the sergeant was the changeling. Good. The Olenian was less likely to try and antics with his superior around. True to form, the changeling nodded to Jester and said “Guten nacht.”
Jester blinked, tilting his head to the side. Though the occupation had been dragging on a year or so, the changeling use of Herzlandisch over Equusian was inconsistent, as if they themselves hadn’t quite gotten used to using it themselves. Not a lot of ponies had picked it up, to be honest. They’d learned more Olenian from the deer in their midst. But the sergeant seemed to recognize his error, sighing in irritation.
“Good evening,” he said, with no trace of an accent. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to present your papers, please?”
Sighing as well, Jester reached back, fishing through his saddlebag for the packet of papers he had been issued that essentially defined his life here in occupied Vanhoover. When the changelings had first moved in, slips with numbers on them had been passed to every single house while a census was taken, and you had to report to one of their central offices to give particulars on yourself, your family and your history over the past few years. To Jester, that seemed downright intrusive and barmy. Did they keep track of every single bug back in the Changeling Lands? How many were there? The scope just boggled his mind to think of how one would keep track of that many creatures. They would need an army of administrative office drones to manage such a ludicrously big system. Did they do it to their Olenian and Polarland protectorates?
The sergeant took the paperwork, glancing over the sheet, while his partner simply glared at Jester, a cigarette hanging from between the deer’s lips. Jester wondered if he spoke any Equusian at all.
“Hmm. Steel worker, one offspring name of Sapphire Rose. Reside at 221 B Coronet Lane.” He glanced up at the blue stallion, raising a chitinous eyebrow. “No mate?”
“No sir,” Jester replied, already tired of the hundred or so times he’d had to answer this question to patrols. “Died back in ‘05. Heart failure. Doctors and healers said there was nothing to be done.”
“Hm. Unfortunate,” the sergeant remarked, turning back to the sheaf of papers before they were abruptly surrounded by a green aura. The papers hovered in place, and he reached into a saddlebag, extracting a stamp and ink pad and pressing something onto the paper in dark green. When it was returned to Jester, he noticed the stamp had put A.A. KANDIDAT ZUR SAMMLUNG at the bottom in green ink, with a strange icon next to it he’d never seen.
“What’s that for?” he asked, an eyebrow raised. The sergeant shrugged, his green eyes glowing as he looked Jester directly in the eye.
“New directive. Don’t worry about it, you’re good. Head on home, Citizen. Have a good night.”
With that, the patrol continued on, chattering in their strange, foreign language. The Olenian laughed, glancing back at Jester with a grin before he said, where Jester could hear, “Muutama lisää häntä kaltaisiaan ja pärjäämme viikon.”
Jester had no idea what it meant, but it didn’t make him feel very confident.
*****
Home was a small apartment on the south side. Thankfully a fair distance from anything of importance, the buildings had escaped much of the fighting aside from the occasional stray shell or bomb. The entire neighborhood, without reliable electricity, was regularly left in a blackout state. Seemed the only thing working here was the streetcar, and Celestia knew how that functioned. Did it even need electricity? It was too quiet for a petrol engine. Maybe it was magitek? Still, the residents had adapted. Many streetlights had been modified by local workers and craftsmen to hold candleburners, and the old job of lamplighter had come back for the neighborhoods so furnished. Many of these volunteers happened to be connected in one way or another to one of the workers’ unions, even if they weren’t associated with the Vanhoover Commune. Jester was thankful he didn’t have to worry about seeing the hammer and horseshoe graffiti on the walls here that other neighborhoods did, where the socialists tended to set up shop. In those places, the streets weren’t patrolled by pairs of soldiers, but by halftracks and panzers.
He nodded to a few of his neighbors cordially enough on the way home, but he still let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when he finally stepped into his apartment building, got up to his room and opened the door, calling out “Saph? I’m home.”
In came seventeen year old Sapphire Rose. She looked so much like her mother it hurt to look at her sometimes, blue coat and pink mane with black stripes, a gleaming blue rose Cutie Mark on her flank. He had a son as well, but he had been a Royal Navy rating, and as such had been out of town when the changelings came rolling in. He didn’t know if his son was still alive, but managed to keep his existence a secret from the bugs by a simple lie of omission.
Sapphire smiled up at him, gently tipping dinner onto the candlelit table.
“Hey daddy,” she said, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek. “How’d it go at work today?”
“Jade Jubilee got splashed,” he said, sighing as he relived the memory. Her screams had been so horrendous as she’d been hauled out, he was almost thankful to think the changelings might have taken her around back and shot her, just to put the mare out of her misery. Being splashed by molten steel was almost always a death sentence, the only thing in question was how long it took to kill you.
Sapphire winced.
“I’m sorry, daddy. Did you know her well?”
“Not particularly,” he replied, setting his saddlebags down by the door. “But she was a friend. Always unfortunate to lose one.”
“You’re right,” Sapphire said, nodding as she turned back to the table, finishing setting the table as she quickly changed the subject. “Why don’t you get cleaned up? I’m almost done here.”
Ten minutes later and they were tucking into the wilted greens, stale bread and bland soup Sapphire had put together from the food the changelings had given them. Nearly every grocery had run out of fresh ingredients in a month. Now a year into the occupation, all that was left was the food aid the occupying forces passed on to them, and it wasn’t the best quality. Some rumors had passed of a debate whether farmers and suppliers in the Changeling Lands would be open to doing business with them, but no word on it had ever been passed down. Jester was still thankful for this little bit regardless. Poor food was better than no food.
“How was school?” he asked through a mouthful of soup-soaked bread.
“Okay, I guess,” Sapphire shrugged. “There’s a new course called ‘Political Education’. The teachers are telling us the invasion was a liberation.”
“Liberation?” Jester half choked, half laughed as he tried to clear his mouth with a swig of water. “Liberation from what?”
“Apparently, the tyranny of immortal and uncaring alicorns.” Sapphire shrugged again. “I mean, it’s not true. Anypony with a lick of common sense knows that.”
“Nah, it ain’t true,” Jester replied, relieved that his little filly at least had enough common sense to understand and resist that brainwashing the bugs were trying to shove down her throat. That was a new one, for the most part the changelings had just been okay with the ponies of Vanhoover keeping their heads down, working in the factories and staying out of the way. But some worrying trends had started emerging. Alongside the Hegemony patrols of both deer and changelings, pony policemares were appearing back on the streets of Vanhoover in gray uniforms with Queendom emblems and billie clubs, some parts of the city were being torn down and replaced with architecture that definitely looked more like something from one of the hives, and he had seen a few other apartment buildings where changelings were touring that looked, of all things, like civilian drones. Now this reeducation garbage? It looked like the bugs were planning to stay for the long haul. Their fleet was anchored in Vanhoover’s harbor, their troops quartered in Vanhoover homes, and now they were worming their way into the hearts and minds of the younger generation, teaching foals facts they couldn’t help but soak up without knowing what lies they were. It all felt…wrong. So wrong.
He was about to say something more when there came a knocking at the door. He paused, the next spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth, looking towards the sound. Sapphire fell silent too, unsure of what to do, glancing at her father apprehensively. None of their neighbors usually bothered them this late, especially when it was so close to curfew. So who was at the door?
The knocking came again, harder and more insistent this time.
“Herr Zircon, we know you are there!” yelled a harsh voice. “If you do not open this door, we will break it down!”
“Changelings,” Sapphire whispered, a touch of fear in her voice edged by the latent certainty of anger. “What do -they- want?”
“Be best to do what they ask, before they get violent,” Jester said quickly, dropping his spoon and standing. He didn’t tell Sapphire about the workers who disappeared from the steel mill, or the raids he had seen conducted on other homes and businesses in the city. He knew she was aware of what had happened to Tall Tale, but the sheer magnitude of the atrocity seemed not to have settled in her mind. If he had it his way, things would stay like that.
He crossed to the door quickly, but the second he opened it a solid blast of green energy knocked him back, the door exploding in splinters as he flew into the table. He heard Sapphire shriek and the harsh voice spitting orders. When Jester came back to himself, he blinked in surprise as he realized a rifle was pointed right in his face, held by a changeling trooper in Queendom gray, coal scuttle stahlhelm low on his brow. Behind him, several more troopers had burst into the room, wings buzzing in excitement as they spread out, securing the residence. One of them held his submachine gun on Sapphire, and Jester instinctively tried to rise before the trooper smashed his rifle stock over the stallion’s head, knocking him back into the ruins of the table.
“Soldat! Enough!” called the harsh voice, and the trooper backed off, rifle still trained on Jester’s head. Behind him, two more changelings moved into view. A drone bearing the triple chevrons of a sergeant and a royal officer in black, the latter bearing a glowing rifle. Jester had seen those kinds of weapons before, the kind that fired a sinister beam that cut through wood and metal like paper. The emblems were also different too, and it took him a moment to realize that he was looking up at a Queen’s Guard. He froze, feeling his sweat turn to frost in his coat. These were the bugs that bogeymare stories were told about these days. They were the ones making ponies disappear, as cleanly as the emblems of Celestia and Luna they labored to remove from all corners of the city.
The Queen’s Guard captain examined him coolly a moment, his yellow eyes watching Jester a moment before reaching into his coat and extracting something from a coat with his magic, making it hover before him as he examined it. It was a photograph, and Jester’s heart sank as he realized it had to be his own photograph, likely an exact copy of what was attached to his papers.
“That’s the one,” the captain finally said, magicking the photo away again. “You’re lucky, Herr Zircon. Skilled steel workers get treated well. You’ll be in an actual city, as opposed to some work camp out in the Wild Lands.”
“What?” Jester blurted out, not quite hearing what the Queen’s Guard had just told him. “You’re-but…my daughter-”
“By all means, she’ll come too. Nothing like starting a community with your family,” the Queen’s Guard grinned before jerking a head at the nearest soldier. “Take her too.”
As Sapphire shrieked in terror and outrage, Jester rose once more to defend his daughter. And, once more, the changeling trooper smashed him in the head. The last thing he remembered was reaching for her as she cowered in the corner, two burly drones bearing down on her.
Then, blackness.
He awoke on the truck, bundled away with at least twenty others, Sapphire among them. Sitting in the entrance to the bed was an Olenian, holding a changeling submachine gun and smoking a cigarette with the most bored expression on her face. As Jester came around, she lazily angled the weapon in his direction.
“No move. I shoot. Kay?”
It was, in a sentence, the most blase way to underscore their abduction. Amongst twenty other sobbing ponies, stolen from their homes in the night, shipped off to start their lives over again who knew where. Were they going to be loaded onto a train? A ship? A plane? Didn’t matter, he realized. He knew at least the direction of their final destination; up north.
Jester held Sapphire tight, glaring at the trooper with a lot more confidence than he actually felt. There were so many things he wanted to yell at her, to spit at her and the changelings. But he knew doing any of that would get him killed as an example to the others.
The Olenian just grinned back, smoke escaping through her teeth in a puff. And then, in a weird series of gestures, held a cloven hoof up to her snout, gently tapping it on the side just behind her nose, a small wink following.
But Jester, confused and outraged and scared for himself and his daughter, wasn’t sure what signal he was being sent. He could only guess.
10 km east of Vilein, Rila District, Aquileia Near the Border of Imperial-Occupied Fezera 2nd Armée, 4e Division cuirassée, 19e bataillon de chars de combat Debois Offensive
No winged creature that Maréchal des logis de carrière (though the rank was commonly shortened to 'Margis') Simone Arnaud could think of was meant to go into mud. Even ducks and swans, waterfowl that lived their entire lives in muddy rivers, lakes and ponds were not built to slog through the mud for long. And yet, the muddy, soggy hellscape of North Aquileia had forced them into these circumstances, where they were forced to endure, regardless. Once forested and covered in beautiful green shrubbery and golden fields, artillery and bomber craft had denuded the landscape and shattered the trees into little more than toothpicks, fields ripped apart by bomb craters and entrenchments, shrubbery torn up as tanks both Republique and Imperial charged across. Mountains of blue and gray clad corpses seeped blood into the soil, and the wreckage of destroyed vehicles and aircraft twisted the landscape, connected by ruined strands of barbed wire and abandoned trenchworks.
Well, abandoned no longer, that was. He could hear the rumbling in the distance of artillery (a lot of which was far too close to classify as 'distant'), the buzzing of aircraft overhead and the soft drone of the nearby radio. All hallmarks of a tank moving into the combat zone. Per the orders of Maréchal Rodier and General Debois, they were striking back against the Empire. Verenia may have been lost, with Westkeep turned into a bloodsucking Imperial tick that refused to give up, but here in Rila the Republique were in the better position, and were seeking to exploit it. For the past two days, shells and aircraft had plastered the Imperial lines, just over the ridge ahead, the ominously named Crête de Sang. For two days, the Imperials had either sheltered or fired back, rockets and shells trading space in the sky between at all hours. But now, the Republicaine Armee was in motion again. No more holding actions, no more desperate defense. They were going on the attack.
From what Arnaud understood, they had accumulated a massive, overwhelming force of half a million to smash back against the floundering Herzlanders. Having failed to break out of Westkeep, stumbling through Verenia and barely managing to crawl out of the Greifwald, the Empire was in a prime position to get kicked in the face. With General Debois’ assurances that the enemy was exhausted, demoralized and in no position to keep going, 2nd Armee was about to give them a very warm welcome indeed.
Or, at least, that was what they had been told.
Tracks clattered and armor plated components scraped as the Vanguard Prime ground forward across that muddy hellscape, lurching through yet another trench. Armored vehicle development had only been ongoing since Severyana’s revolution in 996, when the socialists had used armored tractors to fight back against Equestrian dominion. Since that time, Aquileian investment had been…mixed. Some kept up the trend that seemed to be popularly emerging of using fast, hard hitting vehicles able to penetrate enemy lines and destroy key targets. But Aquileia’s habit for several years had been around making a massive, heavy tank capable of shrugging off whatever the foe could throw at it. The Jeune fille d'acier was, to Arnaud’s mind, an archaic design. She was longer, taller and heavier than her counterpart the Imperial Gryta, and possessed a smaller main gun. But the Vanguard Prime had one thing on her side; durability. New advances in steel enchanting and forging had produced an experimental heavy tank able to shrug off a vast amount of punishment, which Arnaud had seen just here in this battle, with artillery shells smacking into her that should have destroyed the Jeune fille d'acier several times over, shrugged off in vast barrages. A true breakthrough tank rushed into service that was fulfilling her duty anyway, same as her crew.
Lieutenant Babineaux sat up in his commander’s station, watching the battle outside as the Jeune fille d'acier advanced into the Imperial barrage. He had a tendency to give grand, glorious speeches to roust his griffs to action, completely forgetting he commanded mostly veterans who already knew what they were supposed to be doing. Arnaud himself had been in command of a Tab back in Feathisia, before it had been destroyed under him in the dramatic Imperial breakthrough to Adelart back in March. To be essentially demoted from command to main gun was a bit of a blow, but being stuck in a Vanguard Prime -was- a very lofty position, and could only be commanded by an officer.
Next to him, his own former loader Caporal-chef Roussel glanced up from her scope, smiling up at him from behind her tanker’s hood. She had been the only survivor from their old Tab, but had born up to the transfer to the Vanguard Prime the best.
“Not to worry, Margis. Give it long enough, this beast will be in your claws.”
Ah, Roussel. She clearly knew him well enough to understand the path of his thoughts. He smiled back at her, appreciating the unicorn’s words before leaning in to his gunsight again. As Jeune fille d'acier was so big, she possessed a suitably large main armament, a 7.5 cm gun that made her a true heavyweight on Griffonia and four machine guns. To Arnaud’s great delight, he was put behind the trigger of the great 7.5 cannon, which at least helped him get over his relative demotion. Through his gunsight, he could see the Imperial line, across no-drake’s land. Unlike the Republique’s battle lines, the Herzlanders hadn’t the time to dig in and set up permanent fortifications, even with quick drying concrete. Having only recently clawed their way through Fezera and the Greifwald, a lot of these Imperial units were exhausted, depleted and trying to recover. Which was what Debois had waited for and counted on. Even now, the only significant threat Arnaud could see through his gunsight were a clawful of Greifkonig medium panzers. The anti-tank guns buried around the Imperial camp wouldn’t scratch the Jeune fille d'acier.
Though they would hurt her escorts. As he watched, one of the Imperial guns thundered, and one of the escorting Fantomes detonated brilliantly, the low and smooth turret flying as fuel and ammunition detonated. Arnaud cursed. Why hadn’t Babineaux given the order to fire? They couldn’t call the attack off or get the other tanks to maneuver. The Fantomes, like most Aquileian armor, did not possess radios. If the Imperials caught wind of their battle plans, such communication would get them killed. Behind the line of tanks, an entire infantry brigade were picking their way across the field, ready to overwhelm the foe once the panzers were dealt with.
Machine guns began to chatter, bullets splashing off the sturdy plating of Jeune fille d'acier like rain off a roof. More Imperial anti-tank guns thundered, and Arnaud felt the impacts reflect. Another Fantome detonated, on the other side this time. Hadn’t the artillery been meant to destroy this kind of resistance? And what of their air support? A Greifkonig rolled into sight, its main gun booming but the 6 cm shell did little more than the anti-tank guns had. An enemy mortar splashed down in front of them. Why the hell weren’t they firing?
About to turn and ask the question on his mind, Arnaud pulled himself up short as a roaring split the air overhead. Lieutenant Babineaux smirked, glancing out through his optics. As Arnaud turned back, he watched as a sheet of munitions slammed into the Imperial line from above, the distant tumult of airplane engines peeling away after dropping their ordnance.
“This is it, Soldate of the Republique!” Babineaux shouted over the line, to which Arnaud groaned as he heard yet another speech coming. “Two army groups are crashing down on our foe! To our left and to our right, we make an impenetrable curtain of steel as we liberate ourselves from the forces of tyranny! We will push the foe, weak and fragile as he is, back into the Greifwald while our stalwart comrades reclaim Westkeep from their filthy claws! This is but the first steps on the road back into the Empire! And from there, on to Griffenheim! Gunner, you have permission to open fire! Allons y!”
Finally.
Arnaud depressed the trigger, and the 7.5 cm gun thundered, a shell rocketing away before smashing into one of the Greifkonigs. The panzer had no chance, turret tearing open as the high-velocity armor piercing shell ripped into it just to the right of the gun mantlet, ripping her open like a giant had cast a hand down to peel back the layers. She immediately slowed to a halt, smoke pouring from her chassis.
“Enemy tank destroyed!” Arnaud shouted, to which Roussel was already passing up another shell with the ice-blue aura of her magic, slamming it in and closing the breech with the clatter of steel.
“You’re good!” the pony hollered, and Arnaud moved his sights over to an Imperial bunker still standing after all the artillery and air bombings. It wasn’t a permanent thing by any means, more something that looked to have been built out of wood logs and sheet metal in the trench, but two heavy machine guns spat lines of tracers out as the assault sections streamed between the Aquileian tanks towards them. Griffs in blue coats flopped over in the mud, while others moved into shell craters and returned fire with their small arms, a few propping up their F29 light machine guns in their ad hoc cover and popping off bursts of covering fire. But Arnaud had a much better solution to help them out.
“Firing!” he called, depressing the trigger. The Prime shuddered as the gun hammered again, and the bunker disappeared in a glorious fountain of debris and (though he tried to ignore it) viscera mixed in. The assault sections cheered as they advanced again, some so eager they took awing even as they flew into automatic weapons fire.
“Driver!” Babineaux crowed over the intercom. “Take us forward! Right into the Imperial line!”
“But sir,” the driver answered. “Our escorts are moving to the flank! Should we follow them?”
“Eh?”
It was true, Arnaud could see as he watched carefully through his gunsight. The surviving Fantomes and ELC tanks were beginning to move around the north flank, towards another section of trenchline where heavier fighting was ongoing. No flags were flying, however. What were they up to?
Babineaux didn’t seem concerned either.
“Forget them, driver! More than likely, they will join us further in! In the meantime, forwards!”
With that, the grinding treads of the Prime bit into the mud, pulling it forward and down into the remains of the Imperial line. Even as they lurched forward, Arnaud could see Herzland landsers staring in astonishment, balking and turning to run or fly in fear as this massive block of steel came down on them. He triggered the coaxial machine gun, and with a little more delight watched as a few figures in feldgrau tumbled from his sight in a rain of clattering and chattering. From the secondary Imperial line, another flash went off, and the Prime lurched like it had been kicked.
“Anti-tank gun!” the driver called, though Arnaud was already responding, wheeling around as Roussel slammed a high explosive round into the breech. In another heartbeat, the crew-served weapon disappeared in a cloud of mud and debris.
“Forwards!” Babineaux cried again. “We take this battle to the enemy’s heart!”
“But sir, what about the assault sections? They haven’t taken the trenches yet!” Roussel cried back as she extracted the spent casing.
“Bah!” Babineaux responded, waving a claw as he peered through his periscope. “They’ll catch up! Our enemy is broken before us and fleeing! Victory is practically ours! I can taste it!”
Arnaud and Roussel glanced at each other as the Prime lurched into motion. They had left the Fantomes behind them to proceed on their own, and now they were abandoning their infantry escorts before the Imperial line had been fully pacified? This wasn’t how tanks were supposed to operate, they were supposed to support infantry.
But, orders were orders.
And good soldiers followed orders.
*****
When they stopped, it was a few miles north of the Fezeran border, closer to the end of the day with the sunset on the distant horizon. The smoke and airborne detritus of battle hung on the horizon as Jeune fille d'acier finally clattered into a small town, now held by the Republicaine Armee. Behind her were the exhausted but invigorated column of light armor and marching infantry, finally catching up to the chaotic advance. By the accounts they’d received, the first day’s fighting had seen breakthroughs along the whole front, retaking territory across the entire north. Several times, the battalion had halted for a quick refuel, resupply and evacuation of wounded before piling on, hell for leather as they chased after the fleeing Imperials. For once, it looked like the propaganda from the generals was coming true. They had caught the Herzlanders off-guard and pushed them back, sometimes into terrible positions, all across the border with Rila.
Arnaud, Babineaux and Roussel stood on top of the turret, tiredly watching the scene around them as dust clouds rolled by, stirred up by tracks and tires and endless marching boots, claws and hooves. An army on the move was a messy, nasty affair. Nothing like the storybooks promised. Was it just different in ages past? Did the world lose something as the ages crawled forward? Or had it always been this nasty and the authors and poets had gotten it wrong? But Arnaud knew it was technically both and neither.
The village was some tiny place, a hamlet that had held perhaps a hundred souls. Outside of the city for which Fezera was named up on the north coast, not a lot of the rest of the territory had been terribly developed. Poor roads, even poorer rails. From what Arnaud understood, the Republique moving in and kicking the crime families that had used the place as a center of business had done the territory a huge amount of good, and the year before the war had engaged in several public works projects to connect the Peripherie. But now, with the war between the two giants looming over this small town, the fighting had clearly worked its way over here twice, maybe even three times. The village was long abandoned by its native inhabitants, and several roofs were caved in from battle damage and neglect, shell craters marring the fields around the town. Did it even have a name or a signpost anymore?
Battalion orders were to halt for rest and resupply, so the driver brought Jeune fille d'acier into the center of town, flanked by her escorting troops and tanks as they pulled up perimeter, already scoping which houses had the fewest bullet holes to allow them to get a good night’s rest. Aside from them, there was a unit of Marines taken up residence already, exhausted troops that looked less like amphibious assault specialists and more like the same mudsloggers as they. Clearly, they’d been through the wringer just as much as them today, perhaps even longer depending on where they’d been fighting previously. The Vanguard stopped next to a temple, nondenominational from the look of it. The inverted triple triangle of the three gods was painted above the door in faded and peeling gold paint, and the back of the humble temple looked to have lost an entire wall blown inwards by some explosion who knew how long ago.
“No place for a priest,” Arnaud muttered as he shouldered through the door, noting the rusty hinges as he stepped through.
“No place for anyone mon ami,” Lieutenant Babineaux said quietly, and Arnaud noted it was one of the rare times his commander had spoken with no bluster or pomp in his voice. The junior officer was looking up at the distant and aged ceiling, an eye tracing over the faded and, in places damaged, fresco mural. The scene depicted was that of Boreas, Arcturius and Eyr descending from the heavens to the mortal plane, the Idol of Boreas floating between them. Whatever their personal differences, a common faith held griffonkind together like nothing else. Out of habit, Arnaud tugged his cap off and reflexively made the sign of the trinity across his chest with a talon, feeling it lightly tug at his uniform as he did so.
Roussel sighed, but didn’t comment. As a pony, she was in a strange place religion wise, as were all ponies on Griffonia. But Arnaud’s father had taught him that if you wanted to keep your friends you never spoke to them of politics or religion. He and Roussel had long ago figured out that leaving that out of their conversations was the best way to preserve what they had.
“Find a comfortable place to shack up,” Babineaux said soberly, still staring up at the damaged mural. “We start again at dawn.”
They were joined about an hour later by a group of Marines, well after the sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky a mixed easel of deep purple, black and stubborn pink, swirling clouds making the distance to the stars seem almost achievable by winged beings. The Marines who stepped in looked just as ragged as Arnaud felt, but he realized from their mud-spattered leggings and claws that they had likely just come off the day marching and fighting without the benefit of several tons of armor plating and advanced machinery. The caporal at the head of the section adjusted the MAC-40 she sported, jerking a head at the door.
“That your beast out there?” she asked, the question open and not quite directed to anygriff in particular. Babineaux had taken up his bedroll in the residence, so that left Arnaud as the drake in charge. He shrugged as he spooned another piece of preserved beef from his ration tin.
“Sure,” he replied noncommittally. “Oui. What about it?”
To his surprise, she broke out in a smile.
“Bâtards courageux, all of you. Rolling bunker like that, you’re a sore thumb for Imp gunners.”
“Us?” laughed Roussel from the bedroll next to Arnaud. “You’re out there running in the mud and grime, getting shot at. No thanks, we prefer to travel in style.”
“Spoke like a true pony,” said a machine gunner behind the caporal, to which Roussel leaned over and jabbed a hoof into Arnaud’s ribs. Sighing, as he was more than familiar with what he had to do, Arnaud let his fork go as he raised a claw and made a very specific gesture with his middle talon. The Marines laughed, heartily, and the wheels of military courtesy began.
“C’mon in, Caporal,” Arnaud said, thumbing over his shoulder at the pews around them. “Plenty of room for a few heroes of the Republique.”
“Heroes? La vache, I don’t think he knows what Marines actually do,” commented another drake nearby, starting up another round of chuckles. But as they paraded in, the caporal at the front started the introductions.
“I’m Dalier. That’s Petreau, Brodeur, Touré, Murat, Voclain and mon petit chéri Giroux in the back.”
“Fuck you, Caporal,” said ‘petit’ Giroux, whom Arnaud had to admit was indeed a bit on the squat side. Calling her short was a disservice to the word, as she looked strong enough to bench a truck despite her lacking height. Arnaud had seen her type before, some international athlete from Griffonstone who had competed in Equestria a few years ago. The name escaped him now. He jerked a thumb at the mare next to him.
“Roussel, the pretty one. And I’m Arnaud.”
“Aw, you think I’m pretty? Mon cher amour, why did you never mention?” Roussel teased, nudging Arnaud once more, to which the tank gunner rolled his eyes in reply.
“Because your ego would turn our poor landship into an airship if it got any bigger, petit poney.”
The Marines didn’t take long to take their own spots, scattering as they claimed places to sleep and spend time. Unsurprisingly, most of them were asleep with little more effort than unrolling their rolls and racking out. Petreau, Brodeur and Dalier stayed awake in a circle with Arnaud and Roussel, talking quietly as the Marines maintained their weapons, carefully scraping mud and grime out of the mechanisms and thumbing new cartridges into empty or lacking magazines. For the most part, they spoke of their lives at home. It wasn’t so distant now, so the grim joke went, though the memories certainly were. To his surprise, Arnaud learned one of them, the machine gunner Petreau, was from Les Meridiennes like him.
“No shit, for real?” Petreau remarked, a grin splitting his beak from ear to ear. “Let me guess, you’re from Port-Giselda, eh? You’ve got an educated air to you, and no educated drake on Les Meridiennes lives on some plantation.”
Embarrassed, Arnaud reached up to rub the back of his neck.
“Oui. I was an apprentice engineer in Aquila when the Revolution broke out. The one in ‘08, I’m not that old. Anyway, I got kinda…swept up in it all. Next thing I know, they’re putting me in a tank and telling me to drive towards Pridea. Long story short, that led me all the way here. It’s a bit boring in the middle.”
“Merde, an apprentice to a heavy tanker?” Petreau whistled. “I’m just a dumb drake from one of the rubber plantations. Ran away to join the circus. That didn’t end well, so I did the next dumbest thing I could and joined the armee. Screwed it up so bad they sent me to the Marine Nationale.”
Cackles rang out from their small circle. It was nice to finally be on the march again, and not grinding away in some pointless holding action while the Empire was bearing down on them. It gave them a moment to breath deep and actually recover their confidence. Brodeur didn’t seem to have much to say, simply smirked as he snapped the action back into his rifle and racked it shut, leveling out and squinting at some distant target before he squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell on an empty chamber, and he nodded in appreciation as he pulled the bolt back.
“Lieutenant Super Canard up there keeps talking like we’re going all the way to Griffenheim with this push,” Roussel said, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Babineaux wasn’t within hearing distance. “I mean…do you think it’s true? Not going to Griffenheim, I mean. But are we winning again?”
“Ah, I remember winning,” said Dalier sarcastically, leaning back with a half-full magazine in her claw. “Funny, it looked a lot like now when we’re losing, except I knew it was somewhere else.”
Arnaud sighed, feeling his heart sink a little. Babineaux wasn’t one to share radio transmissions from headquarters, and news didn’t travel fast through the official circuits out on the front. The best way to get information on the front as a whole when a newspaper wasn’t available was trench talk, the rumor network that connected various units together across the army. If Dalier was starting with a grim joke like that out the gate, it wasn’t good.
“That bad?” he asked, just to get the bandaid ripped off. This time, Brodeur did indeed pipe up.
“Word is the 32nd got to Pulliers only to realize the Imps had fortified it to Tartarus and back. Must have cut a deal with Maar to get that built up that fast. They’ve basically been there all day trying to break through. The middle brigades didn’t even make it that far, just got to the line at Martin Ridge. Apparently, we’re the furthest north there is.”
A silence pressed in on the group. They knew the truth, the advance hadn’t taken much ground here in the west either. General Debois’ grand promise of a thirty mile gain on day one appeared to have not lived up to promises. So much for the Empire being tired and disorganized coming out of the Griefwald.
Fortunately, Dalier followed it up with some good news.
“But they say the MPA is finally about to take back Westkeep. Imps have held on to that place too long. Now it’ll be ours again, they’ll never get their filthy claws on it again.”
“Thank the gods for Solide,” Petreau chimed in, holding up a flask in an ad hoc toast. “Formel like that scares me. She’d break you with one firm look. I hear she’d part medusa, just turn you to stone if she lifts that eyepatch.”
“Or just gas you,” Dalier chimed back. “Nasty business gas. But hey, it kills Imps. I suppose it can’t be all bad.”
“Not just Imps,” Brodeur cut in again as he wiped some gun oil off his claws. “It’s one of those elite units, trained in the east. They’ve got those heavy tank bâtards, the Grytas.”
“What, Grenz?” Arnaud asked, frowning at that. Like most of the armee, he’d heard the stories, but had never faced soldiers from Ost-Griffonia before himself. “Thought they weren’t getting in the war. Too much shit on the border with l'anarchie.”
“Not completely,” Dalier explained. “Apparently they give a few units to the Reichsarmee every once in a while, what they can spare. Vicious bastards they are. Did you know most of them are Blackcloaks?”
“What?” Roussel piped up, looking very alarmed at that statement. “I thought that was a myth! Une légende!”
“No legend,” Petreau stated, shaking his head. “Bad as the Empire is, Grenz are much worse. They put a leash on l’Reformisten and turned them into their attack beasts, as if hounds weren’t bad enough. They say there’s one army that’s led by a reanimated corpse.”
“And their soldiers don’t care if they die,” Brodeur continued, clearly picking up on the queue to start passing on collected stories. “They run straight into the guns with no fear, but the gods know if you can actually kill them. They’ll burn entire cities to the ground.”
“And if they don’t get you, the Reichsarmee just rolls over their corpses in black tanks to clean up whatever they’ve missed,” Dalier finished, barely hiding a smirk. “It’s all true. I heard the Grenz all wear black uniforms, so you can’t see the blood from the wounds they take. Cause they just don’t stop even after you shoot them. They’ll drop artillery on their own heads if it takes you with them.”
“And when they’re done, they pick up the corpses of the fallen, friends and foes, and take them back to recycle the organs,” Petreau finished, claws raised as if to mimic some kind of grim marionette puppeteer. “Who can tell -what- they are? They all wear gas masks, even when they don’t need to. La vache, it's a grim bloody army of DEATH!”
For a moment, the small circle was silent, all blank faces and wide eyes. Not even a heavy breath could be heard. Then, Roussel snickered, Brodeau barely fought back a chuckle and the entire circle burst out laughing, chasing away the dark tales with their mirth. Of course, all those stories may have held a grain of truth, but every soldier’s bread and butter was to add a few extra details to whatever rumors they had heard from other sources and pass it on to the next group. The really fun part was to find the raw recruits, barely chicks themselves, who would earnestly believe even the most outlandish stories told by the veterans they looked up to. But when passed between those who had been around a while, it was obvious who was spreading the bullshit.
“All that, eh?” Arnaud chortled as he drew breath again. It was always good for a laugh, but not for long. The novelty tended to wear off in a hurry. “Well, we’ll make sure to just blow them up, eh?”
“Not a bad idea,” said a voice from the darkness, prompting the entire circle to spin around and face the newcome. To Arnaud and Roussel’s surprise, up came Lieutenant Babineaux, a smoldering cigarette off to the side of his beak. He didn’t look mad, though it was clear he’d just woken up from a fitful sleep. His uniform, normally perfectly pressed and correct down to the millimeters of where his braid and medals should be, was rumpled and still a bit dirty, as if he’d slept in it. He stepped into the circle of veterans, between Arnaud and Petreau.
“One thing’s for sure, those Grytas are bad news,” the tank commander continued. “They came first. The Primes were still going through final evaluation when the Imps hit the line a few months back. So Aquila panicked and sent out whatever was to claw. But it wasn’t fast enough.” He glanced to Arnaud and Roussel, flicking his cigarette. “Tell them about Adelart. The one you told me.”
Arnaud shifted uncomfortably, glancing to Roussel, who looked back just as grimly, a forced neutral expression on her face. Arnaud sighed, realizing he was in this one alone before he turned to the Marines.
“Me and Roussel, we had a Tab on the Adelart line back in March. Good crate, good crew.” His mind raced, flashing back to the days of maneuvers before…what happened next. His crewmates. The positive days when Feathisia was still where most of the fighting had taken place. “Good position. The Reichsarmee had been building for a while, we all knew. Command assumed it was going to be another push, like the month before that. We thought we were ready for them this time. Turn it around on them and be back towards Rottendedam. Only…”
He paused. Suddenly, he didn’t think he could go over all the detail of the Imperial charge. The massive black Grytas smashing down on their positions, grinding up over the lip of their trenchlines as the troops inside routed before the foe, burning tanks around him and corpses piled up everywhere. And, in his mind’s eye, that one bastard he had in his sights. Dead to rights, should have been.
“Only we couldn’t scratch them. We threw everything we had at those tanks. Autocannons, anti-tank guns, artillery. I think we even had a few battlemages chuck fireballs at them. Nothing worked. They cleaned us out.”
The chatter of a machine gun in the distance. As he and Roussel fled their burning vehicle, their driver fell, her chest erupting in a spatter of blood and pulped bone. He and Roussel had barely ducked into a trench, and slowly made their way back to friendly lines.
“We walked for the next week. Imps seemed to be everywhere. But around Falcontown I think we caught a ferry, got taken to a repo-depot. The rest is, well…history.”
The Marines stared at him, concerned and quiet. They knew what they were hearing was no tall tale. No story told to entertain and pass on with more lies and exaggerations attached, in part to amuse and to lessen the threat of the foe by making him seem less real and more like a story villain, a monster to serve a part in a fable and no more. Roussel was staring at him too, and he could see the same sadness reflect in her eyes that he knew he felt in himself.
Then a claw fell on his shoulder.
“Well, from what I hear about Westkeep, Colonel Solide’s been killing Grytas left and right! Undead commander or no, he’s no match for a remote controlled demolition! Amazing little devices, Carpiquet bombs. Just drive them right up under a Gryta and boom! Broiled Grenzlander.” The lieutenant gave a gesture that emulated a chef’s kiss, talons stirring up that annoying little toothbrush mustache he wore. “And how fierce can they be, if we’ve seen none of them out here? The Imperials may be crafty, but we’ve certainly got them beat! Non, trust me, mes amis! We are on the path to victory once more! It’s just a matter of time! A matter of faith!”
Of itself, Arnaud’s gaze turned upwards, towards the damaged mural above. He thought back to the empty, abandoned and battle-worn houses here in this no-name village. This was the third time the Republique had returned to this place. Didn’t that mean something? He thought about Jeune fille d'acier, technically unfinished and barely tested. Hadn’t she and her model held up well so far? Sure, those Grytas were tough nuts to crack. But on a level less full of himself, Lieutenant Babineaux was right about one thing.
The Imperials were hard bastards. The Grenzwalders? Sure, they were probably hard bastards too. But so far, Aquileia was proving to be even harder. The biggest bastards of them all. We are tougher than them, he thought. Take the punches and keep on coming. That’s what won fights.
He smirked as the lieutenant chattered on, getting worked up into another one of his ‘inspirational’ speeches. Roussel saw it, and tilted her head to the side, not quite understanding. But he just nodded to her, and glanced back up at the mural again, seeing it with fresh eyes. He’d lost his sense of blind patriotism after watching the carnage of the Revolution. But he had something a bit better now than just hoping and praying.
They had the Primes. They were in the right. And someday, they would win. Whatever it took.
"As the war worsens, the Cutie Mark system of job assignment has been abandoned in all but name. How do you categorize ponies with soda pops, flowers, or musical notes, when you need line workers, welders and front line troops?" — Entry from Princess Twilight's Journal, June 7th, 1012 ALB
Delivered Via Skyway Express Airmail Sent June 9th, 1012
Dear Cyril,
I understand the issues about endless fighting taking up your time. By all rights, I should have been rotated out about ten air missions ago, sent into reserve. But the problem is that Equestria needs aviators, so I guess I’m out of luck. I did get some leave, however. I’m currently staying at a very decent hotel in Manehattan for the next few days, and I intend to get the most I can out of it. It’s only a week, after all. We’ve been warned we may be relocating again, this time to an airbase near here. It depends on how much more the front crawls forward. Officially, I should have been sent home after twenty five missions. I’m sure you know that is not what happened. Being back here where its quiet, and away from the danger is jarring, and it all feels off. Ponies here either act like the war is a million miles away or like Chrysalis' swarms are right outside the city. But I’m doing everything you’re supposed to do here. I went to the theater, got drunk in several pubs and bars, toured a few sites to take in the local flavor like old times. I flew to the top of the Bronclyn Bridge and looked eastwards, back towards Griffonia again. Towards you, and my parents and everything. I remember doing so the last time I was here, wondering where you are. Well, I don’t have to wonder any more now do I?
I decided to find you another novel. I understand you may not have much time right now. The Battle of Westkeep is updated daily over here. But I feel helpless, and this is the least I can do as it stands. So I went hunting for some classic fantasy and found a book on Nightmare Moon’s rebellion. It’s listed as non-fiction, but I’m pretty sure it’s been played up at least a bit based on what’s in it. It’s called Under a Blood Moon, and a lot of it is written from the perspective of the Lunar cultists and thestrals who fought for NMM a thousand years ago. I’m not sure how reliable texts from a millenia ago will be when they’ve been largely ignored and left to the side, but I suppose that’s how historical authors get by today. A little something new for you, with lots of new terms in Equusian to learn.
I also wanted to get you a soft drink while I was here (soda pop, they call it on this side of the world) but I doubt the bottle would survive the trip. So instead I found another candy shop and got you this odd bar full of peanuts. Though I’m not sure if you’ll like it myself.
Static snapped a shot of me with that camera of hers in front of the cafe we went to yesterday. She developed it for me to send to you. Get yourself out of Westkeep so I can get one back. Mine’s old and a bit beat up. I’m gonna hold you to it.
Unfortunately, while I have a million nothings to say, I think I’ve run out of the things that’ll be important to you where you’re at. So I can only hope you get out of there soon, so I can talk about a million nothings without worrying about you reading them in a trench somewhere. I can’t wait to tell you all about nothing of circumstance, when that’s all we have to talk about.
Love,
~Paige
(Attached is a package with the candy bar, the novel and the photograph inside, this one of Paige sitting outside a soda bar with a finished drink in front of her, wearing her RAF khakis and smiling at the camera. Her mane is still cut short, and she looks a lot more rested than the last photo.)
June 11th, 1012 12 miles northwest of Hope Hollow Oleander Valley, Central Equestria Army Group Center, 8th Motor-Infanterie Divisione
The knowledge that the Royal Equestrian Army not only knew how to fight back effectively but were still willing to do so even after taking such a pounding had not occurred to Zarek when he had answered his conscription notice. According to the propaganda and the speeches, ponies were weak, spineless creatures who relied too much on singular figures to do their fighting for them, soft and spoiled things that never had to struggle for a thing in their soft, spoiled lives. Zarek knew better, of course. He had learned the necessary lessons in Acornage, Mariposa, Marechester and Blackthorn Dale. Even while the Wermacht was pounding the Royal Army to hell and back, the ponies refused to give. They stubbornly fought from their foxholes and ruined cities, combat unicorns hardening defensive positions as they let fire rain from their superb bombers and artillery pits, row after row of infantrymares refusing to fall back and forcing the changelings to root them out in detail, not only slowing down the countercharge back through Blackthorn Dale but causing even more casualties. Even the pony armored vehicles, though insufficient compared to changeling or griffon panzers, still kept rattling forwards. The easy months of storming past Acornage and Vanhoover, when everyling thought the war would be over before the New Year, were utterly dashed. Bloody Blackthorn, as Equestrian POWs had called it (the term had stuck amongst changeling soldiers too) had proven the ponies were bruised, beaten and worn but nowhere near ready to quit.
Zarek huffed as he shifted the bulk of the MG42 across his back, feeling its twenty-six pounds (about twelve Griffonian kilograms) of stamped steel and the awkward weight of the bipod. Normally, he could lift and handle it just fine, but when marching mile after mile with such an object it began to chafe plates and grow tiresome on his spine. With Malket dead, he had taken over the squad role of machine gunner since Grimpen, when the Heer was pushed back again and again to Marechester. Many had feared this would be the point where the Royal Army broke through, and with the 96th long redeployed to Army Group South, the 8th had been shoved up front and center again. But the slaughter in Blackthorn Dale had been turned back by advanced panzer reinforcements, and now ejected from the bloody forest again. With their new momentum regained, they marched on Hope Hollow with the full might of a renewed offensive behind them.
Sergeant Rakowitz led them, as usual, with he and Vorle promoted to Corporals (Gefreiter, he reminded himself, trying to remember the title in Herzlandische) to lead the replacements that had come to fill the holes in the ranks, though Zarek himself didn’t do much leading behind the MG. He didn’t bother much with learning a lot of names, as a machine gunner didn’t much have to direct soldiers. Vorle’s shoulder injury had seen him removed from being a loader for a time, so Zarek had a new loader, a dumpy private named Masaskite. Her name he had to know from their constant work together, though he wasn’t confident of her odds. Regardless she did her job well, hauling belts of ammunition and feeding them as he needed, reloading in a timely manner. He was willing to give her a chance, at least. Nera was still with them, but ever since the fighting at Grimpen she had grown distant, despondent. The rest of the veterans had settled into the grim reality, but it seemed like grim reality was settling into her instead. She didn’t talk much, barely ate and guzzled her love ration like alcohol. Zarek was worried for her, but there was only so much he could do.
The squad was split into two lines on either side of this road, marching through the summer heat towards the southeast, columns of Open Blitz trucks, half-tracks and various panzers clattering on by. While the important elements of the advance were motorized, the 8th at this point was hoof infantry in all other aspects, as more and more trucks were shifted to funnel supplies. Rumors had even arisen that some divisions had been forced to rely on wagons pulled by captured pony POWs from the labor battalions. Most astounding of all had been watching the Queen’s Guard in motion, the practically emotionless enforcers of High Queen Chrysalis’ will as they deployed straight to the front, followed by advanced Panzer IVs, speedy Panzer IIIs, the nifty and versatile Sturmgeschütz and the mighty, imposing Tiger heavy tank, all of them bearing the Queen’s Guard emblem on their armor plating. Nothing but the best for the Queen’s Elite.
The buzz of aircraft cut through the constant rumbling of artillery on the horizon, and Zarek’s head immediately shot up as he watched the sky, trying to spot the green and brown shapes of enemy fliers. But he relaxed as he realized those were black and gray, friendly craft flying into the combat zone as a wing of bombers cut by overhead. Luftwaffe bombing runs constantly ran south, hitting enemy positions up and down the line. The Royal Air Force had recovered since the battering they’d gotten, but the Commonwealth and Red Air Forces had always been a thorn. One could never be entirely sure what was up there, and often waiting to see meant it was too late.
“Hope they give ‘em plenty of hell before us,” one of the replacements shouted, waving a hoof up in the air despite the fact that the Luftwaffe craft were hundreds of feet over their heads, and thus way too far away for the grunts on the ground to see.
“I hope they leave some action for us,” another one chirped, her stupid muzzle splitting in a grin. “I’m here to kill ponies, not count bodies for the flybugs!”
Zarek rolled his eyes, glancing over to Vorle. The other corporal merely shrugged, clearly just as over and done with the new recruits’ flippant attitude as Zarek himself. They’d learn, though. Oh yes they did. The thrill and glory they promised you in basic training was a long ways off from here, and when the bullets started flying and the screams rang out, you found that out pretty quick.
They reached the battlezone as they came into a dell, where the road went down a short hill and across a few small fields overgrown with grass, weeds and forest growth. Clearly, Equestria’s magic was unable to keep it as perfectly managed as it had been before, the way Zarek had seen it himself. The countryside was growing wilder before his eyes, and this was the evidence right before them.
A hooffull of panzers were pressing a ridgeline, where there were several clumps of trees, broken up by paths into the forest. It wasn’t as thick here as it had been in Bloody Blackthorn, but it was still thick enough to shelter Equestrian soldiers. From behind dirt dugouts, sandbag walls, fallen logs and slit trenches gunfire blazed out at the panzers and the infantry following behind them. Rifles, at least a few dozen with submachine guns occasionally. There was also the deep staccato of their portable Grump automatic rifles and the chatter of Nickers guns. As Zarek watched, a flash popped off from the ridgeline, a streak flying across the dell and smashing into the glacis plate of the nearest Panzer IV. The shell bounced, but he knew a high-velocity anti-tank gun when he saw it. Evidently, so did the driver, for he immediately threw his vehicle in reverse and tried to find some place to hide or go hull down. The other Panzers did the same thing, reluctantly breaking off to engage from safety.
They had no Stukas to provide close air support, and attached artillery would already be engaged. Zarek knew what was coming even before Rakowitz turned and called out “Squad! Assault formation! Let’s go give them a hoof!”
The rest of the company was doing the same thing, moving low into the overgrown fields or taking to the wing to get a better view of the battlespace. Flying infantry was vulnerable in this war thanks to accurate rifles and fast-firing automatics, but having wings had its uses in rough terrain and city fights, or for scouts. As tracers bit the air in pursuit, the few that had flown up immediately dove for the dirt, rushing to give their reports to squad and platoon leaders. Up ahead, Hauptmann Nihilith turned, waving a hoof in Rakowitz’s direction before pointing up at the defense line.
“That’s us!” the sergeant hollered, turning and giving several emphatic gestures even as rounds zipped past him from the Equestrian line. “Zarek! Take your em-gee up on that rise and start firing! Vorle! Spread your ‘lings out and cover him!”
In their battles, the machine gun was all important. Riflelings may have made up the primary fighting force, but the machine gunners were expected to actually destroy the enemy or suppress them so supporting vehicles could move up and eliminate them. This gruppen already had two other machine gun teams, one of them with the older and slower MG34, so as Zarek and Masaskite slammed into the mud obscured by grass and he began unloading, the storm intensified on the pony position. As the other riflelings began to advance under such cover, the sky split with a howl as two Stukas descended on the trees. In but a moment, they had loosed their payloads onto the treeline and peeled off before Equestrian Fortie AA guns could target them, but two Stukas’ worth of bombs was nothing here compared to what the dug in ponies could bring to bear.
Zarek slammed the machine gun onto the ground of the ‘rise’ (honestly little more than a small hillock), deploying the bipod as he swiveled around, searching for a target. Masaskite hurried to ready the next few belts of ammunition, laying them out next to him so they’d be ready in a heartbeat.
“There!” she called as she pointed, remembering her secondary role of spotter. “Enemy infantry, six hundred meters, one o clock!”
Without much response, Zarek brought the machine gun to bear and held the trigger down. By now, he was used to the clattering roar that the weapon made, a blast of noise and percussion without noticeable pause between shots that turned into a bullet hose carving up everything before it. A shower of brass sprung from the other side as empty shell casings rained down into the soft ground. He had to be careful, for while it was tempting to let loose on every pony he spotted, Zarek knew this weapon could zip through a belt like lightning if he wasn’t careful. So he tried to restrict himself to five round bursts, though even that was still consuming ammunition at a frightful rate.
As one of the squads continued advancing, even with machine gun fire to cover them, there was a bright flash from the line, and a blue bolt of something arcane and destructive lanced out. It carved a path up the middle of the hunched and huddling soldiers, roasting the riflelings in their shells and burning uniforms away, ammunition and grenades detonating and startled shrieks cut disturbingly short. In but three seconds, six ‘lings suddenly lay dead on the ground as the arcane lighting had scythed them down like the wheat that was now beginning to catch fire around their corpses.
“Battlemage!” someling cried out. Two of the machine guns swiveled to target the site of the blast, though even as they raked the trenchworks with suppressing fire and cut down an infantrymare or two that had poor timing or bad luck, Zarek knew the unicorn had likely deployed a magic shield or even changed position to attack from another direction. But, as it happened, that was the least of their issues at present.
“Enemy tanks!”
The call put even more of a chill into Zarek’s chitin than the mage had, for grinding up the road, clumsy and behind as they were, the Timberwolf tanks were still plenty lethal, flanked by a quartet of Humber armored cars. Those 6-pounder guns may not have the same firepower as changeling 75mm cannons, but everything below the new mediums coming south they could mulch without struggle. But accompanying the two Equestrian mediums was something of a real clencher; a Celestia heavy tank. Like Queendom Tigers, there weren’t many of them and they struggled to get just about anywhere. But where Tigers possessed the ferocity of their main armament, Celestias were damned hard to destroy, all thick armor plate and oblong shape, ignoring difficult terrain like steep slopes and broken forest floor.
The panzers turned, moving from their hull down positions to engage the enemy armor. This was a bit sticky, of course, as the dug in AT guns were still in play. But hopefully, they’d keep the Equestrian armor occupied long enough to allow the infantry to take out the defensive line.
Zarek’s gun clacked on an empty chamber, and he cursed as he smacked the release, pulling the top open to allow Masaskite to feed a new belt into the gun. But, midway through the operation, the dumb bug gawked up and pointed into the sky, crying “Lookout! Pegasus!”
“Don’t stop, you idiot!” Zarek howled, reaching up and finishing the process. But she was indeed right, as a few squads of pegasi (and some thestral) fliers descended onto the infantrylings crossing the field, grenades raining on their heads as the poor riflelings down below tried firing back. A few took awing to try and escape or fight back, but the entrenched ponies on the line cut down any who arose with short, chattering bursts. Zarek grimached, pulled the bolt back and stood, bracing the machine gun on a hip never intended to take that kind of weight before he pulled the trigger. It was a labor and a half to keep hold of the bucking weapon as he sprayed shots into the air wildly, but it paid off as first one, then two then a small cluster more of winged ponies tumbled from the sky in bursts of feathers and blood, smacking into the ground at high speed.
A sergeant in the field waved a hoof onwards for the embattered riflelings to keep slugging forward, even as tank rounds whistled by over their heads from the duel further down the road and accurate enemy rifle fire kept punching holes in their ranks. But they were changelings, and their brutal home had prepared them to make sacrifices for victory, and their training taught them to obey orders without question or hesitation. The advance continued unabated, though ragged. The front ranks, having finally gotten close enough, drew hoof grenades from their musette bags and crept even further forward while their comrades kept pouring the fire on with Gewehr 7s, MP10s and the Gewehr 12s that the factories back home were trying their hardest to pump out as fast as they could. Trading shots with accurate Lavender fire wasn’t a remedy for success when you had no cover, and more ‘lings dropped as they were chewed to pieces by pinpoint rifle shots, backed by the chugging Grump guns and the Hippie Guns and those barebone Limestone submachine guns the Equestrians seemed to have assembled out of scrap. But the grenadiers finally got there, and let fly with their grenades. A moment later there was a chorus of pops, snaps and cracks as the explosives did their work. The defense line’s fire faltered for a moment as screams and shouts filled the air, but it was less effective than it should have been.
Another bolt of blue cut the air as another arcane lightning bolt tore across the field. Without a target in a line to incinerate, this one did less damage but two changelings were still immolated, and now the field really was becoming a hazard as the fire spread even faster. Finally, Rakowitz hollered and waved for the assault to fall back. They were in too poor a position, and had taken too many losses to keep this up. Zarek cursed as the troopers began to withdraw in as much order as they could manage. What a fucking waste.
Abruptly, a shriek cut the air. From above, the cries of distressed and panicking pegasi and thestrals cut the sky. The repeated dull chatter of a 20mm cannon cut through the trees nearby, and Zarek spotted tracers lacing up from some clearing, evidence of a Triple-A that had just gotten set up and was now popping flak rounds into the fliers at its leisure. But the shriek hadn’t been from that, it came from three rocketing black shapes, glowing green auras surrounding them as they tore into the flying forms above.
When Queen’s Guard battleshifters entered the fray, a lot of times they did so without rifles or anything to get in the way. Their powers of shapeshifting were so potent, they became the weapon instead. With bursts of magic light, the battleshifters took their chosen forms to dive into combat, one a Neverwarm Sky Viper with its gossamer wings and slender form, another became a Dread Maulwurf that dived towards the ground with great claws extended and the last a Thrax worm that seemed a sick combination of the two. The Sky Viper tore into the pegasi, ignoring the 20mm flak around it as shells and bullets simply bounced off the plate. Claws flashed, mandiles snapped and wings buzzed, and winged ponies tied left and right, eviscerated or torn to shreds as the massive and monstrous form that severely outweighed them literally ripped them apart. Outmatched, the pony fliers could only turn and flee, their submachine guns rattling as they went, pitiful before the creature they had become stacked against.
The other two battleshifters hit the ground and got to work. Both buried under the soil in fountains of dirt, rumbling through before two twin geysers of soil appeared under the Equestrian defense line. Zarek almost felt bad for those ponies who had put up such a stubborn resistance as an anti-tank gun was dismantled by massive claws and an entire trench was ripped up by scything talons, blood and guns and torn rainbow flesh exploding out in a gruesome, gory shower. Any ponies that tried to escape the carnage exposed themselves to the guns of the advancing riflelings, who seized the opportunity to get their revenge for being boxed in so harshly. Rifles barked, submachine guns chattered and the other machine guns blasted, a miniature hailstorm of lead that cut down many of the survivors as they fled. Zarek himself joined in, his covering position allowing him a better view as he watched his fire slap a cluster of Earth pony soldiers to the ground like they’d been smacked by some almighty hand from above, a unicorn attempted to throw up her magic barrier before it faltered under such a barrage and another pony who dodged one of the maulfwurf battleshifter’s vicious strikes danced at the various impacts like some sinister puppet as he fell.
His sights settled on a pair of ponies, desperately hauling away a third who was visibly wounded. Even from this distance he could see blood trickling down her face. Instinctively, his hoof settled on the trigger, but at the last moment he managed to still the motion. It was a jarring upset, disrupting the normal pattern of combat in his brain. Like anything a creature does on habit, anything thrown in to shake up the normal pattern breaks down the chain, and Zarek suddenly found himself breathing hard, shaking a bit as he watched the three ponies escape. Not so long ago, that could have been him. Hives below, he’d seen plenty of lings dragged off in similar manner, screaming and gushing ichor as they went. For that short moment, just briefly, the pressure and reality of the battle cut through the mind-numbing state he had used to endure the horrors and trauma of the past year. He gasped, trying to keep his control. Masaskite was at his side immediately, likely assuming her gunner had been shot, but he waved her off, regaining his breath and control as he scanned the field for more targets.
By now, the ponies had been driven off this line. Even the enemy tanks were gone, leaving a Timberwolf and two Humbers wrecked and burning on the road, though they had taken two of the Panzer IVs with them as well, one of which still had crew clambering out of their hatches while smoke poured from the destroyed engines. Zarek sighed, standing up and hefting his MG42. The cost hadn’t been light to win this scrap of forest field. The bodies of dead infantrylings that could be recovered before the field fire got too intense were dragged to the side, in various states of dismemberment and death. They would either be cremated here or sent home for their families. But they’d quickly be replaced, swapped out and pressed on, like pieces on a chessboard.
Zarek sighed, spotting Sergeant Rakowitz waving at him tiredly. His squad sergeant was conversing with Hauptmann Nihilith, whose command halftrack with its tied down radio antennas had pulled over to let the company commander speak with his noncoms. A green-stained bandage on Nihilith’s neck showed where a shard of shrapnel had almost claimed his life, but the wound was shallow. To treat it, they’d have to tear off the chitin first, and Nihilith had waved that off, preferring to let it heal on its own as he kept up the advance with his lings. Flashes of green caught Zarek’s eye, and he swiveled his head to see the Queen’s Guard all returning in their ‘ling forms, grouping up in their own private meeting. All three were soaked in blood, as if they had walked straight through a torrent of it. The black uniforms seemed to just absorb it, and those unnatural gas masks made them even more ghastly, like attack beasts more than sentient beings. He shivered involuntarily, descending with Masaskite to rejoin Rakowitz and their squad. Vorle was there, as was Nera, but at least three of the replacements were not. Dead in the field maybe? Dropped elsewhere? Who knew, honestly.
“We keep moving,” Rakowitz said tiredly. “Those tanks retreated to a strongpoint up ahead, on the road into the town itself. Hauptmann says we need to clear it out so the Queen’s Guard can move on up towards Hope Hollow.”
Vorle groaned behind the sergeant, attending to one of his lings with a bandage across the shoulder.
“Why in the hives do we have to clear the way for the ‘elite’ units with the heavy armor and magic weapons? Don’t they have all those new Tigers and rockets and battleshifters?”
Rakowitz shrugged at that, the non-com’s face expressionless as usual. But Zarek caught his careful glance over a shoulder at the three Queen’s Guard still standing in the ruins of the destroyed defensive position. The trio seemed caught in their own conversation, which honestly suited the machine gunner just fine. Lings tended to disappear when those ghastly soldiers (maniacs he had come to believe them) deployed into the field.
“You think they tell me shit? All I know is they’re rounding up stragglers and guerillas in the woods with the Jagers. It’s our job to clear out that strongpoint, so we keep advancing.”
“That’s all we ever do,” Nera commented, sitting by the side of road, her Gewehr 12 laying in the dirt beside her as she stared off towards the horizon. “Keep going into the fire and just…batter the ponies to the ground.”
Zarek glanced to Rakowitz, then Vorle. As the remnants of the old squad, they were all tightly bound to one another. They had all noticed Nera faltering under the pressure of the unending advance forwards, the grinding attrition of continually pushing against the Equestrian lines. None of them had gotten leave to return home, just the rearline stations for a few days to rest up and wait for replacements, reinforcements and new orders. While Zarek, Rakowitz and Vorle simply bore up under the pressure, Nera had clearly faltered somewhere.
“Careful with that,” Vorle said quietly as he moved to her side, under the pretense of checking a wound while Zarek gave them cover by taking Masaskite to the side, stripping the machine gun down and checking it. “The Queen’s Guard and VOPS are everywhere these days. You know what they do to defeatists.”
“Defeatists. Traitors. Harmonists. Communists. Ponies in general.” Nera laughed darkly, but Zarek could tell there was no humor to it whatsoever. “If they wanted to, they could slap any one of us with a label and make us disappear. It’s just what they -do-. But we’re out here, in the mud and the suck fighting the ponies, and where are the generals? The agents, the businesslings, the Royals? All back in the hives, making plots and sidestepping each other while we die for their ‘revenge.’”
Her wings buzzed in agitation, and Vorle glanced over to Rakowitz in concern, shrugging to indicate he was at a loss. Fortunately, Nera seemed to recover as she sighed, stood up and took up her rifle again.
“Okay. Just needed to get all of that off my chest. I can keep going. Let’s get the job done.”
As she moved up to follow the road, sidestepping a convoy of Open Blitz and Imperial Katze trucks that came rolling up to supply the advance, Zarek glanced over to Rakowitz as well. How much longer could they count on Nera to keep fighting without getting them in trouble?
Better question was, how much longer could they all keep doing the same thing?
June 12th, 1012 Imperial Occupied Westkeep, Aquileia 3rd Armee, 19th Panzer-Division ‘Landgraf von Aiwlen’, 205th Schwere Panzerabteilung ‘Kampfgruppe Lehr’ Battle of Westkeep, Day 80
It was close to dawn, though you wouldn’t know that from just looking. A pall of black smoke and the blazing of out of control fires mixed and conspired to always conceal sunlight and stretching out the shadows of the ruins. In the middle of the day, you would be hard pressed to see any sunlight, and some of the unfortunate Imperial soldiers who were stuck in dugouts or the remains of buildings while the barrages hammered at the city lost track of time, blinking in bewilderment when they came out days later. While the gentle pinks of sunrise were supposed to be visible anywhere else, it was still dark as pitch here. The city’s electrical grid had long ago collapsed when the Aquileians had destroyed the coal plants and knocked out the portable generators Kampfgruppe Lehr had brought through the Gap. In the smoke and shadow, griffons died by the hundreds, if not thousands at a time.
Westkeep had become little more than a slaughterhouse, in ways deeper than simple hyperbole. The scope of the violent grapple defied mere description. As the front up north slowly broke through the Greifwald and clawed southward against the flood of Aquileian forces on their new offensive, as the fighting in Pomovarra and Verenia closed up, pushing over the Pom River into hardened resistance in Vinovia, the closing of the Westkeep salient seemed at last a possibility, though the specifics were still unknown to the troops on the ground. But as the relief of the city finally loomed large as they all knew it had to, the Aquileians got more and more steadfast in their determination. The city had, for almost four months, been the rock upon which the Reichsarmee held, that point to where they pulled themselves relentlessly, dragging like a wounded griff across barbed wire towards safety, bleeding and tearing but so close to relief. The Aquileian forces outside were no longer just the MPA assault troops that had battered themselves against the city, but now several regiments that held the surrounding countryside, backed by an armored division supplied from Ileagle and, most disconcerting, a detachment of the elite Garde Républicaine, the Revolution’s version of the knights they had inherited from the monarchy four years ago. With the same enchanted armored plating and heavy weapons as their Imperial counterparts, they were savage veterans of the Revolution and Peripherie Wars, just as determined as the zealots of the MPA and even better equipped. There was no longer any attempt to foray out with the heavy panzers. What they had was what they would fight with. Through the Gap, Kampfgruppe Lehr had been reinforced with a clawful of regiments and battalions, whatever the city would hold. And, as things continued, it didn’t seem like it would hold much at all.
There wasn’t much left of the city. Everything taller than a story that could hold a sniper or a machine gun had been flattened by artillery. The exchange of shells ripped up city streets, destroyed homes and wiped out the sensible, ordered occupation the Imperial troops had established and left behind a frantic and harried force that shot any civilian that approached Imperial troops or vehicles on the street. Even though the Republique was here to liberate their own city, the people had been driven out, killed or sent scurrying through the ruins like rats. And yet, even as their own soldiers bombarded their homes and turned the area into a wreck that sent them scurrying into their cellars, partisans still emerged to wreak havoc on the Imperial occupation. Guerilla warfare, explosive sabotage, assassinations, letting enemy infiltrators in. It was about everything the desperate Imperial troops could do to keep kicking them down and hunting down the partisans. The problem was, they couldn’t get them all, and now the enemy was in the city proper it made the task nearly impossible.
They just didn’t give up, even as they had to fight past mountains of their own dead. The garrison manning the fortress fired the defensive guns into the city, even as the shellfire continued pasting the fortification, machine guns chattering from reinforced fighting positions in windows and across the rooftops. Down below the Imperial landsers fought to hold the foe back, street by street, building by building, room by room. They used barbed wire, booby traps, flamethrowers, combat shotguns, everything they had to claw, diving into vicious and bloody melee combat. But the enemy was fervent in his hatred and devotion to Kampfgruppe Lehr’s destruction. It didn’t matter how many of them were killed, for each who fell, ten more took his or her place on an identical journey to pierce Imperial soldiers on bayonet point. It didn’t matter that intel and POW interrogation revealed the enemy was suffering from the deadly Wet Plague as much as the Imperial forces, which raked its terrible claws through both armies and dropped whole kompanie ranks at a time. The battle still raged on, vicious as ever. And when the panzers or armored infantry engaged in city streets, suddenly the fight became that much more frantic. Submachine guns rattled, grenades detonated and everything from knives to trench swords and even fighting spades and bare talons sank into flesh, spilling blood over the ruined walls and floors.
“Arcturius, we beg your guidance in this dark time as we do battle in your name. Enfeeble our foes and lift up our weary muscles. Boreas, lay for us the path to greener fields, brighter days ahead and wiser times. Eyr, bless our ravaged bodies as we struggle forward on our mighty crusade.”
Brightclaw prayed from the radio position, tiredly muttering under his breath as he peered through his bow gunsight, claw tensing and relaxing on the handle of his MG 08. Isegrim was part of the barricade holding the enemy back on the main avenue. This being the widest street and the most direct route to both the Westkeep fortress and the road out of the city to the Gap, Heimclar had positioned all the heavy panzers left remaining here at this intersection to hold back the Aquileian panzers that time and time again attempted to blitz towards the command post. General Van Zieks, overseeing the evacuation, needed as much time as he could get to move the wounded out through the Gap. Nogriff was under any illusions. Unless they were miraculously saved in the next day or so, this position was doomed, and once it went the entire line went with it.
Cyril watched the road too, fighting the exhaustion clawing at the back of his mind as he tried to stay low enough not to give a target for a sniper but high enough to actually see something. Aquileian snipers were dead lethal, be they pony rangers or their accomplished sharpshooters. Kampfgruppe Lehr had none of the same specially trained marksgriffs in their battle roster, even after the kompanies that had flowed in through the Gap to reinforce them. Alone, the southern snipers had picked off plenty of Imperial officers and the only response they had was the sheer number of heavy guns still in support. If a radio operator so much as spotted the glint of a scope flash, standing orders were to call in immediate artillery support without waiting for orders. The frogs had quickly learned that any time they slipped up was likely to have the screaming of shells and rockets coming down on their position. That had helped. A bit.
He glanced to his right. Sokoły sat on the other side of the intersection, her commander standing fully upright and scanning the lane with his field glasses. Cyril groaned. While the lad had come a long way in getting to grasp with more practical panzer experience, the Knightly bravado had yet to completely leave him. Maybe he ought to point it out so Machinki didn’t end up with his brains splattered across his turret. Despite a rocky start, having come through the fire together the two had become good friends, and where Isegrim went it was very likely her sister Sokoły could be found right behind her. Plus, he had no one else to teach him how to effectively sword fight with modern blades.
Grunting, he reached for the headset, keying the channel. “Brutus to Anton-Aktual. Ink, get your godsdamned head down, you wanna terminal case of lead poisoning? Over.”
Across the intersection, Machinki lowered his field glasses, reaching up and keying his own headset.
”Anton to Brutus, bold action will be what wins this war! If we cannot be confident, how can we meet the foe’s ferocity? Over.”
Cyril snorted. Leave it to a Knight to choose to ignore good advice.
“Anton, Brutus. Ink, we can’t meet the enemy without the top part of our skull either. Over.”
”If you two are quite finished,” cut in another voice on the line, and Cyril suddenly straightened up, realizing that they had been idly bantering on what was essentially the command channel. That voice was Hauptmann Stahlbeak, and he sounded both as ragged as the two of them and irate beyond all belief. ”Word’s come down from Heimclar. We’ve got another incursion in the south. Duskwing, Machinki, gather up your panzers and take care of it. Recce’s got eyes on enemy armor and heavy infantry. Over.”
Cyril stood, glancing over at Machinki across the square once again. Heavy infantry could only mean Garde Républicaine, the Aquileians’ fierce equivalent to Imperial Knights. According to after action reports, not only did they not follow the code of Chivalry very tightly, many of them were some of Aquileia’s fiercest fighters.
“Aktual, Brutus. Confirm, you said ‘heavy infantry’? Over.”
”Yes, Duskwing. We’ve got reports of Garde escorting these panzers. If they secure the southern flank, they’ll get us in a kesselschlacht and we’ll be folded up. Which is why I need you there. Oberstmeister Heimclar is rallying available reserves to lend you support but we need to hold. You know what to do, it’s time to do it. I’ll get a scout to guide you in, we don’t have much time. Do you understand? Over.”
“Jawhol, mein herr,” both Cyril and Machinki replied, the former already dropping into his panzer, even before Stahlbeak cut the connection.
“Look alive, we’re moving! Spots, get us heading southeast, we’ll form up with the others as we go!”
The call to action lifted the malaise in the crew. Eisenwing jerked awake from her nap pressed against the big gun, Haul snapping alert from his clear struggle to not submit to the same. Brightclaw was immediately adjusting the set as Spotsley fired up the engine, checking the fuel gauge before she reported to Cyril on the intercom.
“We’ve got a third of a tank of petrol. Hope you’ve got a fuel depot where we’re heading.”
“Not likely,” Cyril grumbled as he tried not to think of the precious black gold secreted away in the fortress, fuelling the evacuating vehicles. What little hadn’t been destroyed by sabotage, air strikes or artillery had been quietly taken out to fighting steeds in trucks only half full, attempting to not give the enemy a clear target. That had only been a mixed success, but it had at least kept them going. Now, they would likely burn a lot of what they had left. Where they were going was a one-way trip for all of them, the difference was some could come back as long as a fuel truck came after them.
“Brutus Aktual to all callsigns, look alive! Orders from kommando passed down! We’re in luck, it's time to hunt some frog cans! Form up, we’re leaving via southeast exit. Sound off your copy, over.”
*****
It was grim company that rolled into the ruins of Westkeep. The demolished city streets made it hard for the seven panzers to move, attempting to maneuver as best they could. The darkness beyond their lights were a vicious enemy as well, as they could not afford to be slowed down. Headlights and floodlights were in full force, making them an enormous target for any griff on the ball with a set of field glasses watching from a flying position. But they had to do it, in order to avoid rolling over booby traps, running into buildings or going down streets too clogged with rubble to pass by. Each panzer also carried infantry escorts, landsers who had settled in on the armored chariots to follow them into the fight. From what Cyril could tell in the chaos of darkness and clattering noise, they were commanded by a Leutnant Grimfeather, whose slender head and dark coloration combined with her grimy feldgrau gave her excellent camouflage in the dead city. A platoon of grenadiers to back them up against enemy panzers and knights didn’t seem like much, but it was what they had. Perhaps they would pick up more on the way. Radio communication was rather spotty in the city after all.
”Anton-3, intersection ahead. Looks clear, standing for security, over.”
While Cyril was normally one to lead from the front, when it came to this occasion it was certainly the wiser course to let the more maneuverable Griefkonig mediums to take point and concentrate all three Grytas in the center, with one more Griefkonig to the rear. The medium panzers could scout ahead and find feasible routes through the dangerously dark destroyed city before the pointgriff pulled off to post guard and make sure they weren’t about to get ambushed. Again, not ideal, and it would leave them dangerously exposed to go this fast without proper escort or recon, but they had little choice. They possessed no ADGZ or Grimbart armored cars, Vasalls or light panzers to properly map the terrain.
The infantry scout they had met up with had informed them of the street Heimclar and Stahlbeak wanted the convoy to intercept the enemy at. Technically they were reinforcing an already existing combat element part of the line, but so much had been pulled from the flanks to support the main struggle that giant holes had opened up. This was likely what the Aquieleians had been waiting for, and were taking full advantage of with this push.
As the Griefkonig Sturmbote pressed through another intersection, however, a strangled cry arose on Cyril’s radio.
”Enemy sighted! Schwerer panzer, three-”
With a flat boom, a streak of light smashed into the medium’s right flank before the radiodrake could finish the report, her cannon caught in mid swing as the Sturmbote tried to defend herself, half of the landsers on her hull immolated in the explosion as her ammunition cooked off. The Griefkonig behind her, the Mähdrescher, almost ran into her rear as she swung around the flaming panzer, treads grinding and clattering over ruined debris-strewn road, trying to avoid running over the friendly soldiers fleeing their dead beast. She slewed to a halt in the intersection, just a bit past the wreck of Sturmbote before a flurry of blue beams smacked off the armor plating, the glow lighting up the darkened intersection. Two grenadiers took beams to the chest, collapsing like puppets with cut strings. The others quickly started bailing out, chased by both beams and tracers, indicative of machine gun fire.
”Knights!” the front panzer called as her main gun boomed, sending a 6 cm shell rocketing away. ”This is Anton-4, confirm enemy Knights and schwerer panzer at our three o’ clock, over!”
“Copy that!” Cyril yelled back, cursing as he considered his options, ducking into the turret and slamming the hatch shut. In these tight confines, with a dark sunrise still not emerging they had all the nightmare conditions of a brutal street fight in the dark in front of them. The Garde he could understand flying over the ruined buildings to disrupt the Imperial lines, but how had they snuck a heavy panzer so far into their guts?
“All elements, this is Brutus-Aktual! Drop your infantry and move to respond! Grytas forward, Griefkonigs taking up the rear, over!”
With the Imperial heavies up front, they were more likely to survive whatever the Garde and their armored support could throw at them, while the mediums could fire past them. Their mobility was hindered, yes. But so was the foe’s.
“Ink, take one of your lads around their flank! Catch them up!”
”Brutus, Anton. On it, Duskwing! Over!”
With that, Isegrim and Brunnhilde clattered forward, massive turrets spinning as Mähdrescher reversed to get out of the way, her cannon booming again. In response, the monster shell of the foe smashed into a building nearby, detonating the front two walls and blowing out nearby windows, the few that had remained intact. But Isegrim was out front now, and it was a fair fight again.
“Enemy Vanguard Prime, one hundred meters!” Cyril yelled out.
“Identified!” Eisenwing replied, eye glued to the sight, all traces of her previous exhaustion now wiped away.
“Sabot, up!” Haul announced, smacking the aforementioned shell into place and releasing the breechblock, ducking away as the steel plate smashed shut. Every sound inside the panzer seemed amplified to Cyril’s ears, even covered by the headset and panzerkorps hood as they were.
“Hold fire! Spots, get us up next to that pile of rubble!”
The ‘pile’ as it happened was little more than a few wrecked automobiles junked together and thrown on top of one another with a collapsed wall next to them. Hardly adequate protection from a massive, armor piercing shell, but every little bit counted. As Isegrim advanced, more blue beams shot out of the darkness around the Vanguard Prime, smacking into the armor plate. Unlike bullets, these had a chance of piercing reinforced steel at the weak points if given enough time. The Aquileian FM-10 was a well-designed rifle, and when wielded by veterans disciplined enough to fire in the face of suppressing machine gun bullets, knowing they had the protection to survive, it was lethal even to some vehicles.
As the Gryta pulled into place, Brightclaw was muttering out another litany between bursts.
“Holy Arcturius, god of war, shield us with your divine wings from the darkness.”
“Set!” Spotsley announced as Isegrim was obscured. Then, a mighty clang as her thick turret armor deflected the next shot from the Vanguard. It sounded like someone had dropped them in the mightiest temple bell that ever did exist and smashed a hammer the size of a building into the size. The entire panzer rocked, and Cyril was thrown back in his seat, grateful for the padded hood. He had read of other panzer crew who wore soft caps or berets and suffered grievous head injury as a result. Not them, as it happened. The Gryta straightened out, and Cyril could finally see through his sights as he peered down the dark lane. Between the beam spam and the shadows of the street, only the Vanguard’s outline was really truly visible, but he gave it his best try. Brunnhilde’s first shot landed, bouncing ineffectually off her armored turret. The Vanguard’s turret began to rotate, switching targets.
“Eisenwing, knock out her tread!”
Sure, it was the most obvious target, but so far as he’d seen (on the two he’d encountered so far) Vanguard Primes didn’t have track protection. No armored skirts, no forward track guards. For a vehicle this large, they were heavy and wide. At a hundred meters they were a big fat open target, and they needed to hobble her so Machinki could get a decent shot at her rear.
“On the way!” Eisenwing hollered, stamping the trigger. Isegrim bucked like she’d done a hundred times before, and the 7.5 cm shell was away. In the next moment, the Vanguard’s left track buckled, spraying steel like shrapnel as the shot impacted, tearing away the sprocket it was attached to as well. Cyril punched the hull in approval, beak grit. That panzer was now going nowhere.
“Good shot!” he yelled. “Now, let’s keep ‘em pinned until Ink gets around their rear!”
A burst of machine gun fire came to his ears, as well as a panicked shout, and Cyril realized it was outside the panzer. Quickly, he glued his eyes to the vision slit just in time to watch Schwarzplume get hauled -out- of his panzer hatch (which had been sliced off) and tossed to the street. The armor-clad Garde that had thrown him turned and fired one clean, neat blue beam into the senior NCO’s head while his partner proceeded to fire into Brunnhilde twice. He must have decided doing more was too much effort, however, as he simply dropped a grenade in after that. In another second, both were up in the air as their wings carried them aloft with strong flaps, just as the explosive detonated with a muffled whump. Brunnhilde moved no more.
Their infantry escort were still scrambling to position as the Griefkonigs tried to fire on the evasive Knights, but the two Garde griffs simply leveled their rifles and fired from up in the air, each shot claiming another soldier while their plate kept them mostly safe, bullets sparking off the plate so brightly in the darkness. Without abandon, they descended on the landsers, sword and rifle flashing as they closed to melee range. It was a slaughter, of a grim nature the common soldier thought long dead with modern panzers and machine guns. Two landsers tried to engage the one with the sword, bayonets mounted on their rifles as they thrust like they were trained to, but the blades merely glanced off the enchanted blue armor with little more than a scratch before the Garde’s enchanted sword flashed, cutting the troopers down in two clean strokes. The other plated warrior advanced through the blistering fire raining down on him as the grenadiers put enough room between them and the enemy, blazing away with their weapons at admittedly still short range. But the Garde calmly leveled his glowing rifle, picking the landsers off without much worry, as calmly as if he were out on the range. In the blink of an eye, he had potted three and was sighting on another.
It all happened so fast, Cyril didn’t have much time to react, but as the Garde wielding the sword turned towards Isegrim he snapped into action, knowing they were next. The hatch flew open, and he hauled the heavy machine gun around with one claw, cursing the stiff turret ring while his other claw snatched his sidearm from its holster, popping off a burst of shots. Half of them went wide, the other half merely pinged off the armor plating, but he wasn’t trying to kill. He just needed to keep the bastard busy for one more second. And, amazingly, it worked. The Aquileian knight faltered, as if trying to comprehend the insanity that somegriff was firing on him with but a pistol. And that gave Cyril his opening to level the machine gun, drop his sidearm and hold down the trigger. A rain of 1.3 cm rounds sprayed down on the Garde in chalk blue, and while the thickest parts of the breastplate and helmet still resisted (the insanity of that fact would drive a drake mad from how little sense it made on the surface) enough shots slipped into the thinner and softer parts that the effect was as desired. The Garde, now perforated and bleeding out without realizing his mistake, slumped forward under the sudden abrupt weight of his armor, clattering to the ground with a splash as blood flooded out around him. Cyril still raked his prone form with the machine gun to make sure. You could never be sure with knights, even if they didn’t call themselves such.
The second Garde caught on to the death of his partner quickly, shifting far more rapidly than Cyril would have thought somegriff in heavy armor could. With a swift jump and a single powerful stroke of his wings, the Garde blew himself through a nearby store window, wood and glass shattering under his bulk, then being even further pulverized as Cyril fired a long burst of suppressing shots in after him.
“Somegriff get a grenade in after him!” he shouted, though he wasn’t sure if he could actually be heard over the chaos of battle. Abruptly, Isegrim rocked on her treads with a mighty clang that sounded like a train had collided with the panzer. Cyril’s ears were, once more, ringing as he was nearly defeaned, the breath knocked out of his lungs from the impact. That was a direct hit on the Gryta’s hull from a gun just as big as her own!
“On the way!” Eisenwing hollered, and the cannon exploded. A direct hit on the armor plating this time, but that thick, enchanted steel smashed the penetrator and sent it spinning away. It was too strong, too tough to get through. Cyril hauled the gun around, spitting high-caliber lead at the monster before them. Sure, 1.3 cm rounds weren’t going to leave a scratch on a Vanguard Prime, but he hoped to slip a bullet through a vision block, a slit, something dammit! If he’d still had Brunnhilde this was a fight they could win, but the last Prime had been destroyed by overwhelming numbers and fire!
“Ink!” he hollered as the machine gun thundered. “Götterverdammt, where the hell are you?!”
Where he was, as it turned out, was plowing Sokoły through the back of a store to explode out the front, about thirty meters away from the Vangaurd Prime’s rear. With wood and brick flying everywhere and the whirring of the turret circling, the heavy panzer put its cannon right at the back of the Prime and, without giving it time to respond, slammed a 7.6 cm shell right into the engine at point blank range. This even enchanted steel could not resist, and the Vanguard Prime lurched, the engine blown out of her panels a heartbeat before fuel and ammunition detonated in a spectacular display. Even a hundred meters away, Cyril felt the pressure wave slap into him.
He shook his head to clear it of the ringing that had stunned him, before he could finally make out Machinki hollering and cheering over the channel.
”That’s how you do it! Bold action, Duskwing! Bold action, he who dares wins!”
“Many thanks,” Cyril grumbled, managing to straighten himself up in his station as he peered through the darkness past the burning wreck between them. “What took you so long?”
”Ja, we ran into some of their Knights on the way in. One of them was a unicorn, if you can believe it. Blew the panels off the ‘Basilisk’ with some witchery.”
Cyril grimaced. The Basilisk had been the Griefkonig that went with Machinki to go down the flank. If she had been destroyed by a battle mage, in enchanted plate armor as well, it was grim prospects going forward. The Empire didn’t have enough unicorns to field dedicated mage units or train them properly like Aquileia or the Rebels did, a sharp and severe hole in their operational capability.
“They all settled?” Cyril asked, glancing over towards the troopers moving through the destroyed store, looking for the escaped Garde that had fled before a grenade went in after him. No blue beams cut back out at them. He appeared to have escaped, then.
”Think so. Carved through them until we got here.” A pause. ”Schwarzplume?”
“Nope. All dead. Over,” Cyril replied grimly, only just now remembering his radio discipline as the adrenaline faded from his veins. In the course of (he checked his wristwatch and then again in disbelief) five minutes they had lost two Greifkonigs and a Gryta. And they had only run into the forward elements of the enemy attack. If word was to be believed, the foe had at least an armored kompanie coming down on this avenue, maybe more.
”Damnation. I mean…copy that. We will proceed on-”
Whatever else he might have been about to say, however, was abruptly cut off and flowed into a shriek, audible even without the radio. Cyril’s head snapped around again. Even through the flames of the Vanguard, he could see the purple energy flickering up and down Sokoły, and the writhing figure in the top just had to be Machinki himself.
“Dark magic!” Cyril hissed, slamming a fist onto the top of Isegrim. “Spots! Ink’s being attacked by a pony mage! Ram us past that wreck!”
There was no time to alert the panzergrenadiers. He just had to hope they were on the ball and followed quickly enough. The Gryta lurched with no warning, plowing through what was left of her ad hoc cover and closing the distance as quick as she could, the front plating scraping and groaning as Isegrim shoved the wreck before it finally gave way and they were past. On the other side, Machinki had fallen from his station, twitching and shuddering as if he’d touched a live wire and was suffering a stroke, purple energy occasionally glowing across his form, smoke smoldering from face and back. Falling such a height most certainly had broken something, but it had also likely saved his life. There stood the Aquileian unicorn, clad in blue plate as she poured waves of dark energy over Sokoły. From inside, Cyril could hear the screams of the crew in agony, suffering as they were pumped with foul sorceries. He didn’t wait, leveling the machine gun and thumbing the trigger. At this range, the weapon was practically in her nose, and the heavy rounds chewed her up the same as the other Garde Cyril had shot. In but a split second, she was little more than pulped meat on the pavement. The other three Garde with her fired on Isegrim with their crystal rifles, but to little effect. Even they were forced to pull back as the panzergrenadiers rushed forward, weapons spitting fire. Poorly outnumbered, out of favorable position and with a heavy panzer bearing down on them, they had little choice but to turn and, with powerful sweeps of their wings, disappear over the rooftops of the houses around.
“Götterverdammt!” Cyril howled the blasphemy without care or concern, smacking the gun. Another Gryta down! And this one was Ink’s too. He was getting real sick of his friends dying and leaving him. Taking a shaky, rage-filled breath to steady himself, he turned to look down at the panzergrenadier standing next to the panzer. “Check Sokoły. See if there are any other survivors. Get Leutnant Machinki out of here, if you can.”
“Jawohl, Herr Leutnant!” the landser cried, nodding and running over on all fours. His comrades went with him, and Cyril was left to drop into the turret, intending to report the critical losses they had suffered. What he found, however, was not what he had expected. The inside was full of spraying fluid, smoke and crying voices and panic. A red light glowed, rather unlike the dim bulbs that normally lit up the interior of a Gryta in operation, and the outlines of his crew showed that, whatever the damage they had suffered, they were all still alive and moving.
After a moment of the chaos, Cyril called out “Panzer! Report!”
“Turret hydraulics are out, sir!” Eisenwing reported, looking up from where she had been unsuccessfully attempting to patch the leak. “I can turn her by claw, but it’ll be a snail’s pace. Anything we fight will beat us to the draw.”
“Radio’s out too, Leutnant!” Brightclaw called from the front, pointing to the smoking, sparking set. “Last impact tore it right out of the mount. What a mess!” He turned back to his fruitless endeavor, attempting to salvage something as he muttered “With your strength you protect me; with my care I repair you; with this oil I appease you; be quiet, good spirits, and accept my benediction.”
“Seriously? They have a prayer for fixing radios, too?” Eisenwing asked, astonished and exasperated. In response, Brightclaw shrugged sheepishly.
“It’s meant for technophobes, so they can feel a bit more acceptance over their equipment. Can’t hurt, right?”
Cyril groaned. With the turret’s hydraulics down, they would be sluggish to respond in an already slow to turn heavy panzer, and with their radio down they would be dumb and deaf. None of the Griefkonigs possessed a shortwave powerful like his, meant to connect into the wider network, theirs were all smaller sets. In any other circumstance, he’d turn back. He only possessed two more medium panzers as backup, and with the death of Brunnhilde and now Sokoły, they had little chance of facing a kompanie of Fantomes and EMCs.
A clattering came to his ears, and he clambered back up to find the panzergrenadier he’d told to investigate the disabled Gryta folding his wings as he came to give his report.
“Mein herr, the leutnant is still alive. Barely, but we can extract him if we hurry.” Cyril let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. That was good. Ink was going to make it. One less friend dead.
“His beak is pretty messed up. And he’s…missing a wing, mein herr.” The grenadier looked very disturbed by this, and Cyril chuckled morbidly as he spread his own prosthetic.
“He’ll be fine, landser. I know a certain industrialist eager for test subjects. Anyone else?”
The grenadier shook his head, somberly.
“Nein, Herr Leutnant. Just…ashes.”
Cyril felt the sick feeling settle in his gut, like a clawing ache. Mages on the battlefield could often conjure shields, teleport small numbers of soldiers and material to strategic positions, cast illusions to aid them in combat and heal their comrades. But some also wielded terrible destructive spells, things like fireballs and arcane lightning and magic missiles that tracked their targets. This was the first time he had heard of somegriff being reduced to ash, though. Nothing to recover. No tags to return. No evidence to tell of your final fate, no solace for any comrades or loved ones. Machinki was going to be devastated when he heard the news.
He pondered his options. With three Grytas, four Griefkonigs, a platoon of infantry and the soldiers waiting for them dug in at the point the assault was heading to, they could have held the line for hours, maybe even turned the enemy attack away. Now? They would be lucky to hold them up as a brief inconvenience with two Greifkonigs and a Gryta that could barely operate…
An idea slowly grew in his head, as he watched the medics loading Machinki into a canvas stretcher to join the rest of the wounded. He looked over at Sokoły, her engine still idling even now after her crew had been vaporized in their stations. It was a grim thought, but perhaps…
*****
It turned out to be right.
Sokoły was absent a commander, a crew. But the panzer itself was mostly undamaged save for some battle scuffing. A working radio, a nearly full shot locker and an intact hydraulics system. She was the same as Isegrim, and even brushing the ashes of her last crew aside had only been mildly more disturbing than washing away blood. One of the Griefkonig drivers had survived, and knew enough to pilot the damaged Isegrim back towards friendly territory, loaded with the wounded who needed to be withdrawn. They had more infantry than space for them to ride now.
As Cyril settled into Sokoły’s command station, he almost felt like he was intruding. But this was a desperate time, and they needed to forge on, whatever the price. He bit back an apology to the panzer, stashing his weapons in the racks and checking that everything else was still in place. It was all in good order, and Cyril nodded his quiet approval. Ink was too much a perfectionist to not keep everything as tight as possible in his chariot, supply-starved warzone or no.
And so, they rode on, the surviving panzergrenadiers on alert as they watched from the backs of the three panzers. The position they needed to meet up at was not far ahead, and now they had to protect the wounded as well as hold the flank against the enemy. Lucky for them, they didn’t encounter any more Aquileians the last stretch before they reached the proposed interception point. Then they ran into more than they had bargained for. As the ad-hoc platoon approached, one of the infantry riders reported hearing gunfire up ahead, a sentiment confirmed for him as what was unmistakably a cannon shot echoed out from ahead. The Imperial PaK M-11 57mm panzer zerstorer gun was an effective weapon against most medium armor, though it struggled against enchanted plate or heavier panzers. From the sounds of it, the troops dug in and fighting had at least one piece, which would give them good odds against a small number of enemy panzers.
Only, this didn’t -sound- like a -small- number of enemy panzers.
As Sokoły pulled into the intersection, Cyril could count four enemy panzers, two of them the older EMC, one a Fantome and the last was some sort of new EMC assault gun variant judging by the snub-nosed cannon. They were attacking an Imperial position, dug into the rubble behind sandbags and makeshift barricades, an Imperial standard on a flagpole standing up in the middle of the line defiantly, if a little dirty and torn. A pair of MG 08 machine guns sent tracers streaming out at the Aquileian infantry bobbing and ducking through the rubble as they advanced, while the M-11 in question fired another shot at the foe. As Cyril watched, one of the EMCs rocked on its treads before rumbling to a halt, hatches flying open and the crew bailing out as smoke poured from the engine. The other three vehicles pressed on, their own machine guns spitting as they came. The assault gun rocked as its cannon boomed, and a geyser of debris was thrown up near the M-11.
But Cyril had a perfect flanking position.
“Line up the assault gun!” he shouted, peering out of his vision slits at the foe, eyes narrowed as he scanned the surrounding buildings in the darkness. One enemy AT gun hidden out there, and this rescue would complete the slaughter they had already suffered. “Brutus to all, pick your targets and fire at will! Panzergrenadiers, dismount and assault!”
The battered formation went to work, the two Griefkonigs spreading to flank him on either side. Infantry spilled off their back plates, using the advancing panzers as cover as they moved into the intersection. Three cannons, one heavy the other two mediums thundered. Sokoły missed, as did one of the Griefs, but the last one landed her shot, blowing out the assault gun’s engine compartment with a solid shot on her flank. The EMC and Fantome, likely realizing they were flanked and victory was not coming today, pulled an immediate reversal, heading back out of the intersection as quickly as they had come. The blue-coated infantry, confused, milled around and lingered in their cover a heartbeat before realizing those massive shapes coming out of the darkness were, indeed, not reinforcements. Several began running on all fours, desperate to escape, some even took to wing as they tried to fly out. In the dark of the smothered dawn, the machine guns didn’t catch more than a few of them, but the important thing was that they scattered before the mailed fist of the Reichsarmee coming down on their flank.
In the dark and with a heavy panzer there was little chance of chasing the foe down. They wouldn’t have long to prepare before the Aquileians regrouped and came in again. Likely that would happen when no Imperial counterattack materialized. They needed to move in, fast.
Sokoły plowed on ahead, flanked by her two escorts Schiedsrichterin and Gladiatorin. This intersection looked more like a square of sorts, with streets meeting from odd angles instead of a perfect grid type, peeling off like the spokes on half a wheel. No wonder a position had been set up here. As a convergence point for so many streets, it was crucial to keep control of.
A dim figure emerged from the fighting position, waving an arm in the air and holding a rifle in the other. Cyril called for Spotsely to stop before popping open the hatch and emerging from the cupola. With his head out in the open, it was much easier to see the dark square, and the flaming wrecks assisted in that where the choked dawn still hadn’t emerged into visibility.
“Hello, the panzer!” came a voice out of the darkness as the Gryta’s engine idled down in its stationary position. Cyril shook his head at the archaic way of greeting each other before calling back.
“Hello yourself. Got a wireless?”
“We do,” the figure said as they clambered over the sandbags, flanked by two more figures as they approached. “But you’ll forgive us for wanting to confirm you’re Herzlanders.”
The three griffons who emerged were scruffy, grimy, dirty in all the ways that landsers caught in an endless cityfight could be. Their green-gray uniforms were tattered, patched and filthy, their weapons shabby and wrapped in cloth to give the user a better grip and protection from the filth, and they looked thin and weary. One even wore their gas mask even without a chemical attack on.
The drake out front wore the collar pins and rank insignia of an Oberfeldwebel, a staff sergeant to Equusians. He looked old enough to be Cyril’s father, and tired enough to have risen from the grave himself. He carried a Krahe submachine gun in one claw, and had several stick grenades shoved into his belt.
“Oberfeldwebel Silverclaw, 75th Infanterie,” the senior noncom introduced himself, his tone worn and exhausted. “Are you our reinforcements?”
“Ja, herr Oberfeldwebel,” Cyril confirmed as he stuck a thumb over a shoulder. “Leutnant Duskwing, Kampfgruppe Lehr. I have with me two Griefkonigs and a few squads of landsers.”
Silverclaw’s face screwed up in disappointment and disbelief. Cyril himself could understand his confusion. Sending this clawful of panzers out to meet what was clearly a heavy push was akin to a chick trying to stop an automobile bareclawed.
“Heimclar told us we would be getting much more than that.”
“Take it up with the frogs,” Cyril sniped back, not appreciating being called out for the deaths of his troops. “They hit us with a vanguard of knights on the way in.”
“Ah, I had feared, sir.” Silverclaw nodded in understanding, his disappointment at least momentarily transferred. “They have been giving us a hard time for a while.”
“Well, we’re here now,” Cyril said, immediately taking stock of the situation as he glanced around. Even with the smoke and cloudy skies, the choked dawn wouldn’t be held back for long. With the sunlight gradually making itself known, the defender’s advantage of firing from prepared positions wouldn’t be with them for long. “Status?”
“We’ve got an M-11 panzer-zerstorer gun here with twenty-two landsers and three em-gees remaining,” Silverclaw rattled off, pointing back to where a resplendent statue must have stood at one point, but now only the base remained. Dug into a practical mountain of sandbags and debris, the barrel of said gun poked out, barely visible from this angle but likely a bit more exposed straight on given the need to traverse. “And we have another position dug at the intersection a block to the south, with six landsers and another em-gee.”
“Grimfeather, disperse to give these positions support. Schiedsrichterin, Gladiatorin. Go attend that southern position. I can hold here with the panzer-zerstorer. How copy, over?”
As it happened, Grimfeather was actually jogging past at that moment, and she called out loud to him as she ran by, shooting him a thumbs up as she did, flanked by several of her panzergrenadiers.
“I’m on it!”
He frowned at that lack of formality, but dismissed it just as quickly. They were the same rank, she was technically not under his command and in a combat zone like this going through all the motions would only really slow them down. Cyril twisted in his cupola, looking out over the battlezone as Gladiatorin clattered past, her tracks crushing debris and corpses all the same as she went. Some landsers nearby leaned over the fallen Aquileians, tugging rifles and SMGs out of their claws, frisking them for cigarettes, ammunition and grenades before moving to the next one. He sighed at that. Looting was technically against Reichsarmee regulations, but after the second week of desperately trying to hold out with a shoestring supply, Kampfgruppe Lehr had decided to suspend that particular sentence. With few Vollstrecker around, nogriff objected. Even now, with plenty of rifles and bullets coming through the Gap, it wasn’t coming fast enough for the units constantly under pressure, and he knew of plenty of line companies here that had been forced to put their MG 08s to the side to haul in Aquileian Model 998s from the enemy positions.
He dropped into his seat, looking the crew over quietly. They were all making their preparations in their own way. Spotsley already had the case for her gas mask open and ready. It was an open secret that she and Eihol had been…close. Cyril had looked the other way when needed and not pried where possible. His death had wracked her hard. Brightclaw was, predictably, paging through a tome, but under his breath he quietly murmured a hymn, toneless and rather inaudible. Perhaps being a radiodrake had been a better more for him after all. Eisenwing was leaning back in her seat, a cigarette dangling out of her beak as she stared up at the roof of the turret, where she had taped several postcards, retrieved from Isegrim last minute. While not quite sociable, Cyril knew that beyond her checkered past and rebellious attitude was the heart of a wanderer, who desired to see the world she could only witness in photographs, books and picture shows. One of those postcards was of Les Meridiennes, another in its strange and spidery type was of Kiria’s capital city, Vermilion. A third showed the deserts of Zarantia, exotic and strange to a Herzlander. There were a dozen more, of places from across the globe she wanted to visit.
Then he looked to Haul who, surprisingly, was looking back. When he met his loaders’ eyes, Haul nodded slowly.
“Just like old times then?” the gunmetal stallion asked quietly. Cyril snorted in reply, leaning forward to take a swig of his canteen. He hadn’t realized how parched he’d been until now.
“What times are those, Haul?” Cyril questioned when he finished. “The times we were chased by enemy Knights in Angriever? Or when we were cleaning out commie diehards in Prywhen? Maybe how we both got shot up a few times.”
But Haul merely nodded levelly, absolute confidence in his eyes.
“Faced worse odds than this before. Always made it.”
Cyril met his eye for a few seconds, the air suddenly much heavier between them than before. He suddenly wished he had something stronger than warm water sloshing in a metal canteen.
“Not all of us.”
They both glanced towards the driver’s seat. Spotsley’s head was just visible in the low light. The air thickened even worse than before. Outside, they could hear the chaos of soldiers preparing their positions, the Griefkonigs already faded into the distance as they moved down the block to the second holdout. A lot of them were going to die before the night was over. Even more before the battle, hell before the war was over. Finally, Cyril sighed as he put his canteen back, checking the magazines of his Krahe and sidearm.
“Tell me something…did he know?”
Haul frowned, not comprehending.
“Hellseig. You can’t tell me you were embedded as a spy and he never picked up on it.”
“You really need to know that? When we’re about to go back into battle?”
“No better time for it,” Cyril replied, slapping in a fresh magazine and working the bolt. The metal made a satisfying rasp, underlining his words. Haul understood the message (even if there was no true threat under it) and nodded.
“At the end, I think he did. He never called me out on it. I think he dared me to do…something. Anything. In the end, I didn’t. I never saw if that was what he wanted or not.”
Haul shook his head slowly, and Cyril was suddenly aware of just how tired and…dammit, -young- the stallion looked. Cyril wasn’t exactly seasoned himself at an almost twenty-four (August 9th was looking uncomfortably close and he didn’t fancy having a birthday in a battlezone again), but Haul was a year or two older. Now, though? He looked like some lost colt, exhausted and sad. The mask reasserted itself a second later, and if the two hadn’t been close, Cyril doubted it would have slipped in the first place.
“You’ve got this, Cyril. It was always going to be you. I’m not…I don’t do well with others. I command, sure. I lead. But you -inspire-. You’ve got that spark. I think that’s why Hellseig liked you so much.”
Another silence. Cyril didn’t quite know what to say to that, just carried on with his preparation. After a moment, so did Haul, opening the shot locker and adjusting the timing heads on the shells they had left. It was busywork. They didn’t have a lot of time left anyway.
When the perimeter scouts reported that there was new Aquileian movement, Cyril didn’t waste any time. In a sick sort of way, it was a relief. Like ripping off a bandaid or getting a trip to the tax griff. You just wanted it over and done with. It was time to see how screwed they were, as he stood up in the cupola, staring out into the gloom of the strangled sunrise.
“Okay, Spots. Take us across the square. I want to see what we have to face off against.”
Sokoły engaged, as tracks clattered and debris was crushed under the weight of the Gryta. She threaded through the burning wrecks, looking for a central position. The wreck of the assault gun would give them a good place to face the enemy from multiple attack fronts and still not be completely exposed. He nodded, approving Spotsley’s decision. It was a good choice.
Without warning, an explosion rang out, and with a clatter the left track slid off the sprocket and down to the ruined street. Luckily, Spotsley had the place of mind to bring Sokoły to a halt before she could damage herself further.
“What the hell was that?!” Brightclaw yelped, talons immediately moving to the radio, prepared to send off a distress call. Haul jumped away from his seat, his normal cool temperament gone in the momentary panic that the shells he sat next to might be about to start lighting up. Eisenwing started scanning the dim horizon, babbling about another Vanguard as Spotsley leaned forward with a paw on her shotgun, trying to look out beyond the Gryta at their surroundings.
“Calm down!” Cyril hollered, having peered over the side towards the street below. “I think we hit a mine.”
It took a few more attempts, but the rest of the crew finally settled down. He couldn’t blame them, they had been running several days high on adrenaline and low on rest. Their nerves had to be shot, and he wondered how in all Tartarus he wasn’t just as frazzled. Maybe he was and just didn’t realize it. Having kept his crew from seizing up in a collective panic, he reached up and triggered his headset.
“Silverclaw, this is Duskwing. Uh…we’ve got a track out. Think we hit a mine, over.”
He heard the senior noncom loose a string of curses over the line. Clearly, the old griff was not happy.
”Verdammt, that’s gotta be one of ours. Didn’t know any of them were left, the frogs hit us hard enough I thought they’d all been destroyed. Apologies, mein herr. Do you need help, over?”
Cyril glanced down, squinting in the diluted light. It didn’t look too serious, and they had spare parts lashed to the back of Sokoły, in one of her equipment boxes. A roadwheel off, a new track joint and they’d be set. However, that repair would take some time, and the middle of an attack was the wrong place to try it.
“Got any claws familiar with a wrench? The more, the merrier.”
”Wait one, sir. I’ll send a few field engineers your way, over.”
As he said this, a sharp whistle cut the air and Cyril’s head snapped up. He knew that noise.
“Negative, negative! Enemy fire, incoming!”
He just got the hatch slammed shut in time as the first mortar landed just to Sokoły’s left, right in front of her busted track. The Gryta rocked from the explosion, but a mortar’s primary job was to kill through percussion, precision and fragmentation, not explosive power. Unless they fired one of those superheavy jobs, they would be fine. The next one hit, then the next, and the next.
“Enemy infantry, moving up!” Eisenwing cried, and Cyril peered through his slit to see that, yes indeed, the Aquileians were using the mortar barrage to make another push. It was hard to tell through the dim light and the explosions but he estimated at least two squads, maybe three. Tracers lit up the darkness outside.
”Duskwing, Silverclaw here! We’re seeing a large formation coming up at us! Can you lend support, over?”
Cyril glanced to Eisenwing, who twisted the controls experimentally before nodding and putting her eye to the gunsight.
“Hi-ex!”
“Loading!” Haul called back, smacking the required shell in the breech before slapping the release and ducking aside. “Up!”
“On the way!”
The gun thundered, and Cyril saw another blast geyser up as the shell detonated in the infantry charge’s path. He couldn’t be sure they had gotten any, but a second later as the spent casing clanged off the deck Eisenwing triggered the coaxial machine gun, sending even more tracers down the lane.
“Silverclaw, that a good enough answer for you?”
Before the senior NCO could reply, Cyril’s blood suddenly went cold. A large, very familiar hulking shape was rolling forward out of the darkness. He knew that sight profile by now; Fantome medium panzers. He wasted no time.
“Eisenwing, enemy armor spotted, one o clock! Haul, load sabot!”
“Roger, sabot!” In the middle of extracting another high-explosive shell, Haul adapted as swiftly as his veterancy allowed, slamming the former back before grabbing the armor piercing shell in a heartbeat, depositing it in the breech once again like the machine he had become. “You’re up!”
“On the way!”
The first shot, he could see, wasn’t perfect, ricocheting off the Fantome’s glacis plate. Eisenwing let out a string of invectives, slapping her gunsight with venomous fury. Cyril kicked her in the shoulder, right above the wing joint.
“I want you to -kill- the fucker, Eisen!”
“I know, I know, sir! Fucking son of a whore!” she hollered back, turning to her gunsight again. Sokoły rocked as a return shot slammed into her, this one also deflected. Fortunately, they had her thickest plate front on to the enemy advance, and the enemy infantry had dispersed to take cover in the ruined buildings, trading fire with the panzergrenadiers and Silverclaw’s griffs, rifle and machine gun fire trading back and forth while grenades detonated in clusters. This was an all out assault, without a doubt. The foe was throwing everything he had into this one.
Another sabot was slammed in, and Eisenwing only have to correct her aim a little before stamping on the trigger once more. Again, the gun boomed, again the shell thundered away, but this time it was on point as it peeled through the Fantome’s side armor like a can opener. The enemy panzer rocked, her hatches blowing open in fireballs. That was fuel and ammunition both up like a Kartinian candle.
“Enemy destroyed!” he crowed, and Eisenwing cheered as she punched the armor paneling, her reputation restored. Suddenly, Cyril’s radio buzzed.
”’Sokoły’, ‘Schiedsrichterin’ here! We’ve engaged enemy armor to the south, count two medium panzers with infantry in support, over!”
“Copy, Schiedsrichterin. We’re under attack as well, can you hold? Over.”
More mortar rounds splashed down on top of the crippled Gryta, trying to find some soft target to cut down, but only really obscuring their position from the advancing Fantomes.
”Affirmative, ‘Gladiatorin’ just killed one panzer. We can hold. Do you require assistance? Over?”
Cyril only had to pause for a moment before he replied.
“Negative, keep your position. I don’t want these bastards flanking us the second we pull away! Stand and hold, over!”
A pause. He couldn’t see the commander of Schiedsrichterin’s face, but she sounded like she wanted to quit the barricade and immediately come back him up. But Cyril knew that would be a mistake. The Aquileians would seize the opportunity and slam Garde into their flanks without the panzers there. And they had to hold this line. They had to.
”Copy, Leutnant. Godspeed. Over and out.”
Cyril glanced through his vision sight, squinting through the thin light and smoke of battle. Infantry skirmished from destroyed windows with the Imperials nearby, but the advance into the square appeared to have been halted. Machine gun fire licked up and down the buildings, and from the yells and cursing it seemed Silverclaw and Grimfeather had enough survivors to hold so long as no more surprises came their way. The mortar rain appeared to have stopped, but the gunshots and screaming went on.
“Eisenwing?” Cyril asked, watching carefully.
“The other bastard buggered out, I can’t find him!”
Cyril had to admit, the second Fantome had disappeared. Taken with the panzers already destroyed, if they were facing a kompanie of panzers, they had already claimed a butcher’s bill. But, like elsewhere in this accursed city, with this accursed battle, the Aquileians showed no sign of quitting, whatever their losses. So the other Fantome had to be out there…
More mortars came in this time, landing not on top of Sokoły but further back, behind the heavy panzer. And something else came to Cyril’s ears as he listened; the hollow crump of hollow munitions, followed by a certain smell…
“Gas!” he hollered, scrambling for his mask again. Ever since the Aquileians had entered the city proper, chemical bombardments had dropped in use and intensity. After all, there was no point in trying to claim a city if it was a poisoned ruin, and the number of civilians still here was obviously a barrier. But every once in a while, an unsuspecting Imperial position would get bathed in chlorine or mustard gas or bombarded by white phosphorus. Chemical protection had stepped up ever since, and to fight back the Reichsarmee had deployed a kompanie of flammentruppen through the Gap. Massacres like the first day chlorine gas had been deployed in Westkeep were now uncommon. But the uncertainty of knowing a gas attack could fall on you at any time without warning still hovered in the back of Imperial minds here in Westkeep. Well, not today. Not here.
Cyril straightened up, seeing the rest of his crew finishing with their own masks just as the first clouds of green began leaking through the vents. He breathed a sigh of relief. Mustard gas was particularly lethal against dug in soldiers or panzer crews, for a gas mask did not protect you from the vicious boils that erupted across your skin. Survivable, yes. But suffering this in the middle of combat was practically a death sentence.
”Duskwing, Grimfeather! I sight enemy panzers, your ten!”
With the mask in place, Cyril had a hard time seeing through his vision slits, trying to get the hood, the eyepieces, everything in the way out of it. Cursing, he threw open the hatch. Was it a bad idea? Yes, it was. Some lucky bastard could now chuck a claw grenade his way or drop a mortar right on top and they’d all be dead from the shrapnel and pressure. But he couldn’t see to command Sokoły from inside, and that was a death sentence. So, poking his head up to see his surroundings, Cyril squinted through the gas and smoke and poor light. There, beyond the fighting positions, came the shapes of two more Fantomes, crawling down an avenue. One of those -had- to be the one that had pulled back.
One of the Fantomes fired, and the shot glanced off the Gryta’s turret.
“Eisenwing, Fantomes at ten!”
“On it!”
The turret spun towards the enemy, but as it did so the griffs manning the M-11 proved their worth. The panzer-zerstorer gun cracked dully, the shot arcing out to smash into the Fantome’s thin side plating. Unable to resist, the Aquileian panzer seemed to drunkenly pull to a halt before hatches opened, and two crewdrakes emerged to escape as the vehicle slowly caught fire. The second Fantome, however, fired its own cannon. This one was on the mark, as the shot slammed into the M-11’s gun shield. With but a barely audible shriek, the gas-masked gunners were vaporized, their valuable ordnance gone with it.
“Now, Eisenwing! We’re getting killed out here!”
Shots spanked off the armor, and Cyril realized a clawful of gas-masked infantrygriffs had come to within ten or so meters of poor Sokoły. One of them pointed straight up at him, talon extended. Another leveled his rifle, working the bolt to chamber a round.
Dammit, fine.
Cyril stood fully, grabbing his Krahe submachine gun and slapping the magazine to ensure it was loaded properly. The MG, unfortunately, had not survived the mortar bombardment. He was forced to use his crew weapon, squeezing off short bursts of rapid 7.65 millimeter rounds. Admittedly, though he emptied the mag he only cut down the one drawing a bead on him as the others scattered, falling back to cover. Cursing, he changed magazines.
The gun boomed, taking him by surprise in his struggle (one had to wonder what such loud noise did to one’s hearing over time) as across the square, the first Fantome rocked. It hadn’t brewed up, but Cyril did see smoke billowing out the rear and hatches flying open. Not a clean kill, and the ammunition and fuel were unlikely to go off, but the Fantome was disabled. That was nearly as good.
Sokoły abruptly rocked on her tracks, throwing Cyril around in the cupola as he slipped, barely grabbing on to the cupola. A third Fantome was emerging from another boulevard, but this one had flanked them. With their roadwheel down, Sokoły was going nowhere, and the gun was in the exact wrong position to quickly swerve around and counter.
His ears began to ring, but he suspected that had more to do with hearing loss. Or perhaps it was the blood rushing to his head as he sat, frozen and immobile. The Fantome had Sokoły locked in its sights, infantry troops advancing and firing as they went, their shots spanking off the turret as they tried to kill him. They were caught, like a wild boar in a steel trap.
But Cyril had learned a few things since that night in Temsoar.
“OUT!” he screamed into the turret, tearing the mask off to be heard. “CREW, ABANDON PANZER!”
“What?!” That was Haul and Eisenwing together. With nowhere to drive to, Spotsley had been fighting from the driver’s hatch with her shotgun while Brightclaw was hammering out at the foe with his own MG 08. They couldn’t hear him.
Unfortunately, he had no chance to repeat himself.
While Cyril was really only able to piece together everything after the fact, in the moment it all seemed to pass by in a heartbeat. One second, he was leaning into the Gryta, a chariot not his own but one he had been certainly warming up to, speaking to a crew that had been hammered and forged by the fires of battle into a well-honed fighting machine. His fighting machine.
The next, it felt like his entire body had been shaken by an Ursa Major, turned into a ragdoll and spat out at high speed, all in the blink of an eye. His head was fuzzy, he could feel heat everywhere and something was dripping off his face. Someone was screaming nearby, and his ringing ears had become a similar deafening scream. While he regained his senses in what had to have only been seconds, to him it felt like hours before his vision cleared and his ears stopped ringing enough to figure out what was going on. Only to realize he was waking up in hell. Red alert lights flashed in his vision, mixed with the orange from the fire. That had to have been where the heat was coming from. An all too familiar memory flashed into his bleary mind as he tried to focus, tried to see what was happening in the here and now. He actually seemed okay himself, but his crew.
Haul, as it turned out, was the one screaming his head off. And for good reason too. Shrapnel had laced his face across the muzzle and throat, and a good portion of skin was missing from his face. Blood gushed into the stallion’s uniform, and he thrashed in agony. No way any kind of stoic could just ignore something like that.
Eisenwing was…well, it took Cyril a second to register that her whole upper half was gone. All that was left was everything below the belt, tilted over slightly in her seat as if gently pushed instead of ripped to shreds. Which meant the wetness dripping down his face…Cyril reached a claw up, gingerly wiping as he finally realized what it was.
The gaping holes in the sides of Sokoły were actually the last thing he noticed. They let in the delated dawnlight, exposing the horror of what had happened to his crew in glorious, gory detail. Like something out of a charnel house. Cyril had seen soldiers blown up by explosions, crushed by armor, chewed apart by machine guns, fallen from great heights or subjected to similar nightmarish ends, but for it to be thrust so abruptly into his face and inflicted on griffons he personally knew and cared deeply for gave him pause, and awakened uncomfortable memories.
At last, he found the strength to move, reaching over clumsily and grabbing the medical kit mounted to the turret interior. After some hunting around, he also recovered his Krahe and ammunition bag (he also grabbed Eisenwing’s as she wasn’t going to be using it) before dragging Haul up and away from the fire already licking over the flammable material inside. Sokoły was dead, but they didn’t have to join her and Eisenwing here. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached out and grabbed a clawful of the postcards taped to the top of the turret, stuffing them away as he resumed trying to get Haul up and out of the turret, a claw fumbling as he remembered in his half conscious state to grab a cylinder and yank the pin, tossing the smoke grenade out ahead of him.
Outside wound up being just as bad as inside, if he had to be honest. The moment he poked his head up, a stray round snatched at his shoulder, making him jerk and stagger. Oddly, he felt no pain from the injury, merely grit his beak and pulled harder at Haul’s practically deadweight. But they couldn’t just roll off the side, a Gryta was nine and a half feet tall. Instead, he tossed Haul down onto the engine hatch, fumbling for his SMG and turning around. As he feared, many of the shots were coming from close by, Aquileian soldiers moving through the rubble and firing at him, automatic weapons chattering, and here he was standing out in the open. He leapt down onto the engine hatch himself, his own weapon buzzing chaotically as he tried to send out enough rounds to distract the foe, shots punching in and out of the billowing white cloud forming around him. He didn’t even know if he hit a damned thing, and he wasn’t really trying. You couldn’t aim accurately and lug a semi-conscious pony at the same time. Black smoke was pouring out of Sokoły now, from her open cupola, the holes in her turret and from under the engine hatch. They didn’t have long now, but bullets kept whining past, hissing and snapping the air as they tried to find his vulnerable flesh, his own spent casings rattling and bouncing as he desperately tried to save his loader and himself.
Finally, after what had to have been ten minutes (seconds) of struggling and expecting to feel the punch and hear the wet slap of bullet on flesh again, Cyril pulled Haul over the side. There was nothing else to do but dump him. It had to be better than staying up here, trapped in the open on a dying panzer. They both fell bodily to the stones, and Cyril stumbled as he tried to recover quickly. At least with Sokoły between him and the enemy, they had a modicum of cover. For now.
“Cyril!”
He snapped the Krahe up, only belatedly realizing he had emptied the whole mag, and that the voice belonged to Spotsley, as she and Brightclaw emerged from the haze. Relief was what flooded through him now at seeing them both alive and well before him, not torn up like Haul or absolutely eviscerated like Eisenwing. At that thought, Cyril felt a heave, and barely kept hold of his combat ration dinner. He’d rather not taste the disappointing meal twice. Spotsley still had her shotgun, while Brightclaw (strong lad he had been while a loader) had managed to wrench his MG 08 out of the bow gunner seat. Good, they’d need all that.
He gestured to Haul as he reached for another magazine.
“Eisenwing’s gone,” he said simply as explanation. There was nothing more to be said, honestly. They couldn’t recover her remains, not while shots were flying. They had maybe a second before the frogs rushed them, and half a minute after before Sokoły brewed up. Luckily, the other two didn’t need anything else. Spotsley put an arm under Haul’s foreleg while Cyril took the other, Brightclaw taking up the rear as he covered them. Together, they weaved through the wreck-strewn square, back towards the Imperial position stubbornly resisting as more Aquileian fusiliers flooded in, the Fantome that had killed Sokoły backing them up. The exchange of rounds was like a blizzard, tracers and debris flying back and forth. A few fusiliers attempted to move up on the barricade, and with a fierce cry several landsers took to wing and dove on the interlopers, tangling in with them, talons, knives and spades flashing as they locked into combat. The fusiliers fought back with bayonets and combat hatchets just as fiercely as the Fantome’s machine guns chattered, and crimson flooded over the ground beneath.
“Down!” Brightclaw hollered, and both Spotsley and Cyril threw themselves and Haul behind the wreck of the EMC from earlier, just as a flurry of rounds flew overhead. Whistles cut through the air as a brace of mortars smashed into the ground nearby, sending all three pazertruppen ducking for cover. Luckily, the enemy troops were close enough the Aquileians didn’t want to risk hitting their own. Spotsley stood up, racking the slide of the Grummond shotgun and blowing the head off a fusilier who had landed atop Sokoły’s flaming wreck, wings still spread as they went down in a flurry of feathers. Cyril worked the bolt as he braced himself on the track of the EMC, spitting out short bursts at whatever movement he could see. The dawn had finally arrived with full force, sunlight only able to be suppressed for so long before it broke through. He could see the whole grimy battle zone now, and it was ugly and gray, marred by black scorch marks and red flames. The buildings around them were on fire, and small pockets of green-yellow gas still clung on, despite having lasted long past when they should have dispersed. White smoke, used by both sides to cover and obscure their movement, covered much of the squad, but Cyril spotted the Imperial standard, ragged and lightly torn but still standing in all her glory, flapping in the wind over Silverclaw’s position. His heart sank. Too far to run, now. And without a working radio set, they had no way to call for help.
“Brightclaw!” Cyril yelled, stepping over to where the young drake was manning his machine gun, braced against the wreck as he chattered off nice, short bursts. He wasn’t panic firing or losing his head or fumbling. Good. Maybe they could do something with him after all. But he hadn’t heard his leutnant, and Cyril reached up to grab his shoulder. “Brightclaw! I need you to patch up Haul!”
“Patch-wha?” Brightclaw looked astounded and confused, as if he’d just been broken out of a daze, wings slightly flared in his emotional turmoil. Maybe he had been. “I’m no medic!”
As if on cue, a grenade detonated nearby, spraying the steel plated wreck with shrapnel. Cyril reached over, yanking the machine gun away.
“You want to stay here?!”
The drake required no further convincing, ducking down and hurrying over to the medical kits thrown hastily down next to Haul who, to Cyril’s horror, was attempting to lurch into a sitting position. Blood bubbled from his injuries and lips, and the swelling and tattered flesh around his eye (it looked like the eyeball was still intact, thank the gods) meant he likely had no idea what in all hells was going on.
“I-I can shtill fight!” he gurgled, blood running from his muzzle as he tried to stand up. But Spotsley, feeding shells into her weapon, quickly planted an elbow into Haul’s side to knock him over again before she stood and fired three slamfire shots in quick succession at another fusilier section, who answered with a volley of rifle fire. Cyril turned back, working the bolt on the MG 08 before depressing the trigger. The machine gun bucked in his claws, and he had to work to keep it from rising, heavy cooling jacket or no. The belt was chewed up rapidly, and he had no time to estimate how many rounds were left. Brightclaw had clearly not taken the time to grab more belts either. What he had was what he had. Everything was happening so fast, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it speed. It was overwhelming, it didn’t give you the chance to stop and think and figure things out.
Just as he finished that thought, the machine gun clacked loudly, and he glanced down to make sure it wasn’t jammed. It actually was, with about six rounds sticking out the left side. Grunting, he let the weapon go, unslinging his Krahe again as he drew a bead on more advancing figures. But his blood went cold as he realized that down his gunsights, taking to wing despite the chaos of war around them, was the plate armored figure of another Republicaine Garde. Was it one of those who had ambushed them earlier? A new one? He didn’t know, and now wasn’t the time to wonder. By reflex he mashed down the trigger, 7.65mm rounds pouring out of his weapon as the foe dove, closing the distance with an enchanted sword in claw.
He literally had a heartbeat. No way that his rounds would pierce that armor, and that blade would cut him to pieces with no effort. He only had his panzerkorps blacks as protection, and a knife at his belt for close combat. So what did Leutenant Cyril Duskwing, veteran of three wars and certainly a panzer ace, do in his moment of crisis?
He grabbed the empty MG 08 and, in an inexplicable burst of strength, threw the machine gun. It wasn’t far, of course. But it was enough. In the split second, the heavy weapon had confused the Gardegriff just long enough. The sword swept across at chest height, cleaving the barrel in two just in time for Cyril to duck in under the knight’s guard. Remembering the lessons Machinki had taught him, he came right up into the foe’s swing, far too close to recover from, and jammed the simple pig-sticker into the sensitive joint between helmet and gorget, stabbing down with all his strength. In a spray of arterial blood, the knight staggered back, gargling and babbling as she (it was indeed a formel) tried to figure out what had happened.
“Non! Ça ne peut pas être!”
Fortunately, as she shrieked, she didn’t have long to lament her turn in fortunes as Cyril grabbed her helmet’s beak, tipped her head back and buried the muzzle of his sidearm under her chin. He likely didn’t have to empty the magazine. But he did anyway, pumping all the 9mm shots under her skull. He didn’t know the odds of an unarmored, poorly armed soldier killing an elite warrior wearing enchanted plate, but he knew they had to be long. The corpse fell in a heavy heap at his boots, clattering and splashing as blood flowed freely from the ruin of a body. Panting, gasping for breath, Cyril stood over the fallen knight, empty pistol in his claw. At some point, it had started raining. When had it started? He never noticed. The drops were already turning into a deluge across the flagstones, the dark clouds overhead still holding back the sun on top of the battle smoke. Beneath his boots, blood flowed in rivers from the corpses of Republicaine and Imperial soldiers, griffon, pony and dog alike. Wrecks surrounded him, a graveyard of armored vehicles. He looked back towards the embattered position, still pressed by the Fantome. The standard still waved, too far back still to make a run for.
“Pour la République!”
Here they came again, pouring out of the avenues. Armored cars followed this wave now. There had to be a full infantry kompanie, some of them flying from the upper stories. Mortars thumped from the next street over, pounding Silverclaw’s position.
This was it. It had to be. Cyril gulped as he stumbled to cover, swapping magazines as he glanced furtively at the oncoming hoard. They just didn’t stop coming. However many the Empire killed, there always seemed to be more. Was it like this all over the front? Or was Westkeep really -that- important? He wondered if he should summon up some dramatic words, glancing to his crew again. Brightclaw had finished messily bandaging Haul, checking his pulse and nodding slowly, talons and uniform covered in crimson. Haul was out of it at last, though if they didn’t get him out it would likely be for good. Spotsley, gods bless her, was mounting a bayonet of all things to her Grummond, her gas mask hanging around her neck, a bitter expression on her face.
No. No dramatic words were needed. He simply took his Krahe up, standing to face his fate head on. From here, he could see the first Aquileian fusilier, blue-gray coat filthy, wet and covered in mud and blood, feathers grimy, an expression of determination on his face, beak grit in determination, rifle tipped with bayonet up and ready to fire as he looked for a target. Behind him, an armored car rolled in, turret swiveling over in their direction. The second it saw them, the crew were likely dead. Cyril squinted, lining up his shot, talon squeezing the trigger.
And both the armored car and the fusilier disappeared in a fountain of dirt and rubble.
Cyril wasn’t fool enough to think that was him and his pistol-caliber weapon, of course. But he still needed a moment to recover. In that time, a trio of shapes tore past overhead, engines roaring as they did. He missed the front rank, but the next group passed over the square low enough he knew what they were; Imperial E-08 Greifvogel dive bombers, the perfect plane for dropping ordnance into such a tight and dense place such as this. The next wave came and dropped their ordnance as well, and the next after that. They had to have dedicated an entire wing to just this battle!
This final hammer blow was enough to send the enemy into retreat. Past the explosions, Cyril could see forms fleeing, soldiers and vehicles attempting to withdraw from what was clearly a losing position. Remembering Silverclaw’s troops, Cyril spun around, fearing he would not see that standard flying still. But instead, several troopers were bracing it up, straightening the battered flag. Around the position came another wave, this one of Imperial soldiers. Panzergrenadiers, Stormtroopers, even Knights bearing the emblems of the Order of the Tower and Sword. Behind them, pushing down the street came a platoon of fresh Griefkonigs, themselves escorted by Vasall LAVs, Grimbart armored cars and even more troopers on foot. Behind all -that- came a column of Katze trucks, overloaded with Imperial soldiers, looking fit to spill out of the sides, cheering at the defenders who had held on for so long. Cheering -him-.
And, amidst it all, Oberstmeister Heimclar stood on top of the Fantome that had been pressing on Silverclaw’s position. From where it had been neutralized, it had been about to run over the sandbags and drive on to trample the Imperial standard. If Cyril had to take a guess, the enchanted sword stabbed into the plate over the Fantome’s driver had to be Heimclar’s.
As the enormity of what was happening around him flowed onto his exhausted shoulders, Cyril finally felt all the days without sleep, without food and fighting for his life every second of the last three months plant themselves on him, and he fell to his knees as medics in green-gray galloped towards him and his crew.
*****
Later, after the medics took Haul away, Heimclar had told them what had occurred, huddled into the bones of the gutted fighting position, protected from the pouring rain by a quickly assembled canvas lean-to. Not long after Cyril and Machinki’s doomed kompanie had been ordered into position, Imperial forces from 3rd Korps had finally gotten a message through to the fortress’ more powerful radio equipment; they had been following the railroad line from Camris, finally breaking through Aquileian lines from the east and closing to relieve the city, reinforcing the salient. With such an overwhelming force on its way, Heimclar had realized he needed to make sure this flank held, or it might be able to turn and force its way out on the open field.
“My regret,” Heimclar continued as he glanced over at the medics taking Oberfeldwebel Silverclaw’s body away from where he’d fallen at the base of the Imperial standard. “Was not arriving faster. I needed to meet up with the relief force before I could come, or there would be little point. Had I known the cost would be so high…”
The kampfgruppe kommandant didn’t say what he would have done, but Cyril understood, his gaze fixed on the tin cup in his claws, full of disgusting coffee. He still sipped at it with little complaint. It wasn’t for him to hear, and he honestly couldn’t really say much of anything right now. From what he had heard, Machinki was still alive, en route to an evacuation point. Haul, if they rushed him off to a hospital, was likely to survive as well. Aside from Gladiatorin, all of Cyril’s panzers had been lost to enemy action. It was hard to feel anything right now. The cold, perhaps. Exhaustion, certainly. But inside of him, despair battled with rage for the dominant emotion. So many mauled or dead by this battle, in one early morning, in one place.
Aside from Haul and Machinki, several of the surviving crews from the other panzers had managed to escape, though many had taken various injuries. Say who you like about her disappointing cannon, the Greifkonig was built to survive a beating. A medic had looked over Cyril’s shoulder, but anything more than a quick bandage he waved off. They had told him it was a clean in and out, and he could still hear screams on the field and from the casualty collection point. Those medics were needed elsewhere.
Heimclar looked out at the square. So much blood spent to hold this one place, and yet hold it they had. Up until their dying breath, most of the landsers had stood and fought to hold the flank, knowing their comrades were at risk here. And so many of them had died as a result. His thoughts turned to Van Zieks, who had already left with the wounded, and a flash of anger went through him. That was one ‘general’ who clearly did not deserve his post. He needed to be careful here, for attacking such a connected figure was a dangerous prospect. But he had a plan. The Reformisten griff smirked, quietly. The rainstorm, pounding away without mercy or end, reminded him of the work of the Quartermaster.
He heard a cough behind him, and turned to Leutnant Duskwing. The young panzer officer was staring sightlessly into his coffee, uniform still soaked and encrusted with blood and filth. A flash of sympathy went through Heimclar as he tried to take Duskwing in. According to recovery teams, that blood was from his gunner and loader, the latter of whom was gravely injured and the former…well, the description was short and gave him no illusions as to why Duskwing’s surviving crew had been dismounted when the reinforcements had finally arrived.
“We have Solide,” he stated plainly, watching to see how Cyril would react. Colonel Solide, the Warden of Westkeep, had moved her command post right up into the city, expecting this day to finally net her a victory. Instead, the fast moving reinforcements from the east had encircled her in return. When her situation was finally made clear, Solide had surrendered and ordered her troops to stand down. It was, honestly, rather anti-climactic for such a figure of notoriety, even if it was the smart choice. All in all, they had taken thousands of prisoners, to be marched north and confined in suitable facilities. There would likely be Republique holdouts burrowed deep in the ruined city, not to mention partisans from the remaining civilians. But now, at last, they had the griffpower and open supply lines to properly hold the city. With Colonel Solide removed from the board, both the Republicaine Armee and MPA had lost a valuable and skilled commander.
But Duskwing only raised his head, facial expression blank.
“Ja, mein herr,” he said solemnly, nodding slowly. After another minute of either quiet reflection or carefully reasserting his control (Heimclar was not honestly sure which) the young panzerkorps officer finally asked a question. “What now, herr Oberstmeister?”
“Now?”
It was not the question he had expected. Duskwing had no functional panzer to command, his troops and crews cut to pieces, lightly wounded himself and forced into battle after battle for nearly three months without end. He would have to review his opinion of him. He had believed troublemaker Cyril Duskwing, nephew of the great General August Duskwing, to have earned his position purely through family connections and survived thanks to some rudimentary talent. Certainly, his marks had mostly worked into the high average and he had graduated high in his class, but surely this would fall apart in actual battle.
No. Not after this. Nogriff could look at Cyril’s record, decorated by the Black King personally and earning several awards for merit and bravery, combined with this battle and think anything less. But that one question, those two words that asked to be sent right back in, despite what he had previously endured:
“What now…” Heimclar sipped at his own coffee, hiding the stormy thoughts behind his mind involving this extraordinarily capable youth, the evermounting losses he had been keeping track of to hold this damned city and (unrelated) what he would do to get revenge on a certain neglectful idiotic noble general to instead address and admit the unfortunate truth of the moment.
“Now we are relieved. Kampfgruppe Lehr will need to rebuild itself. We have lost too many panzers to stay effective. So, while the panzers and crews are filled out again, you have earned some leave. A few weeks of rest will do you all good, I think.”
Through the rain, the light suddenly got a little brighter, and both of them peered out of the lean-to. Though it was still pouring, a momentary break in the cloud cover, combined with some relief of the battle smoke and smog, resulted in a few pure beams of sunlight breaking through, if only for a moment. Neither of them said a word, just watching as the clouds and smoke slowly rolled back in, obscuring that clear blue sky once more.
And the rain pounded on.
June 14th, 1012 3rd Armee, 3rd Korps City of Yale, County of Yale 3rd Korps Field Headquarters
August Duskwing had never thought a promotion could be a bad thing. Certainly, the one that had offered him his commission had seemed an unfortunate circumstance, and he had adjusted well enough, but once you reached high up enough into officer's territory the number of times Kommand saw fit to give out medals and promotions before you were killed or forced to retire mattered a lot. Especially, he ruminated, when the promotion was offered because of the death of a good drake.
The Reichsarmee was itself divided up into eight separate Feldarmee, each one led by a separate Feldmarschall. Prior to this massive war breaking out, each was around half the size it was now, even in the days when the Empire was at its height. Wars were a lot smaller back then, and so were armies. But the invasion from Entente forces and the need to cover all fronts effectively had ballooned each Feldarmee, as more and more divisions were commissioned and all units at each organizational level received replacements, reinforcements and reorganization. Gone were the designations for musketeers or fusiliers, gone were the ceremonial Guards formations previously commissioned by nobles to represent small claims of separate investments, gone were the pointless formations and regiments that had previously been skirmishers in separate light infantry formations. A new, streamlined Reichsarmee stood against invasion from both north and south, bigger than before though still dwarfed by her previous swollen mass. But, given the work of the conscription bureaus and service registration for young griffs that might not be the truth for much longer.
As Aquileia was the larger threat, it gained greater attention from the Empire. The 1st, 3rd, 4th and 6th Armees were focused on the southern border, trying to contain Aquileia and force a breakthrough. In the north, the 2nd, 5th and 7th Armees surrounded the Revolutionary Republic, slowly choking it from all sides as the Reichsarmee advanced. 8th Armee was technically the force of the interior, which was how the contributions to Operation: Tartarus had been justified, along with the Landwehr garrisons plopping down the standards where they marched. Given how desperate the fighting was in the west, 8th Feldarmee had been almost completely withdrawn from the east. It was up to Ost-Griffonia to hold the border with the chaotic Riverponies, locking down the Grenzwald and continuing to stamp out the flare ups of resistance that still arose from time to time.
The point of this entire overview, in August’s head, was to process the position he had just been handed; command of 3rd Feldarmee. A tremendous step, and not one he was unprepared to undertake, were it not for the circumstances. During a routine trip to inspect the front, Feldmarschall Bronzetail’s convoy was attacked by partisans in Adelart. From all reports, none had survived. A vicious blow. Bronzetail had been in overall command of the Western Front, and with his death a gap existed in the order of battle. From rumor, it was heard his dear brother in arms Feldmarschall Ebonwing commanding the Northern Front was in mourning, leaving his command table at times with few instructions and leaving the planning to his commanders. For now, no one blamed him. It was a bad deal, and it was high enough up that it left the Reichsarmee reeling.
Which was why, of all things, the officer who had handed him the letter was an Ost-Griffonian komandant. It was August’s impression that the Grenzwald was far too occupied, keeping the still unstable territories of the frontier under control, suppressing minotaurs and managing the Ostwall(nicknamed the Hindenbark line after its architect) against refugees as the Riverlands dismantled themselves. Their contributions to the west were, in comparison to the wider war, rather minor. And yet, here stood one of the highest ranking Grenzwald drakes in Ost-Griffonia. Feldzeugmeister Féher Zugravescu was, if his information was correct, of an equivalent rank to a Reichsarmee Feldmarschall in the Ost-Griffonian Wermacht. As the Reformisten’s own army was so much smaller than His Majesty’s Own, this made him something of a rare bird. The exchange of Ost-Griffonian and Reichsarmee forces and officers in this war had come with strange circumstances, as some officers insisted vehemently on wearing their Reformisten blacks, and encouraged their own troops to continue doing so. Some wore Imperial feldgrau, with corresponding Ost-Griffonian pins, while those who were more fervently in support of a full return to the Kaiserreich’s domain wore full Imperial green gray, Reichsarmee pins and patches and all, the opposite was not unheard of either, due to the elite status of the black knights being very inviting to the rank and file. Zugravescu fell more into the former, with his Reformisten blacks, with the pomp and glamour the Order lavished onto their Knightly commandants,a sheathed sword, the silver buttons and platinum braid in full parade ground perfection, while the fruit salad of medals, ribbons and awards were arrayed across his breast. Wound badges, awards for valor, knightly awards and recognitions, even the legendary Knight's Cross with golden oak leaves, swords and diamonds (an award so rare, he was fairly certain Zugravescu was one of only two Grenzwald holders, the other being Wingfried himself, and one of only five current bearers in all the Reikspakt. Wingfried had, after all, won his leaves, swords and diamonds for saving the young Kaiser). His eyes were unseen hidden behind black spectacles, almost black pools of darkness and smothered zeal, hiding whatever stew of emotions were behind that visage. Orange on grey feathers and a mustache, well groomed and laid, surrounded a scarred face that likely had seen just as much combat as August himself. The eastern griffon’s beak was marked, just like his, but covered in an older style of prosthetic that indicated he had received the injury beneath many years ago. August knew this kind of replacement, a fitting that was often only resorted to when enough of the beak was gone it no longer possessed enough material to be covered.
Zugravescu hadn’t spoken himself. He had simply strolled into August’s command center as the general had poured over the map table, attempting to plot his next few moves. Following him had been several of the sentries and aides from outside, as well as a pair of Ost-Griffonian troopers and a knightly Bronze Dog leutnant most likely from the Bund. This knight was clearly Zugravescu’s own aide, as when she had come before Duskwing, she had snapped a crisp salute and, after withdrawing an envelope, presented it to the Reichsarmee general with every move like clockwork, parade ground perfection.
“General Duskwing, Oberleutnant Ruria. Aide and squire to Feldzeugmeister Zugravescu.” The commander in question, silent behind the aide, merely nodded to acknowledge August in the same dignified graceful manner one noble exchanged with another. August nodded back. They were indoors, in his own command post which given the amount of onlookers felt cramped as a result. “A message from Oberkommando, Herr General” the aide continued, holding the envelope in question out for him. “Congratulations are in order.”
And inside, the letter that suddenly changed everything.
He turned to the table, letter in claw, memorizing the situation as he understood it. Studying it gave him the time he needed to absorb its contents, to parse the information in a way he would actually be able to digest. The various pins, figurines, strings and added notes all meant something different, designating a piece too grand for him to fully display with a mere field commander’s map table. The map displayed the Peripherie as the Aquileians called it, with all the former countries there outlined as separate but still filed as enemy territory. Operation Donnerkiel had at least rent Adelart from the Republique, as Thundertail’s forces had slammed into the forest territory, followed by forces from 4th Feldarmee to flood in and exploit the breakthroughs, operating from reclaimed Oldwingburg and Nortfome as well as the fortifications moved up on Feathisia’s Central Plain. The cities of Camris and Flowena had been difficult to take, defiant and difficult to crack, hardened fortifications and mobilized reserves forcing a return to trench warfare as the maneuvers burned out. But fall they had, and led to the relief of Westkeep at last. August’s own troops had been leading the charge for 6th Feldarmee to take Verenia, and the city of its namesake was set to fall in the next week. Once they had Lake Rumare, the 6th could swing around and start marching west. The real problems faced 1st Armee in Greifwald, as the forested expanses had slowed the Imperial troops down even worse than in Adelart and still remained firmly in Aquileian claws. Pulliers had been retaken a week ago by Imperial divisions, but cities like Flowerino and Vigovia, not far from the border at all, had become a wall for the Reichsarmee to smash into, and the trenchlines had already been thrown up in the forests there. At least Donnerkiel’s other success, Fezera, was actually proving a true success, with the town bearing the namesake still under siege in the far west while the enemy offensive further south was contained. This was, however, the limit of the Empire’s current advance in the south, months after what was supposed to be a complete breakthrough. From the reports he’d had, it was little better in the north. Though massively outnumbered and outgunned, the Revolutionary Army was fighting bitterly for every scrap of ground on the approach to Cloudbury, and not even the half-moon encirclement done by the Bronze Legion and an uprising of troops led by General Rosewing of all griffons was proving able to speed it along. Every time the Reichsarmee cleared one trenchline, another one rested behind it within shooting distance, every time a bunker was secured, another was firing on their position, and every town that fell had to be seized house by house, room by room. The resistance was sheer fanaticism, and while progress was steady it was glacial. Cloudbury would certainly fall, but not for at least a few more months.
All of this, he absorbed in moments. He had spent most of his waking hours studying this table, his aides moving pins and flags as reports rolled in. The flags were friendly battalions, the pins the designations of enemy units at their last reported positions. The threads represented lines of supply, and lines of chalk were lines of movement, to be erased as need be. When the order to begin reforming 3rd Armee had been passed down, many of the orders he had plotted were to track the march of his and others’ battalions as they came back to pull up north, and that had only been to stay informed of the battlespace. Now, according to this letter, it was going to be his job for real.
“Herr General?”
Not from Oberleutnant Ruria, she still stood off to the side at attention, watching Duskwing intently, as did the suddenly quiet command post. All his staff and aides were watching him closely, guarded emotions all around with quiet whispers. The one who had spoken had been one of his senior aides, Major Henadij Dvorjak. The Major was a good soldier, an immigrant from Kosakenland who had decided to make the full effort to reach Griffenheim instead of just settling in Hellsword like many who escaped the chaos and violence of the east. Now, he was merely waiting for the application to clear for his family to join him. Dutiful, hard-working and attentive, he always hovered near Duskwing’s claw to collect orders, summarize incoming reports and even fetch him some coffee. All these, August filed away on autopilot. He would make a good personal aide once August moved up to Feldmarschall, though he’d never taken one before. He would certainly need one now.
“Who will replace me?” he asked, not of Dvorjak but of Ruria, and through her Zugravescu, whom he looked towards. The words might be spoken by the dog, but she was only saying them on his behalf. He knew who their source was.
“A promising up and comer from Bronzehill,” Ruria replied, and Zugravescu nodded to confirm. “Redstone. He has good potential.”
“I’ve heard,” August agreed, nodding as he cast his mind back for the particulars. “Bronze Legion, cited twice for courage under fire, once for excellence in command of his battalion. He’ll make a good korps kommandant, assuming we can keep him away from the front.”
He chuckled, but it was a hollow kind of laugh, remembering similar circumstances. Decades ago, he had never thought he’d attain division command like this, but enough of his seniors had been killed without sufficient replacements that he had crept his way up the chain from the Sturmtruppen. Now, he was to take Bronzetail’s job and take up command of a whole army. An extraordinary task set ahead of him if ever there was one.
Oberleutnant Ruria kept going, continuing to extoll Redstone’s record. August merely nodded occasionally, absorbing it all passively. It was information he was mostly privy to anyway. A good commander during the Herzland War and the campaign across the Whitetails, he did indeed lead from the front, never far from his troops. To pull him away from the Northern Front to take August’s place meant Oberkommando had great faith in him. It also meant the final nail in the coffin for the Bronze Legion, though most knew that was coming regardless. According to the latest proposal by General Schreiber, new codes were coming down the pipe to dissolve any lasting barriers between race and nationality. They were even getting rid of nationality pins and the region exclusive regiment system. This was not from any sentiments about racial equality, but from the practical sense of being able to transfer troops where they were needed with as few barriers as possible. With the mobility of this war and the constant need to bounce units back and forth from front to front, it was a necessity at this point.
A thought occurred to him.
“Why are you here?” August asked, interrupting Ruria in the middle of her spiel. He continued to look at Zugravescu, staring the Reformisten griff in the eye, or as close as he could get. If he had just been promoted to Feldmarschall, they were close to the same rank. Many of the rules of etiquette had just gotten the gaps closed, and he could afford to be blunt.
Oberleutnant Ruria blinked in surprise, taken aback by the sudden change in track, clearing her throat before she started on answering the new query…but August held up a talon.
“Not you,” he said sharply. “I want to hear it from -his- beak.”
Zugravescu tilted his head, considering the black griff before him carefully. The dark lenses concealed his eyes, but not completely, and there was little doubt where he was looking this close. August continued.
“This could have been delivered by courier. Bronzetail may be dead, but there are plenty of other high ranking officers to trust this to if needed. I doubt the Grenzwald is so quiet that they can send -you- here to deliver a -message-. So you are here for something else. Tell me.”
There was no request made. There was the underlying tone of authority coming from a voice accustomed to giving orders and seeing them carried out. He had butted heads with more ornery generals than this, and he had no trepidation about his action. He did not like being in the dark while the peer officers and Oberkommando played their political games with military policy, and the last thing he wanted was to be led around by the beak while easterners with their own little private fiefdom danced in the shadows as thousands died further west. If that was not the case, he wanted to know, -now-.
The Feldzeugmeister smiled approvingly beneath his prosthetic, and when he finally spoke August realized why he did not do so himself. His voice was hoarse and scratchy, not simply from bellowing orders but from some other effect. August had heard of landsers affected by mustard gas who never could speak properly again. Was that what had happened here? Some old conflict had torn away Zugravescu’s ability to be heard clearly, and the use of an aide to speak on his behalf suddenly seemed less like theater and more of a practicality.
“All nonessentials are to leave.”
Raspy and quiet, but still audible. Nearby, several staff officers glanced to August, looks of confusion on their faces but knowing better than to speak. It was not a request. And while an order, there was the clear hook on it; if you want an answer, this is the cost. Duskwing had the terms delivered to him. But he nodded, and confirmed the Feldzeugmeister’s order.
“Anygriff not manning a radio, out.”
The movement was slow, many staff officers who were not privy to the conversation being told in hurried whispers that they needed to get out. Zugravescu’s own Ost-Griffonian landsers were not far behind, Ruria leaning in to quietly converse with her commander before she too nodded and departed. Dvorjak glanced to August, but the newly promoted Feldmarschall merely scooped up a stack of papers, handing them over.
“I need these reports confirmed. If we’re going to push into Vinovia, I need to get my resources consolidated. I want a full report on our logistics setup reaching back into the Herzland before Bronzetail’s files arrive. It will make setting up much simpler.”
It was a busywork kind of job, but if Dvorjak was to be his adjutant the Major also needed to establish himself as the drake to be obeyed and respected, his symbol of authority among the ranks. The Kosakenland native paused, considered the papers before he simply nodded, took the documents and departed as well. Soon, it was just him, a dozen radio operators listening to the signals traffic and taking notes, and Zugravescu. The ostland drake, having exerted his authority, stepped towards the map, looking down over the situation. Many pins across Verenia, Pomovarra and now the Westkeep March had been shifted to reflect Reichsarmee advancements. With the city of Westkeep now properly relieved, advancements were being made on the city of Ileagle. After eighty-two days of battle up and down the March and the borders leading into Aquileia proper, it finally looked as if they had their clawhold on enemy soil. True, the western city of Flowerino was proving an equally tough nut to crack, and between the hard fighting that had gone on already and the devastating losses the 205th had taken (and the Wet Plague rampaging through both armies in the region) they would have to call a halt to consolidate when Ileagle fell, but it would be a good place to cement their hold. Some were already calling the Battle of Westkeep the Hundred Days Offensive, the extension of Operation Donnerkiel beyond any expectation, but from here they could finally cut the northern part of Rila and push south.
All in good time. August’s strategic mind had swept up all the relevant details and played them back to him, as they had before. He shook his head, sighing. He needed to stop doing that. But Zugravescu merely reached over, plucking the flag that represented the 205th Schwere-Panzer Abteilung, still stuck in the ruined city of Westkeep. Even two days after being relieved, they had yet to be pulled back for relief and reinforcement, mauled so badly the reports were still coming in about how severe the casualties had been for them and their support elements. August Duskwing paused, waiting. Finally, Zugravescu exhaled, as if coming to a decision, then set the flag back down, reached up to take the dark glasses off his face.
Paradoxically, the eyes that were behind those lenses were not as August had expected. He had known plenty of commanders, all of whom had learned to shape their expressions so their eyes became pools of fury and rage, flinty hardness and steel discipline or pools of terror. On the face of the foe three decades ago, he had seen them full of hatred and lethal intent. He did not expect one with so fierce a persona, as grim a reputation as Zugravescu, even less so a Reformisten officer, to have soft eyes. Like August, his eyes were a different color, which gave August pause. In his entire life, he had met so few griffs with a condition like his he could count them on both claws. Most of the time, it had been natural. Some, like him, had been the result of traumatic head or eye trauma. While he could not say for sure here, he suspected when it came to Zugravescu that this was the latter. Taken altogether, he looked less like the imposing feldmarschall of legend and more along the lines of…a school teacher.
He leaned forward, suddenly appearing so tired, as if removing the glasses (and the mask with it) had pulled back a veil that sapped him of strength. But the Grenzwalder gestured with an iron talon to his face, the horrible mangling of his beak and the different colored eyes.
“Wittenland,” he said simply. The single word, a named location. So deep into the Riverlands, he had apparently been. August couldn’t guess what Knights or even cossacks were doing so far into enemy territory.
He paused, gesturing to August. This was…not what he had expected. A lecture or a dressing down or some private briefing, yes. But not a quiet, shared moment of comparing scars and war stories? That was so far out of left field it left August short of words or response. But like the Stormtrooper he had once been, he rallied swiftly with a new plan. Reaching up, he hooked a talon in his shirt collar, tugging it down just enough for the upper part of his chest to be revealed. There, between the black feathers, was the top of a knotted scar, a mere inch from his heart. He didn’t pull it down all the way, of course. And so the true extent of the wound remained a mystery.
“Interriver,” he replied. “Outside Vinnin. When we were finally about to retake Griffenheim.” He remembered that rainy night well, and lived it in his dreams quite often. “We were told to go over the top, to clear the enemy trenches and silence the machine guns.” Duchess Gabriela’s Imperial counter revolutionary forces had already smashed the Republicans in the field to the north. Kemerskai, the coward, hadn’t even seen fit to stand and fight for Griffenheim, already set to flight from the Imperial City. “My kompanie was the first in. Whoever he was, he was crafty. Waited in the shadows of his trench and caught me alone. Tried to bury a hatchet in my chest.” He could still smell the mud, feel his hot blood pumping out as his panic and desperation coursed through him. “He missed my heart. Just. And I got my revolver out.”
Féher Zugravescu was nodding silently. He could easily see the tale August conjured for him, as if he had been there. True, the feldzeugmeister had likely not faced machine guns and barbed wire in his youth, but a veteran simply knew, regardless of the times.
“It was a different time,” he said quietly, spurred to further discussion by August’s own tale. “We were young drakes. Full of hate and seeking an answer. We set out to be brave adventurers. Wingfried, Beekyarov, myself. We thought ourselves mighty crusaders...” He paused, before shaking his head slightly, a gentle motion from side to side. “We were…humbled. The Equestrians often say ‘friendship is magic.’ But then, that day…we learned that magic can also be painful. Can make you suffer.” A slight smirk came to that oh so badly mauled beak, as if delivering the punchline of a very dark joke. “Teach you very harsh lessons.”
Despite himself, August smirked back. He knew the expression held no mirth. But it held more than an ounce of cooperation and understanding.
Zugravescu nodded slowly, kind eyes leisurely sliding away and staring into the distance while his iron claw lifted the dark glasses back into place. With the return of the mask, his demeanor seemed to return. His spine was iron, his movements fluid again. Any trace of the drake that had previously shared that little piece of his history to August was gone. The commander, the veteran, the Knight returned.
“I have heard good things about you. In Hellquill. I wanted to take my own measure and give you the good news.” He reached into his longcoat and tugged out a large dossier with the words STRENG GEHEIM printed on it. “Ost-Griffonia joins this war fully at last, and I need to know the drakes I stand with are trustworthy. One-hundred thousand have been carefully parsed from the Ostwall to join the fight, a large portion of our accumulated forces and merely the start. The Black Knights are already marching with the Grand Duke. The Golden Armada patrols the south seas. The Kaiserreich is in a time of great need, and we are answering the call.” He laid the dossier on the table. “Your copy of the information. And the followup for Operation: Kerberus. Guard it well.”
He looked to the map table, staring down at the flag that represented the 205th once more. Despite himself, August snuck a glance at the flag as well. From the letters, he knew Cyril was still alive. His panzer had been destroyed from under him, and from the reports his crew had suffered even more losses. But alive. He almost couldn’t care about the reports of horrific losses the panzer-abteilung had suffered after that. Almost.
“We know.” August’s eyes snapped back up, realizing those cold black lenses were focused on him again. “You have a nephew, yes? I understand his unit saw hard fighting before being relieved at Westkeep. Eighty days. Truly extraordinary.” That pause in the air again. August did not like where this line of questioning was going.
“I assume, based on your own place in life, that you take him as a son of sorts? Much like, as generals we must become fathers to these orphaned soldiers. Or, at least, guiding lights. We must care, at least somewhat. Have a care, Duskwing…we would do well not to -spoil- our sons and daughters.”
August’s eyes narrowed, slightly. There was an undeniable threat in Zugravescu’s tone. Rather than come straight out and call him on the nepotism visible to anygriff with a roster of names and half a brain, he had merely laid out a fitting analogy and let his own mind do the work. But though he felt the rush of cold sweat on his brow and back, the twitching of his wings and the inadvertent tightening of his talons on the edge of the table, August did not crack. He had faced worse things than one general who thought himself clever. He had -promised- Stefan and Margot.
With the last of a knowing smile slipping away, Zugravescu turned back to the map.
“While I trust your capability to command, I have my doubts about your ability to make the hard choices. We must not falter in our drive towards victory. This will not be the last war, Feldmarschall. And so long as Ost-Griffonia is a part of the Kaiserreich, we will be watching. Take heed…my faith is bottomless. In the gods and our Empire. My vigil is absolute. Yours must be the same.”
With that cryptic message that regardless left August’s own fur standing on end, Zugravescu carefully reached out, adjusting the flag for the 205th one more time, straightened up and saluted August curtly. Regardless of what he now knew lay behind that visage, he still cut a very intimidating figure.
“Congratulations on the promotion, Duskwing. We expect great things from you. And we will watch your career with…great interest. You are a good headhunter, Feldmarschall. Make us proud and…have faith in our children.”
"Defending Equestria from the changeling invasion goes beyond an ethical obligation. It is necessary for our survival." — General Secretary Vasiliy Wheatin of Stalliongrad, in an interview on justification for providing war support to Equestria, June 18th 1012
June 15th, 1012 Fillydelphia Airport (Northeast), Fillydelphia No. 2 (Bombing) Group, Number 99 Squadron
Twenty minutes. For a strong pegasus flier and no interruptions, from the Royal Air Force base hastily erected in requisitioned hangars and banging down runways that once serviced passenger craft, over the city of Fillydelphia and taking a turn to the east, it was only a twenty minute flight to the sea. Shorter, if you headed north to the inlet, though flying to the gulf was cheating in her mind.
It had finally happened. Just as Static had predicted. Just as she herself had feared. They had been pushed all the way to the eastern shores of Equestria. With the new changeling offensive assaulting Hope Hollow, the Luna Line looked to have been finally overwhelmed. Only a precious few cities and towns lay between the foe and Canterlot at this point. To the southwest, it was little better. According to the news, Hoofington was now under assault, and if the enemy took that it was a straight shot across Boring Fields and the Summerdale Meadowlands before they would be knocking on Ponyville and Cloudsdale.
Paige sighed as she tried to focus on Advanced Arcane Theory and Practical Applications, the textbook she had spent so many of her bits on during her time in the south. This barrack had been assembled much more haphazardly, and as such she possessed no desk aside from her own flight trunk to read at and take notes in her spare time. It was rare to get any liberty these days, when bombing missions were practically run back to back as often as the machines could manage it. If the crews weren’t injured or pulled into some duty or another, they were expected to keep their birds maintained and ready to run out on the next mission. Her last trip to Manehatten might wind up being her last one period if this war didn’t reverse soon. According to rumors, many weekend leaves were being canceled, including officers’. With the enemy literally on Canterlot’s doorstep, the need for as many in the ranks was dire and evident. Last time she had been in Manehatten, the Celestial Fleet had long before slipped anchorage, and now apparently was being kept on station in Baltimare and the Spa Islands when not hunting Changeling U-boats. Now, one could fly down to Fillydelphia’s own harbor and find, of all things, Soviet flags flying over ships in harbor to refuel, rearm and repair. It was quite disconcerting, especially with word of the rioting and instability back home.
Paige grit her teeth, trying to double down on her focus. This was, in essence, all she had left of her incomplete education. Who knew if or when she would be able to continue it? What she had learned she needed to retain, and keep fresh. She was limited to the textbooks she had on hoof and whatever she could scrounge up through the regimental library or perusing the classified section of the newspapers, but so far the Equestria Daily had yet to put up an arcane theory book for her to purchase. For now, it seemed enough.
She read on.
”Though a Feathisian griffon theoretician, Hendrik Clawrentz’s theories in 973 laid the groundwork of non-magical influence on the arcane through the use of electrically charged magnetic fields, which led to the adoption of Clawrentz Force Law and their use in the earliest examples of magitek, combining griffon enchantments on metal such as armored plates and tools and magnetic fields to direct and control magic from the natural world. Sadly, the Griffonian Revolution of 978 saw Clawrentz killed and much of his work destroyed.”
“It always comes back to griffons when it's technology, doesn’t it?” she muttered, taking another bite out of the sandwich she had managed to steal from the mess. Though it had indeed been unicorns that had made the first functional magitek engines, there always seemed to be a parallel griffon effort to make up for their deficiency. She recalled rumors about the dark, foreboding land in the far southern Riverlands called Barrad, and shivered. To distract herself, she looked down at the list of equations first Clawrentz and then a unicorn named Marewell who likewise had dictated that light itself may be an amalgamation of arcane energy and electromagnetism. These didn’t look so hard to remember, and she recalled learning them back in Hoofington before the war. Idly, she used her wingtip to pick up a pencil (far more delicate than improvising with a hoof) and began copying down the formulae on her notepad.
“Magic and electricity function in very similar circumstances,” she continued reading, out loud and under her breath. “Including the use of conductors, resistors, grounds and insulators. The use of crystals to absorb and store arcane energy for use dates back to…”
Wait. She read that line again. She knew she had reviewed that topic at one point, back in school. It made sense, she knew it did. Magic and electricity functioned quite similarly to one another, a major difference being that magic was a living, breathing force of energy. It changed depending on source, destination, method and intent, whereas electricity functioned quite firmly in its own realm of limitations. It was a huge reason why so much work was going into making magitek engines and crystal powered rifles and, one day, magical powerplants.
“So if there are things that -resist- magic…” she pondered aloud, looking over her notes. “And there are things that can -neutralize- electricity…” Her pencil was moving on its own now. “And there are things that can -amplify- magic, and -amplify- electricity…then what -neutralizes- magic?”
“Dark thoughts, the abandonment of friendship and alcohol?”
Paige glanced up as Static stepped over, a smirk on the red unicorn’s lips as she magically dropped a laundry bag at the foot of her bunk. As always, the enlisted crews were housed together, and given the fact they now had a long bunkhouse instead of individual rooms it often felt a lot like the early days of her service, where she and Static and twenty other reservists did their weekend time and then went home again every month. Technically, they were still reservists, activated in a time of war. Not a lot of their reserve flight was still with them, either transferred away or shot down. So their bunkhouse was crammed full of strangers again.
“You forgot the absence of harmony,” Paige joked back, smirking in return before she returned to her equations. She had completed the portion of her schooling dealing with abstract theory crafting before being forced to leave for war, and her work in constructing her crystal matrix had involved a lot of complex trigonometry as well to calculate energy levels, but she was rusty with the formulas now as she tried to work herself back through the figures on her notes and the page.
“What’s the next great genius of our time working on now?” asked Static, magically tugging out articles of clothing, smoothing them out and folding them with her hooves and tossing them carelessly into her trunk. “Vaccine for the Cutie Pox? Figuring out how to talk to Boreas before the griffons do? What lies at the bottom of the Mareianas Trench?”
“Not a medical major, not a theology major and probably water and rocks, but I’m not an oceanography major,” Paige rattled back as she discovered a mistake in her calculations and corrected it. “I am…attempting to discover what can -neutralize- magic.”
“Neutralize? You mean like turning it off?”
“Something like that,” Paige replied, back at her equations again. “It only occurred to me that if we compare the nature of magic to that of electricity, theories with electromagnets and their effects have been shown to kill electric power. I am working on a theory that something similar might work with magic. We’ve seen it before, like with dark magic crystals. King Sombra used…uses it plenty. So the question is, what else can trigger that effect?”
“So nopony else has figured this out?” Static asked, finishing her laundry by balling up the bag itself and tossing it in after her clothes before shoving the lid down on top. Paige frowned, thinking a moment before shrugging.
“I mean…in all likelihood, somepony -has-, and I’m just not far enough into my lesson yet.” She glanced at her sheet, pencil hovering in wingtip, suddenly unsure of herself. “Even if they haven’t, there’s not much I can do here. I’ll have to send it to one of the scientific journals or a university to see what they think. Then some mage or scientist gets to make the big discovery based on my idea and I’ll get none of the credit.”
“So just wait until after the war,” Static replied, shrugging as she fished a cigarette out of her jacket. “Then -you- can be the big brain scientist who does it.”
“But I want to -know-,” Paige shot back, with a sudden fervor that surprised even herself. She glanced down at her notes before dropping the pencil, quickly flipping through the pages of her textbook. After a minute of awkward silence during which Static sat there uncomfortably, not even daring to light up her smoke in case it set her friend off, Paige slammed the book shut triumphantly. “I need to talk to Maverick!”
“But he’s a mechanic, isn’t he?”
“He gets machines, though! And he’ll know where else to look for what I need! I’ll talk to you later, Static!”
With that short and extremely unfulfilling explanation, Paige stuffed her notes into a pocket before galloping off, calling for their flight engineer as she tried to flag him down. Still flummoxed, Static finally lit her cigarette as Dusky Eventide stepped over, also watching their bombardier rush off with wings flared.
“What’s she up in the air about? Another letter from across the sea?”
“No, Dusk. That would actually make -sense-,” Static shot back as she blew out her first puff of smoke. “The way she was going on about it, you’d think she’d just made the discovery of a lifetime.”
Delivered Via Skyway Express Airmail Sent June 19th, 1012
Dear Paige,
I am home now. Not just behind the lines for relief, but home in Griffenheim. Before you start to worry for me, I am not discharged or even seriously wounded. The Battle of Westkeep is over, but my division took many losses. They’re talking about saving time by disbanding it and folding Kampfgruppe Lehr into another. For now, I content myself with being home again to visit my mother and grandparents. It feels like an eternity since I was last home, but I look at the calendar and realize it's only been a few months. That cannot be right, but I’m honestly too tired to argue with a calendar.
I will keep it short and light on details because I know the censors are still watching. I was involved in a tough fight in Westkeep, but they finally relieved us and most of Kampfgruppe Lehr has been allowed to come home while (this portion is clipped out). We lost Eisenwing, and Haul and Machinki are badly wounded, but everyone else I have told you about is alright. I wrote a letter to Eisenwing’s parents. It was not easy, just like when I wrote to Eihol’s. How I wish I never had to write them at all.
I have a few weeks of leave, and this was honestly my first chance to write you back. I do so from my old bedroom, though the skyline has changed. My hometown, and Industrie especially, has been affected badly by the war. All the news sheets talking about the bombing campaigns were right, but didn’t go far enough. My mother tells me it seems that every other night there is another attack, but she usually does not hide in the bomb-proofs for long. She is quite an extraordinary formel, going out to help other griffs when the bombs stop falling. She is doing well, though she says she no longer hears from you. She has been writing your parents too, and they seem to be getting along well. Apparently, your father refuses to leave Lushi, though you probably know more about that than I do.
I sit here with Under a Blood Moon, munching on the candy you sent and sipping a Kracherl pop (we also just call them ‘brause’ since they contain no alcohol, but that also depends on the region) with the window open listening to mother playing some music on the radio downstairs. I can almost close my eyes and go back in time a few years before all this insanity kicked off, to a time when neither of us were at war. It seems so surreal that it wasn’t that long ago after all, but so much has changed.
I visited Machinki in hospital. He’ll recover, but he can’t talk right now. Half of his beak and a wing were blown off, and even with unicorn magic and healing potions he’ll still need to recover a while before they can fit him for prosthetics. He communicates mostly with a writing pad, and eats most of his food through a straw for the time being. But he tells me he actually looks forward to getting fitted. Knights and their strange pride in scars and battle wounds. Will his boundless optimism ever cease?
I also saw Haul. His injuries aren’t as bad as Machinki’s, but he’s pretty mauled up. He’ll be back to work soon, but his panzer Vollstrecker days might be over, at least for a time. His wife was there and, if you can believe it she was a pegasus too. She was very nice, and thanked me for getting him out of there. As his (temporary) commander at the time, I took her appreciation and assured her husband would be just fine. We ended up talking for quite some time while Haul was resting, and honestly I think it’s just that she reminded me of you a bit.
With so much time on my claws, I find it suddenly unnerving to not be shot at anymore. I wake up and there is no gunfire or explosions in the distance, and after so long being in the midst of it the fact it is simply gone is altogether alien to me now. Well, truth be told there are still some. I do hear gunshots occasionally, but they are always short and isolated. Yesterday there was apparently a car bombing down by the Kammergericht Griffenheim (high appeals court for the city and surrounding countryside), and those apparently occur with frightening regularity here. It was honestly a bit of strange relief when an air raid flew over the city last night. Though it was short, it had the feeling of familiarity to it. I even went out with my mother to help assist where we could. It only took an hour or two before we flew back. I am slightly worried about the queer kind of comfort I got from being in danger again, but other veterans tell me it is natural, and I will learn to live with it after a time. Though, I do wonder.
I don’t know if you saw the news, but apparently a few weeks ago the Aquileian president Verany was killed in an Imperial bomb raid. At first, I felt such vindication. After all, what else would happen when we win? This is what we are working towards, the generals tell us. But then I thought to how we’re still struggling through the Greifwald and Vinovia. If Verany being dead is supposed to be the goal, why has the Republique not fallen?
On the subject of new photographs, I don’t have a camera myself but when I was out drinking with a few friends (also on leave) one of them showed he had a brand new compact AGFA and started snapping photos. I asked him if he could get me a copy of the one of me when he developed them and he just got it to me today. So, here you have a new one. I hope you like it.
Keep at it Paige. I know we’ll both make it. Providence appears to be smiling down on us as we speak. How else would you describe our luck in surviving everything the years have thrown at us? We’re meant to be together, and I have a feeling it won’t be much longer now. Things look dark, yes. But I think it will be alright, in the end.
Love,
-Cyril
(Attached is a photograph of Cyril sitting outside of a bar leaning onto his elbows on a patio table dressed in Reichsarmee feldgrau, clean and actually rested, smiling at the camera with honest joy as he tilts his cap back. Behind him, two uniformed griffons and a dog are all laughing at the table, one of them with a half-full stein in his grip.)
June 20th, 1012 Skies over Cloudbury, Griffonian Revolutionary Republic 5th Fighter Wing “Freedom Falcons”
If the war had been going poorly before, it had now taken a terrible turn for the Republic. Lieutenant Proudbeak’s Skyshark cut through the sky as he peered down at the ground below. Summer in the north was never as green as it was in the Herzland, but even now rolling green hills and stands of mighty pines stretched across the ground where he looked. The city of Cloudbury itself was still behind him, visible in the clear summer sky if he glanced over his shoulder and wing. And that was the problem. Of all times to wish for cloud cover, it was certainly now. He looked below, watching artillery detonating in the distance. Too near a distance for his liking. That the fighting was this close to the Last Bastion of the Revolution was indicative of how poorly their fortunes had turned.
The Empire’s invasion and occupation of the island of Winterhold had not only signaled the last flailing gasps of the Skyfall Federation remnants, it had planted an Imperial force right off Vedina’s coastline. With the Entente Combined Fleet in tatters and falling back to defend Aquileia, Kaiserliche Marine carrier craft and battleships marauded the coast, destroying whatever they could find. While the Revolutionary port of Winghagen still held out, this meant Vedina had their own problems to deal with. Cloudbury’s defenders had been stripped (Flight Lieutenant Olvirdottir among them), and as a result the Kaiserreich had steamrolled the border defenses. They had desperately held out since Rottendedam had been relieved out in March, but after three months holding them back fighting like demons as defense line after defense line was overrun, the writing was on the wall; Cloudbury was living on borrowed time.
Proudbeak shook his head, focusing on the job ahead. If the Republic were to fall here, it would be said she went down kicking and screaming. And the Revolution had lived through a defeat before, in 979. They would endure again, even if they had to abandon their home. With this new determination, he scanned the skies and looked for enemies to engage.
Their priority was to bring down Imperial bombers. The Elsters had been bad enough, but those were slow-moving crates, and easy enough for a fighter jock with patience to bring down. Now, not only had Elsters been pulled back to be replaced by the newer, more durable, faster and better defended Rabe heavy bombers, enemy fighter screens had gotten better. More Habichts, more pilots who knew what to do with them, and heavily armed Sperber heavy fighter escorts. With this aerial armada, the Kaiserliche Luftstreitkräfte had pounded Cloudbury endlessly, until the workshops and forges had been forced to relocate into cellars and tunnels as a matter of practicality. The guns firing from the city edge had gotten very good at retreating into hardened shelters when they needed, and every structure still standing on the surface had been hardened and turned into a bunker. They even sheltered a railway gun from Aquileia, originally intended to be a format for them to copy and rolled out when it was clear the massive cannon could be put to better use actually lobbing shells. When the Empire assaulted Cloudbury (and with the main thrust in the south and the Bronze Legion advancing across the eastern mountains, it was a when and not an if) they would pay in blood for every inch.
Proudbeak spotted a bombing group, heading towards Cloudbury at high altitude. True, he was not as high as he would like to assault them, but he spotted another friendly squadron. These were Hound Dogs, a more advanced fighter produced by Cloudbury under the direction of Aquileian and Arisian technical experts. No mere copy of Imperial craft, they were proudly native made and designed. While a fair fight for Habichts, Hound Dogs were also reapers of bombers and slower moving support craft. The only downside, of course, was how few of them there were compared to the Skysharks and lend-lease Faucons and how hard it was for a city under siege to make more.
Well, he told himself grimly, what mattered was that they were here, and they could use them while they still had them. He tilted his nose back, gaining altitude himself as he glanced back to make sure his wingdrakes followed him up. He had to be careful. As hard as it was getting working machines up in the air, living and capable pilots were becoming just as rare, especially with the Republic Army clamoring for more frontline troops to throw at Imperial panzers. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding as the two Skysharks behind him rose in formation as well, and they all went into a climb. He couldn’t have been sure how deeply the speedy lessons had settled with the rookies, but being griffons both they at least had the principles of flight under their tails. All it took to get the basics of piloting down was translating those dynamics to fighters.
The squadron rose to a comfortable attack height before they began their run. By this time, the Hound Dogs were already engaged, twisting among the Imperial bombing group as Habichts and Sperbers chased them down. There had been seven Rabe bombers in this group, and one already had smoke spewing from two engines, peeling off to turn away. From here, Proudbeak could tell several others had taken some damage, but plowed on regardless. Well, the much more maneuverable Republic craft had pulled the escorts away, so it was time for Proudbeak to do some hunting. They had to protect the guns in Cloudbury, which at this point were about the only thing holding the Imps back.
Proudbeak lined up a Rabe in his gunsights, waiting a few heartbeats longer to let the massive craft fill his view before he thumbed the trigger. The twin .50 caliber machine guns thundered away, filling his vision with fire and smoke. Hippogriff made and purchased on the black market, they were a thundering weapon the Republic used in every application they could imagine, from aircraft guns to stationary defense, checkpoint weapons and even rough anti-air turrets. The problem was the weight of the guns, as they fit improperly in a craft copied from Imperial Adlers. They did the job well enough, but he always thought they could have improved on that. In this instance, however, he held the trigger down for three seconds before letting go, letting his vision clear to witness the fire sprouting on his target’s number two engine. He grinned in feral delight. Even if he didn’t down the craft, it would have to land and take up time and resources to repair.
His wingdrakes had accidentally dove on the same bomber themselves, strafing the craft with stuttering bursts that made him wince. Fighters didn’t carry much ammunition, and they were spending it rather generously. Regardless, the effect was still satisfactory, as the Rabe sprouted several plumes of smoke, nosing down and drifting to the ground. He chuckled as he thought of how the debate would go over who had struck the killing blow.
Or, he would have if not for one of the Skysharks abruptly detonating in midair.
“Boreas preserve us!” he cried involuntarily, and from the screaming on the radio his remaining squadmate was not quite as reserved in terms of four letter words and oaths.
Proudbeak twisted around, trying to find the aerial assassin. Where were the Hound Dogs? Weren’t they supposed to be keeping the enemy off them while they went after the bombers? That’s why they were doing these staggered waves. But all he saw were Rabes.
Abruptly, a black streak cut across his vision. He winced as he realized he had only just narrowly missed running into a Habicht and dove for the ground. If that Imp bastard had recovered quickly enough, he’d be on Proudbeak’s back like feathers. The force of the dive slammed him back into his seat, and under his breathing mask his beak opened in a wordless scream, gasping as he tried to get more oxygen. Tracers stitching past him let him know that someone had cut around after him, and he cursed under his breath. He glanced at the ammo counter and fuel gauge. He still had options, though not good ones. He could either twist around and try to catch the enemy with an Immelmann, or he could return to the bombing formation and try to lose the enemy craft before ducking for home. Given that he was badly outnumbered and there had to be at least a dozen Imperial fighters up there, the odds weren’t good either way.
Finally, Proudbeak ran out of time, and altitude. With a snarl, he yanked on the stick to pull out of the dive, listening to the engine strain as it fought against gravity. He’d heard of some fighter pilots who had put their craft through such intense maneuvers, they sheared their wings off from the force. Would that happen to him here? Would he end up plummeting towards the ground he was trying to defend? He had his wings, but if he was out of control and going at that speed, a bad twist might only prolong his fate, not arrest it.
Finally, the bombing group and summer sky came back to him, inverted as he finished the turn, flipping his wings around as he came right side up. He didn’t see the Habicht chasing him, but now he did see the Hound Dogs, coming back in to dogfight the fighters, and an Imperial Sperber going down in flames. Their luck was running out, for certain. Four Rabes still flew, but only three Hound Dogs were left, he couldn’t see his own wingmate anymore and the sky was thick with Imperial fighters. He made the hard decision, and twisted on the stick towards home, sending another burst of .50 caliber fire towards another Sperber as he let the engine had its head, roaring away for Cloudbury. True, he could have stayed in the air, but the longer they stayed up, the more likely they were to be shot down.
Cloudbury swung back up into his view, and he watched another bombing formation, a different one than the one he had been preying on, flying overhead at high altitude, flak barrages popping black clouds around them as more Skysharks and Faucons tried to chase them back. More Habichts and Sperbers with iron cross roundels rose to oppose them. Ordnance fell on the city, detonating in the rubble choked streets. He hoped the railway gun was safe. The rest of the artillery was either destroyed or pulled back into their shelters. No support for the frontline.
They had bodies. Lots of volunteers were still continuing the enduring struggle against the Imperial oppressors. But the Revolution’s lack of material was starting to hurt. It didn’t matter how many soldiers they could press into uniform if the weapons and vehicles they were fighting with were last generation, or worse, completely lacking at all.
Proudbeak sighed, pulling the nose of his Skyshark up once more. No good trying to land at the airstrip if it was being bombed. He would check it, but there was every chance he’d need to fly north on limited fuel.
The detonations along the boulevardes below were an indication of one thing; it would take a miracle to stop the relentless Imperial assault at this point.
Delivered Via Skyway Express Airmail Sent June 26th, 1012
Dear Cyril,
I am sorry to hear about what happened to your crew and your friends. Though I can’t disguise how relieved I am that you’re okay. You deserve to kick back and rest, after everything you’ve been through. Don’t go chasing any other pretty mares while I’m away, I -will- find out. You underestimate the size of my intelligence network.
We’ve been pulled back as far as we can go. I can fly to Manehatten on my leave, though that’s few and far between these days. Bomber Command has been sending us up as often as a heavy bomber flight can go, with Canterlot under such threat. We are flown to so many places I honestly lose track of time in the air. Eventually, it all begins to look the same through the bombsight, just cities and towns and black lines swarming over them like ants. More close calls with the Luftwaffe as well. We don’t get proper escorts a lot of the time, and sometimes it feels like the first days where we were just hung out to get snapped out of the sky a piece at a time. Fortunately the White Castle seems up to the challenge, and she takes bullets far better than No. 83 ever did.
I am glad to hear your comrades are doing better. Haul I know has been with you a while, though I’m not sure you ever mentioned Machinki before. You’ll have to tell me more about him. I hope you’ll keep yourself safe too. I’m not sure which of us is in more danger presently, but it certainly feels like you with all the newspaper stories I read about the fighting. Funny story, the air war keeps going on about glorious, acrobatic lancers of the air, while articles on the ground are all about mud, blood and guts to resist. I also know the odds are much longer for ground troops, though at least you are not in the poor bloody infantry.
Say hello to your mother for me. I don’t get to write her much anymore either, though last I heard she’s been corresponding to my parents to let them know I’m alright. It's still so strange to know they’re in the Empire, so close to you and everything I wish to go back to.
While I am sitting here, wondering what to write you as I look fondly back across the sea, I want to tell you a little of my life before I met you. I know we have already, but there is still a lot more to tell, wouldn’t you say? You know about Rijekograd, and I’m assuming what you know is mostly told from the Imperial perspective, the outsiders’ perspective. The house we lived in was near the Zlato River, from where I could see the traffic moving towards its intersection with the Grifking. Isn’t it funny how we both grew up in cities that sat on meeting rivers? Anyway, from our front yard I could look down towards the Gold River, with its barges, customs houses and traders always present, taking goods either north towards the sea or west towards Griffenheim. A lot of the merchants were griffons, if you can believe that. I picked up a lot of Herzlandisch that way, wandering around the river piers and listening to the bartering and haggling. Brook and I were always exploring as foals, trying to find some new secret to uncover and tell our own stories about. Sometimes we would gather a few other foals and pretend to be Kaiser Grover and the Princess, or hang around the Soft Water Theatre near the Zelena River, looking for the Thespian Ghost, though that’s a story for another time. But eventually Brook did get too old to hang out with me, and went to work like our father on the river. It was just mother and I after that.
Did I tell you the Reformisten forced her to change her name? To ‘naturalize’ they called it. Barbarians.
Anyway, my mother was more of a naturalist, with her green hoof and all. But she was a working mare. After the whole family was at work, I was either in school or on my own. You can guess how school went for me, and it honestly wasn’t entertaining enough to keep my focus or effort. A lot of other fillies and colts struggled with it, but I…didn’t. There is a downside to ‘gifted’ intelligence after all. So I wandered the city, and when I got older I went outside of it. I moved from the river piers and barges I saw all my life to flying over the green hills and forests outside it. It is remarkable how one can leave what seems to be the busiest places in the world and after five minutes’ flight suddenly you feel like you are in the middle of nowhere, some untouched wildland. That was often what it felt like in Coltonia or the River Valleys. And I lost my friends, as it happened. I know you said you didn’t have many in Griffenheim. But mine left me. I just…was not like them. I only had a few when I left for Equestria.
I suppose it is only just sinking in that I will never see Rijekograd again. I know I’ve said it to you and to myself, but the reality is that my old home is lost to me. Before, I always had the possibility of going back. But my family is no longer there, and I don’t know if any of my friends are left. Or any of the things I grew up with. I don’t really talk about those sorts of things with Static or the rest of the flight. Gods know we have enough to worry about here, and Static and Ace are the only ones to have known me the longest. So I save them for my parents and you.
Yes, I can already hear your sarcasm, ‘why Paige, you only save the negative for me?’. And yes, I do. I pour my heart out onto this paper in a way I don’t with anypony (the word is scratched out) anygriff else. A lot of this, you understand like no one else does. And I don’t scare you away. I can talk and talk and talk and you just listen. You hang on my every word and do your best to comfort me in my bad times and congratulate me in my good ones. I think, after all that, it’s why I fell in love with you, even though we’ve only seen each other in the flesh once.
Am I a fool for falling in love with a drake from a nation that is an old enemy of my own, whom I only ever correspond with over an ocean? Maybe. But I don’t think I made a mistake. And I love that I can say all of that, and it doesn’t change a thing on my end. Please tell me it doesn’t change anything on yours.
Write me soon. These days, getting your letters is the only bright spot I have in my life. I know that sounds grim, but take heart from it; it means you have me hanging on -your- every word too.
Love,
~Paige
On July 2nd, 1012 ALB, the Aquileian city of Illeagle finally fell to Imperial assault, with the banner of the Kaiserreich flying over the city flown by Fallschirmjager dropped to capture the city hall. With the encirclement at the fortress of Westkeep and this final hold taken, the Battle for Westkeep District ends on the 101st day of the fight. Casualties for both sides, when finally calculated, turned out to be enormous. Imperial losses estimate between 100,000 and 128,000 casualties, of which 38,000 were confirmed dead. Republicaine loss estimates were greater, between 133,000 and 168,000. Of those 61,000 were confirmed dead. The other casualties were a mass combination of wounded, missing in action or taken prisoner.
Over 101 days of battle, the cities of Westkeep and Illeagle suffered massive amounts of damage during the fighting. The civilian population suffered just as badly, with casualties estimated around 120,000 of which at least 40,000 died. However, no official record exists to track such collateral loss. On top of this, an additional 80,000 relocated as they were either forced out by the opposing armies occupying their land or fled the fighting. All told, this was a quarter of the pre-war civilian population either killed, gravely injured or forced to leave home.
Many of these deaths of illness were attributed to the Wet Plague, an influenza type marsh sickness that spread from Angriever to Westkeep, likely born by Imperial troops who did not yet show symptoms. In Westkeep, Flowena, Pomovarra, Adelart and Greifwald the Plague killed hundreds of thousands, though these deaths were not properly recorded until after the War.
In time, this battle came to be known as ‘The Hundred Days Offensive’ or ‘The Westkeep Deadlock’.
”If all ponies were like him, there would have never been an ‘equine question’. A being’s race is no longer important to me and mine. The world is already enwrapped in such divisions. I have determined myself to not be part of that. The Empire can no longer be a part of that.” -Lord Protector Wingfried von Katerinburg, on being asked of the oddity of adopting the pony Prince Erich while head of the Integralist Reformisten
July 5th, 1012 Oldwingburg, Griefenmarschen, Griffonian Kaiserreich 3rd Armee, 19th Panzer-Division ‘Landgraf von Aiwlen’, 205th Schwere Panzerabteilung ‘Kampfgruppe Lehr’ Assignment: Complete Replenishment and Return to Front
He ducked under the haymaker thrown at his head, watching his opponent closely as he considered his next move. He couldn’t spare much more thought going forward, the Earth pony draft stallion closed again with real, genuine murder in his eyes. Up on hind legs, the pony was much taller, and outweighed Cyril at least half again, and he needed to end this now, if not sooner. Unfortunately, that barrel-like torso had resisted his padded claws thus far, and trying to reach -up- to clock the stallion out would just open him up. The problem with underground boxing, as it happened, was that a lot of the fights wound up not being fair.
He served two quick jabs up at that lantern jaw before following it with an uppercut at blinding speed, more to buy time than to cause any real damage, trying not to leave himself exposed. He just couldn’t get the angle for a good strike. The stallion, colored orange like a sunset with red mane and tail, felt built like a panzer and looked like it too, one of the railway workers keeping the military lines open despite the logistics strikes Aquileian bombers kept pulling off. Half the crowd here were military too, mostly Reichsarmee green-gray, a few Luftstreitkrafte dark blue and even some Reformisten black and stone-gray. The other half were townies, all of them turned up to toss good idols after bad as they watched the match coordinators pick the fights they thought would be the most entertaining. Absent an instructor while Machinki recovered, Cyril had taken a liking to these back alley brawls, away from the eyes of the Vollstrecker and many of his superiors. It was a good distraction, a good outlet, and he could keep his skills sharp.
Abruptly, a lightning blow faster than he had first assumed hammered into the side of his face. He had lost focus for one crucial second, and the pony had gotten a good one on him. He staggered against the rope, wiping his face and spitting. With a beak, he didn’t need a mouthguard to protect teeth, but he half expected to see a molar go flying as he did so anyway. The pony advanced, rolling his head and shoulders as he sensed his opponent being in a corner.
“Are you okay, sir?”
That was his new loader, Gefreiter Varl Axum, fresh out of training. A lot of replacements they had were from the personnel depots where the wounded returned back to the front, or the Kampfgruppe had to pick the most promising graduates earmarked back in the training camps like Crona. If they were lucky the akadamies at Helheim, Osnabeak or Visaginas gave them a cadet to fill a spot left by an officer, but it was an open secret that the Empire liked to save time across all three military branches by just promoting somegriff and getting on with the job of war. Much of their experienced replacements came from these lucky survivors to supplement the fresh meat. Axum was just like a lot of this new meat, as he had volunteered about two months ago, when the Battle of Westkeep was still new and it looked like Donnerkiel might plow all the way to Aquila. Oh, and there was also the small fact that Axum was a changeling, one of the few who had immigrated to Griffonia and decided to stay. These days, with the war what it was, there were fewer changelings in the Empire than even ponies. Cyril had only known Axum for a week, but he was already stuck to his new commander like glue, trying to pick up whatever the leutnant could lay down for him, from little bits of wisdom and lessons to literally assisting with paperwork when he could. Cyril, meanwhile, hadn’t appreciated the bug hanging off his wing wherever he went, watching with those blue eyes wide and observing everything. It creeped him out, and reminded him that whatever their military alliance the changelings were fundamentally different from griffons. Biology aside, their societal and social mores were completely alien to him, and while it was clear Axum never meant it sometimes his presence was just too much. Still, at least he listened, with some amount of eagerness too. Unlike the other replacement they’d gotten.
But Cyril shook his head to clear it out, reasoning that this was no time for introspection and deep thought. The pony advanced on him again, and he straightened up once more, feeling his blood and temper rise. That happened astonishingly easy lately, and for less reasonable occurrences than a punch to the face. He didn’t answer Axum, instead straightening out and rolling his shoulder a little to work out a kink, the pain suddenly distant and forgotten. The pony, the arrogant sod, smirked around the piece of rubber in his own teeth before beckoning Cyril back in with a few waves of the hoof, egging him on.
That was a mistake.
Thoroughly done with playing by the rules, Cyril strode right in. The pony faltered, realizing the griffon panzer officer hadn’t assumed a fighting stance. Thrown off, he threw a sloppy jab which Cyril easily dodged, then curled an arm up and around the second blow aimed at his beak, trapping it beneath his arm before using the other to begin whaling on the pony, a few sharp jabs and then slamming blow after heavy blow into his solar plexus, finally able to inflict some lasting damage. Half the crowd booed, the other half cheered and the referee blew her whistle. This wasn’t an official, regulated fight. It was in the free space of a factory storage building for gods’ sake. But they tried to follow some rules, few as they were. Cyril let the pony go, backing off and watching, waiting for a counter attack. But it didn’t matter. The railroad worker was shaky on his hooves and came back in again for another sloppy haymaker that Cyril ducked easily before landing another uppercut, tenderized the belly again and then served a brutal hook that -did- knock a tooth out, even with the wrapping and the now absent mouthguard that had been sent flying. The pony fell to the mat as solidly as the iron he worked, blood spatting around his mouth as the referee went through the count and the crowd watching going ballistic, again with that same ecstasy of despair and celebration in equal amounts.
Cyril barely waited to be called the winner before he slipped between the ropes, tugging off his wrappings as Axum retrieved the rest of his uniform, a rag held in a green magic aura much like a unicorn's. He gave these over to his commander, and Cyril accepted them with a silent nod, grunting as the pain that had been suppressed by rage just a little bit ago came back with full force. He had to go and accept his winnings of course, but those could wait a few minutes. A few hundred idols wasn’t a very effective painkiller.
“Do me a favor, Gefreiter…fetch me some ice? I think they had some for the fighters.”
“Of course, sir!”
Axum, loyal and eager to please, scampered off as quickly as he could, his insectoid wings buzzing excitedly. As a junior officer, Cyril had no need for an aide, but this was what the arrangement was uncomfortably feeling like.
It was as Cyril tugged his uniform jacket back on and stepped away for a smoke while waiting on that ice pack that he spotted her just outside the crowd (still earning a few congratulatory slaps on the back as he did). It wasn’t often one saw a cervid here, as the nearest deer nation was the Viking holdout of Austurland on the far side of the Riverlands. But as he watched her more closely, he realized a few things. Her coat was tawny and thin instead of darker and thick to ward off cold, and her stature was slender and lacking the warrior’s bulk. Her black hair was tied back into a ponytail out of her face, and though she wore clothing fit for a deer or pony it was of Herzland make and style, indicating she had either been in the country for some time or knew how to adapt quickly.
His examination of her cut abruptly short, however, as he realized she was approaching him directly. Whereas everyone else was clamoring around for the next fight, placing their bets and heckling others around them, she was taking the path of least resistance in cutting through towards him. His suspicion suddenly flared, and he found his hand roaming towards his pistol. But she made it over to him without drawing a knife or gun, and the hoof he found outstretched to him, cloven in their strange, exotic way seemed intended for a clawshake.
“Leutnant Cyril Duskwing, ja?” she said in accented but fluent Herzlandisch. “Sarika Basu. You’ve been making quite a name for yourself, haven’t you?”
He hesitated only a moment before he reached out and took the offered hoof, giving it a few firm but wary shakes.
“Never with intent, Fraulein Basu. I’m only interested in my duty.”
She giggled at the line. Giggled, with an amused smirk on her lips. She clearly didn’t believe him, and he scowled. However prepared the statement, it was true. He had been forced to repeat it or lines like it several times, and a lot of times it came with the same ‘knowing’ look in response, of those who lumped him in the same category as blundering glory hounds who used their awards and position to attain fame and honor, whether they were nobles playing at war or commoners seeking to elevate their position. Well, to hell with all those bastards then. He drew in a breath as he frowned, about to tell her the same.
But she went in a different direction than expected. Instead of calling him out for his apparent cover story, she began listing his honors.
“Awarded the Iron Cross First Class and Knight’s Cross with swords and oak clusters for daring actions above and beyond the call of duty. The Silver Wound Badge for three injuries suffered in the line of duty, one of them quite grievous; the Ribbon Intrinsic, the Medallion Crimson and the Order of Arcturius all for valiant service in the Herzland War and Unternehmen Tartarus. In total, served in the Herzland War, the Grenzwald War and now this war, with both those Iron Crosses awarded in actions to save your comrades while your own life was in tremendous danger. And all of this in your twenties. If you’re not trying to attain glory, Herr Duskwing, I think we should all fear what will happen when you begin applying yourself.”
He blinked in surprise. Had he really attained all that? Normally, it was a row of medals across his chest he adjusted when forced to wear dress instead of field kit, pieces of tin that stood as grave markers for the comrades left behind rotting on the field while he lived on to wear them, but when phrased like all of that it made him feel a little uneasy for a different reason. It did indeed sound like a fast track to a prestigious military posting, and as the nephew of a feld-marschall war hero, he suddenly was reminded of how his actions looked from the outside.
“Fraulein Basu, you happen to have me at a disadvantage. Perhaps you should explain?”
Her smirk never went away, but it did soften a little as she nodded, fishing in her shoulder bag and coming up with pen and notepad.
“I’m a war correspondent, from Hindia. I write for the Ostkranbi Royal Post, a very popular Chitali paper back home. And I’ve been hearing your name quite a bit. Did you know you’ve gotten a bit of a following?”
Truth be told, Cyril avoided the pieces about ‘heroes of the Empire’ when he browsed the newspapers. More often than not, he saw them for what they were; griffs, ponies and dogs who had survived when their units were slaughtered and just happened to be the last ones standing often enough. Many times, these ‘heroes’ were awarded posthumously, or after being fitted with a new prosthetic to return to service (Morgend Longpaw appeared to have plenty of business these days). It was a way, he knew, for the propaganda machine to lessen the sting of the casualties by giving the dead and dying their due, and he lived with all that often enough in his waking days.
“A following? Fraulein, I am but a lowly sub-leutnant. I command a panzer platoon. Who would follow somegriff like me; you must be mistaking me for Oberstmeister Heimclar von Lohr, no?”
He headed for the door before she could respond, his head swimming as the frustration began to overtake him, using the crowd to put distance between them. If that didn’t signal his lack of interest, he at least would buy a few moments. Dammit, he wasn’t in the mood for this. His temper was beginning to rise and he needed that cigarette, away from this nosy reporter. It had been getting more and more difficult to contain his anger lately, in that bitter way he had been before the Grenzwald War when he had been under suspicion and turned to drink to pass the time. But now, his anger had been boiling like water in a pot and trying to keep it under control was like attempting to clap a lid on it and hold it in place.
Dammit. He really needed a smoke.
The door leading out the back of the factory storehouse and into the Oldwingburg evening street creaked open, and he stepped out as he finally finished putting the coat on, sore face burning even more as the breeze hit it. He didn’t bother waiting for Axum, or the ice pack. Axum would find him one way or another, the drone seemed to have a knack for it. He fumbled for the cigarettes, extracting the pack and nodding at the green label in his claw. Good old Ebenstein No. 5, the favored smoke of the Imperial soldier, now available in far greater numbers with the blockade broken. It was even starting to overtake clay pipes. He felt his talons shake only a moment as he struck a match, taking a deep pull and letting the smoke sit in his lungs before he finally breathed out, observing the city around him. You’d never think Cyril had come to Oldwingburg as a conqueror (liberator, he told himself) years ago, but there it was. Occupied by the Aquileians for a few months, the battle damage the city was still clearing away may as well have been from the time of the Herzland War, when early panzers came rattling in to flush out the Duke’s stalwarts. The city observed blackout conditions, most windows covered up and street lights dimmed or cut out (where they worked) while automobiles moved at a crawl, their headlights turned off or covered by tape or caps to reduce the light. Many griffs walked instead of flying, and everytime a plane flew over, many heads immediately snapped up, watching the sky and waiting for ordnance to fall on their heads.
He felt her standing next to him, but didn’t look at her. So, she was indeed determined to speak with him. He supposed he had left before she could answer the question, but now they were out of the building where the fighting pit was being held he assumed she would answer it, now she didn’t have to shout to be heard. The reporter surprised him once more, however, by stepping up and gesturing at the cigarette.
“May I?” Sarika Basu asked quietly. He considered her request for a moment, watching her carefully as he tugged the Ebenstein pack out again, extracting another thin white tube and offering it to the deer before striking another match, letting her engage the flame at her leisure. She took a few experimental puffs before coughing lightly, her next one more confident and under control before she blew out smoke as well.
“In Chital…Hindia, that is, there is what we call a ‘beedi’, which is like a cigarette but thinner. We don’t pack it all with tobacco, though. That is far too expensive, no. Beedi are tobacco flakes, some betel nuts, and a few other herbs and spices, rolled in a leaf if you can believe that. It is very popular, but the upper class do prefer their hookah and cannabis. But then I come to Griffonia to write, and I find that you fill an entire tube with a leaf you cannot grow on your own continent, but you consume by the load. Tobacco in the west and cannabis in the east. What a strange land you have here.”
Her accent, now he could hear it better, was rich and rolled through the words fluidly. She had indeed learned Herzlandisch well enough to be fluent in it, whatever his first assumption, no pauses or hesitation in her speech and her vocabulary was all correct. He nodded, his fury a little abated as he took another pull.
“You have been here long, then?”
“Oh, since 1008,” Sarika replied casually. “I was here when the Empire was still trying to regain control over the Herzland. Back home, Hindia was just an idea. But I stayed for my work. I write on the goings on, and if you want to know what is going on in Griffonia, you stay in Griffenheim. Everything passes through there.” The deer took another puff on her cigarette. “I always need a bit to get used to these still. I haven’t had beedi in years, but I have not forgotten the taste.”
They lapsed into uncomfortable silence again as they smoked, both of them watching the dark city, the cherry tips of their cigarettes some of the only lights to be seen. Finally, Cyril broke it. It was either finish this conversation or risk having to keep it up with Axum there when he inevitably caught up. Still, he was reluctant to speak to a foreign reporter, of all things. Judging from what rags like the Equestria Daily said about the Empire and everything over here, not to mention the foreign novels he had read, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility for this to be another piece of bad publicity. He’d never heard of the Ostkranbi Post. Eyr’s grace, he didn’t even know anything about the Hindian subcontinent.
“A following?” he asked, picking up their conversation from earlier. “So, you mean there are some deer who read about me like some moving picture star?”
Sarika’s brow arched as she considered the young leutnant carefully, squinting as if inspecting him closely.
“You really don’t know?” she asked incredulously. “It’s not just some deer, you’re on the ‘List of Aces’ in the Bürger.”
“The what?”
“The ‘List of Aces’. It has pilots, panzer commanders, foot soldiers, anygriff that keep scoring kills or heroic actions. You, I believe, are considered a panzer ace. It’s a pretty big deal. Chitalis are just a small part of that compared to what your own side publishes. You should read about what the papers say of your ‘exploits.’”
“Oh no…” Cyril groaned, feeling his gut sink for a reason entirely aside from his sore face. The anger began bubbling up once more in the back of his throat, but his dread helped suppress it this time. Sarika chuckled before taking another drag on her smoke.
“Oh yes. Some are calling you ‘the Unkillable Soldier’. If I recall, your ‘last stand in Westkeep’ had you challenge an Aquileian knight to one on one combat with just a knife.”
“I had -several- guns…and I didn’t challenge her, she came at me! Gods above, I only lived through that by the skin of my beak! I even took a bullet in that fight!”
Sarika shrugged in response, taking a final drag before stubbing out the cigarette.
“I can only tell you what they publish, Leutnant. If you have a problem with how the Imperial propaganda machine writes about you, maybe you should stay up to date on what they say?”
To prove her point, she reached into her bag again, tugging out the day’s issue of Der Bürger and flipping to the page in question, offering it to him. Despite himself, he took it gingerly and indeed found an article about the so-called ‘killer aces’ of the Empire. Fighter pilots, panzer commanders, stormtroopers, knights, all of them particular griffons, dogs and ponies of great valor. The article promised this was only part of the very extensive list, and right smack dab in the middle was his name, even circled by a blue ink pen. And, in front of it, was a nickname he felt he absolutely didn’t deserve.
“This is madness,” Cyril muttered, gaping down at the article in shock as he tried to come to grips with what it declared.
“Best be careful, ‘Black Baron’,” the Hindian stated as she watched where his eyes went. “If you keep it up, you’ll get a lot more than just reporters’ eyes on you. See you around, Leutnant.”
With that, Sarika gave him a wink, took another drag on the cigarette and trotted away, passing Axum as the changeling finally arrived with the cloth bag of ice, apologizing profusely for the delay. Cyril took it dumbly and pressed the bag to his face, barely able to perceive it as his rigid senses kept him locked onto the article, the ridiculous title and just how in Tartarus he had been steered onto this path he had never wanted any part of.
Sent July 8th
Dear Paige,
Your last letter caught up to me as we were preparing to go back into the fight. After Westkeep, Oberkommando is dispatching us to support the push toward Vanguardigo. We’re deep in Aquileia’s heartland now, down in the parts they are desperate to keep us out of. We have left behind the open swathes of countryside and vineyards and have reached into the big, prosperous cities and industrial centers. The further south we go, the more built up it is, the closer I feel we are to victory. But the harder the (the word ‘frogs’ is scratched out) Sudlanders will fight for it. They’re desperate now, and they keep throwing everything they’ve got into stopping us. The problem is, they’re also damn good fighters. Doesn’t matter if a lot of them are obviously conscripts rushed through training to replace the army we destroyed at Westkeep, the Republique has good reason to stop us, so it gives them good reason to fight on. We have yet to reach the front, but our train has been attacked several times by air raids, militia fighters and saboteurs. It has taken us days to reach Westkeep from Greifenmarschen, and that is with railroads. You can imagine how slow it’s been going.
Westkeep is much how I remember we left it, except a lot of the big streets are repaired and the Reichsarmee is now shoring up the city for occupation. Whatever civilians survived are being offered paid work to assist the engineers in repairing the roads and necessary functions like power and water. Better than being shut up in a POW camp or under house arrest, I suppose. It’s only after I have come back that the grim horror of what we endured strikes me in full. I don’t think I spy an intact building here above a single story, and nothing over three stories exists at all. I have heard shots throughout the day. I hope we leave this place as soon as possible.
The crew fills out yet again. This time another pegasus and, of all things, a changeling. He’s not a loan from the west, though. When your side of the war broke out the entire Exchange and the garrison with them were recalled. According to him, Axum immigrated over in 1004. I don’t know if he got caught in the draft or volunteered, but he works hard and sticks close. I know how hard it is for you to think of changelings as friendly, but he’s personally not so bad. Hardly ever shapeshifts, as far as I know. My platoon received replacements as well. It’s good to look out on a full rank of Grytas again. We’ve got some fame too. There’s this war correspondent from Hindia following us. Apparently there are some who want to read about what’s going on up here. I hope they’re ready for what we show them.
I will tell mother you said hello. The post is very disrupted by air raids, and you saw what happened when our own correspondence was delayed on the seas. From what she tells me, the bombing campaign against Griffenheim isn’t so bad now as it was in the beginning. The further south we go, the more the enemy is focusing on stopping us instead of pounding our cities. I thank the gods for that. From what I have heard, there isn’t an urban or industrial center that hasn’t been struck by some devastation. Rottendedam got it pretty bad, since they were attacked from two sides and the sea. I hope they have it fixed up by the time we meet again so we can go there.
I have heard from your mother again. She says they have set up in Lushi, where Reformisten hold is not as stringent. A lot of ponies from Deponya are choosing to go there with their pozniak cousins. According to her, the Riverlands Anarchy is making the implosion of the lands much worse. Rumor has it there’s even a mass slave revolt in Diamond Mountain going on. I don’t know any of that for sure. Your mother says she wants to come visit Griffenheim some time, and with the railroads fixed and the blockade lifted I’m sure life there will be much easier for her. I can’t guarantee I will get leave when she is free, but I will try to meet her face to face if I am able.
It’s all bad news from the papers. On this side of the Celestial, Vilein is getting annihilated in the fighting. The latest battle on the fields is reported to have cost our side at least thirty-five thousand, at least that many if not more for the Aquileians. I don’t know if the city is going to still be there when they move on. Then again, the whole battlefield is reported to be covered in gas and trenches. Will anygriff want what’s left? Then I read about your side and it’s not much better. I know you mentioned Hoofington at least once, and I had to get an atlas to check its location after I read about this Pharynx taking it two days ago. I know you are already aware, but as a panzertruppen myself all those empty fields are perfect panzer country. Once the changelings recover from taking Hoofington, they’ll have their pick of where to advance.
Don’t regret talking to me about your darker thoughts. I know the purpose of these letters is to keep in contact and keep our spirits up, but if we cannot tell each other of the struggles in our hearts, who else can we tell? I feel the deepest pangs of remorse for you being unable to return to the city of your birth. I cannot imagine how it would feel if I knew I could never return to Griffenheim. But much like we were always united unknowingly by the Griffking River, we can still hold onto each other from this distance. Our dark days will only be the precursor to our brighter ones we will have earned. I don’t mind telling you, I get very little sleep lately. My dreams, once only occasionally struck with terror, are now nothing but nightmares. If I am lucky, I can rest for three hours a night before I wake up and of course can’t go back to sleep. I am only able to press on through coffee, tobacco and the knowledge that Providence and the gods cannot let us down. We will see each other again, I know it. There has to be a divine force allowing us to endure, and this gives me strength. I only hope it can lend the same staying power to you as well, for I can no longer imagine a future without you there with me. There is no longer any doubt in my heart. All our dark struggles will make that future worth it, in the end.
Love,
-Cyril
PS: A novel recommendation for you this time. I was meaning to send this to you, but I have often been forgetting. I’m sure you have heard of Maple Pier, the New Mareland author? I was quite surprised to find one of her novels in Griffenheim, but there it was in a bookstore at the riverside. I present to you the Herzlandisch translation of ’Murder on the Evian Express’. Again, while I’m sure you’ve already read it, I hadn’t, though the store owner assured me it’s very famous. I bought two copies, and I’m about a third of the way through mine. Very interesting read so far. I hope you enjoy.
PPS: Happy belated birthday. I realize this comes to you late, but I was a tad bit preoccupied at the time to realize the date. It was only recently when I was going over a few things that I remembered, so I apologize.
July 9th, 1012 Drafburg, Lushi Ost-Griffonia
It had been, and still was, foolish to come here to this place. He had told himself this a hundred times, but just as quickly he reminded himself that there had been little choice in the matter. From Rijekograd, attempting to leave through the south would have run headfirst into the worst of the fighting as Wittenland attempted to stem the tide of forces from Jezeragrad, trench lines snaking across the horizon and dug in machine guns repelling infantry charges en masse. This war wasn’t like the one raging across Equus or between Aquileia and the Empire. None of the Riverlands nations possessed many tanks, so infantry ruled the day as they ground down on fortifications. To go through the north was equally as foolish, as socialists had already seized power in Bakara, and being stopped by them would guarantee being returned to his foiled executioners. No, their only option had been slipping through Deponya, while the fighting there had not yet unfolded into the hell that was already spreading in the south, and even then they had barely gotten through.
As he looked out the window of the streetcar, down the avenue the track followed between only slightly outdated automobiles, watching the Ost-Griffonian banners fluttering beneath Imperial ones, he felt that same defeat, revulsion and bitterness welling up in his heart again. In the end, while he had despised the Empire, listened to the same stories his father had told him and stared across the border in his service forever and a half ago at those despicable knights that seemed so like true devils…in the end he had been driven out by his own countrymares, stallions seeking to take power to assert their own tyranny. Arclight, whatever his statements, was little different than Haze and Whirl as his goons used the same methods to retain power. The Reformisten, the Kaiser’s puppet cult of personality who worshiped the child and his Lord Protector Wingfried, was little different as they clamped their iron claw on the Grenzwald.
But back in the Riverlands, ponies had been after him and his wife. Nopony knew his name in Lushi. But at least if he kept his head down and stayed away from the military districts, he could forget where he was or the nightmarish circumstances that drove him to such a desperate end.
Except for his wife. Strogo Bdijenje (though in Equusian he would be known as Stern Vigil) didn’t even dare to speak her former Rijekan name anymore. She had abandoned it when they had crossed the border. The guards had not stood before them with guns to their faces but the black-clad griffons may as well have had, since the possibility for them to be barred entry would have been a death sentence, forced to turn back into the hell they had just escaped. But the rifle-wielding Reformisten thugs were more than willing to let it be carried out in case of disagreement, and the fleeing couple had seen plenty who had been turned away with a bullet instead. The Kaiser’s bastards were willing to let the Riverlands’ extremists do their dirty work for them instead.
But she hadn’t even put up a struggle or voiced any protest. Merely signed the sheet. Now, she was Petra Chasey, clockmaker and refugee. Fine, if she could abandon her old identity like that, he wouldn’t disgrace what they had left behind by calling her a name she had disowned. She must have thought that was a small price to pay for their safety, if she valued it so little.
Dark thoughts like these fluttered around him lately. Dark as the black plumes of smoke spilling out of the nearby stacks around him, as factories, refineries and mines chugged away at their work. He’d had trouble getting work at his old trade as a bargestallion, as the nearest river was several kilometres to the east and wasn’t used much for shipping since the new rail lines had made that method far more efficient. As a result, he’d been forced into a GroßTatze Industries factory, working primarily to assemble tractors and farming equipment. Before, Ost-Griffonia had been using imported machines from the west to replace their aging local machinery, but now efforts were being made to set up domestic industry to take pressure off the war in the west. He knew a bit about engines from his time on barges, but working an assembly line took any and all creative flow out of his brain. It was him mostly doing the same action over and over again, all day long. The good news however was that the job paid well. Three idols a day for regular workers, another two for those who did a good job as a bonus. Five days a week regularly, six if the bosses wanted extra work done. On at least fifteen idols a week, Strogo could keep him and his wife fed and sheltered comfortably, and when she landed the occasional commission working on clockwork timepieces it was even better. Much as he hated it, they could make a life here. For now, they were safe. The sick irony was not lost on him.
He finally came to his trolley stop and hopped off the streetcar, heading towards the tenement they lived in. For a time, they had sheltered with a family of Pozniaks that were undoubtedly former socialists trying to slip through the cracks and live in the shadows. The paranoid looks and shushed conversations were more than enough of a hint to what their former life as guerillas had been like. He’d been tempted to turn them over to the Ost-Griffonian authorities, having just fled persecution at the hooves of other socialists back in what was left of his home, but the truth he had realized was that they weren’t active fighters anymore. They’d been smashed into the ground first by the Mad Count, then by General Silvertalon and the Knights at his command and then the new Reformisten’s regulations. By now, the fight had been beaten out of them. At the very least, the purges had stopped. Strogo supposed he could sympathize with that, and instead of turning them in he had gotten him and Petra out as soon as possible. That had been, in the end, the best choice he could have made, he thought.
“Work! Fight! Endure! For a stronger Empire, we must persist! Angriff! Glory to King and Kaiser!”
Strogo looked up at the speaker tower with annoyance, tilting his cap’s brim back to get a better view before moving on. Positioned all over town, canned slogans like that rang out all day, from all corners, with sometimes the occasional propaganda song to fill the silence. Supposedly, the word was they had been approved by Ost-Griffonia’s head of propaganda, Ferrous Adler. His name was whispered both in fear and awe amongst the population, though some who drank deep from the regime’s cup publicly announced their love for him. If anything, Strogo felt that sense of disgust at yet another pony who had surrendered their identity to conform. A proud Imperial Pozniak, Adler was the postercolt for a pony who willingly left behind his pony name to take up one more ‘fitting’ with how the Reformisten thought things should be. The trend would, the knights were sure, catch on eventually. There was little room for noncompliance, especially with such a role model in place.
He passed a pair of uniformed polizei on the street. Unlike those back home, law enforcement here wore tall flat caps, with feathers or streamers perched on top to show up better in the urban gloom of brick and metal. Even in the moderate evening crowd of workers heading home, they popped out at him. One was a griffon, the other a unicorn of a rather dull coat, and they had bolt-action rifles slung over their backs. They both chattered away in Herzlandisch, a language he could understand the bare minimum of to function in riverboat haggling as he had to interact with griffon merchants regularly, but it seemed out of place here where the common tongue was a strange mixture of local dialects. At the very least, that helped him keep his head down and blend in with the masses.
One of them glanced in his direction, and he suddenly felt his stomach melt. Just from the look alone, he knew what was coming next. A ‘random’ inspection was approaching as surely as those two officers maneuvering through the crowd, the pony pulling her rifle off her back in preparation. The griffon, who could more easily handle his own weapon, approached with rifle slung, though the pistol holstered at his hip was unbuckled and ready.
“Papers, please,” the griff said in Lushian, a tongue close enough to what Strogo knew that he could understand him without much trouble. It paid to memorize the phrase in multiple tongues, regardless of if you spoke fluently or not. With a sigh, he reached into his saddlebag, extracting the small passbook to hand over. Apparently, even in the Empire proper they were using these to identify their citizens, a measure aimed at sniffing out infiltrators and undesirables. If it was working there, he didn’t know. But here, the griff took one look at the passbook, scanned the top few lines and quickly snapped it shut again, holding it back out.
“So sorry to be bother of you,” he said in poorly structured Deponyan, his expression fixed but Strogo knew hid a mixture of embarrassment and relief. “You are good one, you may go. Hail to King and Kaiser!”
“Hail the Kaiser,” Strogo replied back stiffly, the statement like ash on his tongue, refusing to even acknowledge Wingfried at all. To his lack of surprise, the officer had seen his Deponyan name and birthplace and, like the Reformisten’s unsurprising track record so far, their strange fascination with his family home had swiftly gotten him off the hook. He hated it, hated feeling like some special case they kept palming off. But, he supposed, that’s how things were done in the Kaiserreich. Your lineage was often far more important than anything else like species or current wealth.
An armored car flying Ost-Griffonian colors and the ever so present totenkopfs blared its horn as it rattled down the street, parsing through the traffic as it hauled off to wherever they were going to plant the boot in someone’s neck. Strogo shook his head, groaning as he found his tenement block. Sure, life was tolerable here. But there were always signs around of what would happen to those who set even a hoof out of line. The local garrison was deployed in full force, and it wasn’t the Imperial Landwehr; those he knew were sitting in their outposts in the hills watching for monsters, bandits and socialists. These were Ost-Griffonia’s own soldiers, black uniforms with Ost-Griffonian flags, Reformisten totenkopf pins and all, the common ranks built off Silvertalon’s national army model to act as auxiliaries to the Knightly orders of the Grand March. Aside from a few small differences, they were quite similar to Reichsarmee landsers beyond uniform, but these internal troops deployed on the streets seemed far more interested in protecting select businesses, shops and squares and certain places of public meeting where they stood sentry or clustered around on patrol, Grummond-8 shotguns over one shoulder and a full bandolier draped over their chests. He wasn’t sure what the qualifier was to earn such security, but he felt it was just as much to keep an eye on the local refugees, merchants and what little remained of the nobility as it was to protect the citizens and goods of the city. It seemed he had jumped from a dictatorship that actively oppressed him to one that was just a bit more subtle about it.
With relief, he finally found his destination. The tenement house wasn’t bad. Though low income housing and therefore not high up on the priority list of places to spend idols on maintaining, it was a new building having been finished two years ago. Momentum would eventually lead to its quality degrading as much as the regime tolerated, but right now it was still in good shape, a simple three story affair with affordable rooms for the urban workers coming in from their former lives as farmers. Compared to the literal shacks many other refugees were forced into, this was probably along the highs of quality. Better than a refugee work camp, which existed out in the forests cutting lumber, building roads and mining iron for the war machine in exchange for food and shelter. He half suspected it to be in relation to the favor he’d received in relation to his Deponyan ancestry. Once more, lineage seemed to trump all here, and it sickened him. Part of his resentment, he knew, stemmed from this preferential treatment he received, though he knew better than to be vocal around it with so many strangers around he couldn’t trust. He passed a few of his neighbors he barely remembered the name of, nodding quietly as he went upstairs and found his residence, turning the key and stepping inside.
The tenement was a simple affair, with a single attached bedroom and the kitchen, dining room and living space all crammed together in one large space. Over against the corner, in what had been designated as the ‘workshop’ Petra leaned over the table she had set aside for her work, a cuckoo clock dismantled into what Strogo saw as a hundred pieces, her goggles down over her eyes to let her see her delicate work, which she had to do with hooves instead of talons. Her mane was a rumpled, frizzy lavender, streaked with white that had nothing to do with her age (though she had started picking up a few gray hairs he pointedly never brought up) while her offwhite coat had streaks from the grease and oil she worked with, not as bad as the mess he carried home but still noticeable with how they contrasted. She was alternating between biting her lip and letting her jaw drop loose like she was trying to suppress a sneeze as she worked, carefully reassembling a mechanism as her focus was certainly locked in on her work, wings fluttering as she concentrated. The jobs might not come often, but her long years of working as a journeymare often earned her more money than him working for two weeks straight at the GroßTatze factory, and for that he didn’t speak out loud as he entered, merely closed the door behind him and moved to their small shower. He could live without her attention a while longer.
It was an hour later when she finally looked up from her work to find him cooking dinner, onions, potatoes and carrots to add to the stewing pot on their stove. Petra blinked at the form of the dark blue stallion in her kitchen, surprised to see him as if he were an apparition that had simply popped into her awareness. In the corner, their radio was busy playing some local music, some kind of violin-like strings coupled with a piano and high piping flute that came out as tinny and shrill through the speaker, though she knew it wasn’t so in real life. Better than the canned slogans on loudspeakers.
“When did you get home?”
“A while ago,” he replied, scooping the last ingredients into the pot. “You were busy.”
She wiped off her hooves before she stepped over, giving him a quick kiss before she opened the cabinet and pulled out a loaf of bread to cut and bake.
“Smells good. Ćoravi gulaš?”
“Mmhmm,” he grunted, setting the lid on the pot. “I would have started a while ago, but I had to go to the market to get the potatoes. We were out.”
“Good thing they’re cheap.”
“Not so much.” She frowned at him, and he went on to explain. “They’re up to an idol a kilo now. Merchant says the state is sending more and more west.”
Petra sighed, getting back to her task. “It’s just damned war, everywhere.”
Strogo nodded, continuing to stir. “I heard there’s going to be more price increases. And another round of rationing. I want to talk to a few farmers if I can, see if we can stockpile a little.”
The mood killed, they were quiet for a while as she finished putting the bread into the oven, intending to toast it lightly, while he washed the utensils in the sink. They had been doing well this month, they could afford the gas for the luxury of toasted bread. Strogo glanced to the opened letter on the dining room table, something he had read and thus been the real reason for his delay. Oh, he’d gone to the merchant alright. But that had only taken a few minutes. This, however, had held him up. Petra saw his glance and misinterpreted it.
“Cyril wrote. He’s doing well.”
“I saw.”
She pressed on.
“He says he’s been reading Maple Pier’s books. You like her work, right?”
“Hmm.” It wasn’t a yes or no. He was indeed a fan of Maple Peir’s mystery novels, but he knew exactly what path his wife was going down. She, however, persisted.
“Well, when you write to Cyril, you can tell him of a few other novels you’ve also read. Maybe some Sir Coltan-”
“Petra, no.”
She blinked, but not really in surprise. They’d had this conversation before. She tried again.
“I just think, now we’re in the Empire you might want to-”
“I said no.”
His voice had a harder edge to it, like someone had quietly unsheathed a blade to make a point. Not a threat, yet. But close. Many times before, she had let it go and moved on to other subjects. This time, however, she was done with it.
“Why do you refuse the boy, Strogo? He loves our daughter, and she loves him. He’s a good, loyal son to his mother, and from what I can tell he doesn’t fool around and tries to keep out of trouble. Officer rank, respected, good future. That’s leagues ahead of the prospects she had in Rijekograd-”
“In Rijekograd, she would have married a -pony-,” he growled, setting a plate down hard enough to chip the delicate porcelain, then moved to correct himself. “Or a griff, or a dog, I don’t know. Just someone from our home. -Not- some jackboot Imperial thug she met -once-.”
“I can’t believe we’re doing this again. Are you seriously telling me you won’t even try to connect with him? What if they get married?”
“-If- they get married, I will see him once a year and then pretend he does not exist the rest of it,” he shot back, finally finished cleaning the counters and turning to face her. “And yes. We’re doing this again because, as much as I love you Petra, you seem to be under the delusion that I will let that war criminal into our family.”
“Delusion? War criminal?!”
“If you’re going to start screeching you might as well stop talking right now, because-”
“Would you get over yourself? Every time this comes up, this is your response, you arrogant, bigoted-”
“I will NEVER be okay with her marrying an Imperial!” he snapped. “It is a betrayal of EVERYTHING we stand for! Or used to stand for! What did my family stand the border for all those years? The Griffonian Empire-”
They likely would have argued for longer if not for the banging on one thin wall, and their neighbor shouting at them to shut up before he called the polizei. They both fell silent, staring at the wall in question in a strange combination of indignation and wariness. As refugees, anything that brought the local authorities down on them would not go over well, or smoothly, Deponyan heritage or no. Ost-Griffonia had enough riverponies flooding their borderlands that nogriff or pony cared a whit about what happened to a few malcontents every once in a while. The sad truth was, they were often a scapegoat for local problems, and blamed for much of the unfortunate downturns that took place in the Grenzwald, from a rise in crime to economic downturn, regardless of facts.
They were quiet for a time after that, finally coming to the table soon as Strogo dispensed the stew and Petra cracked into the bread to spread preserves over it. They ate in silence, however good the basic fare. Strogo had tried hard to give it flavor through spices to replace what it lacked, and he felt he had done a good job of it.
It wasn’t long before Petra tried once more to mend things between them.
“Brook’s going to Colthage. Says his company has moved its shop.”
Strogo frowned, spooning more stew up as he scoffed.
“More like his gang has upset the local police and he’s running to the next place he can keep his head down. Colthage is run by the crime syndicates, that maniac Gerza lets them run wild. Sounds like just the place for Brook.”
Petra frowned, her spoon dropping to the bowl as she scowled disapproval at her husband. He frowned back at her.
“What?”
“Brook is your son. He’s made some questionable choices, but he’s still-”
“Petra.”
She fumbled, her lecture coming to a halt as she ran out of steam at his expression.
“I’m worried about them too. Both of them. Always have been. Always will be.”
A pause.
“I know.”
With that abrupt end to conversation, they finished their dinner in silence, sparing a glance across the table. Though their foals hadn’t been home in half a decade, two more places were set for them, plates and forks and knives going unused. Ever since Paige had left, it was a ritual the two of them had kept up. And neither had any intention to stop.
Outside, the nearest speaker tower blared away, smothering the silence that had settled on their residence.
”So long as we turn to Kaiser, King and the Grand Crusade, we are never alone! Angriff!”
“Hauptmann Cyril Duskwing, in recognition of your service, His Imperial Majesty hereby awards you with the Griffonia Cross, with swords and oak leaves! A round of applause for the hero of the Kaiserreich!”
The oberst turned, the decoration held delicately in his claws as he gestured to the crowd, imploring their attention towards the drake up on stage, clad in full panzerwaffen dress blacks and beaming like the sun. Even with just the movement, many in the crowd assembled before them were clapping claws, paws and hooves together. It turned into a standing ovation, wave after wave of uniformed Imperial soldiery standing and applauding Cyril. On stage, several more decorated senior officers also clapped, including his uncle August. Above them, stretched across the stage was a banner that read ‘TOTALER SIEG’ in bold black lettering, and above that a massive orange and yellow flag of the Griffonian Kaiserreich, bedecked with Imperial black griffon across it. It was all done, the Great War was over and the Empire was reunited at last, stretching from Vedina to Gryphus. In the crowd, Cyril spotted his mother, his sister, Paige and many of his comrades like Haul, Machinki, Spotsley and Brightclaw. He saw old friends from his neighborhood, those from other units he rarely heard from and more than one famous figure such as Morgend Longpaw, King Wingfried, Princess Celestia and many others, all of them clapping for him.
He was the hero of the hour. He had vanquished the foe before the eyes of the world, and helped reunite the greatest nation on Faust. This was the greatest moment of Cyril’s own short life.
He glanced down at Paige, who smiled back up at him. Finally, they could settle down in peace and have the future they had both envisioned for years, together at last. She leaned over as Eisenwing said something in the mare’s ear before laughing. It was likely something nasty or of a salubrious nature, given the gunner’s-
Wait. Cyril blinked, confusion reigning over his thoughts. That…that wasn’t right. Was it? Something was wrong. He couldn’t put a talon on it, the thought refusing to stay in one place long enough to identify.
Behind her, Bluetalon leaned between the two, his claw motions making it clear he was telling Eisenwing off. Cyril frowned. That definitely wasn’t right, was it? Something he couldn’t…what was going on?
Eihol held up a flask, toasting his commander before he took a deep pull at the drink. Cyril felt a twist in his gut, distress flaring up in his mind. Eihol’s uniform was covered in blood and vomit, a broken gas mask hanging around his neck. No one thought anything odd of this.
What was…what was this? He looked through the crowd in panic, his eyes lighting on one figure or another that sent that same spike of distress and horror through him. Schwarzplume had a neat, crisp hole burned in his head and his panzer jacket was smoking and scorched, even as the panzer feldwebel chuckled with the formel next to him while applauding. There was the random rioting worker he had shot all those years ago, standing the picket line, a bullet in his chest even as he stood near the front, madly clapping for Cyril, the drake who had shot him. Grimquill stood nearby, a line of machine gun bullets tearing her uniform apart. Bakker and Hovawart stood near Schwarzplume with their jackets burned and charred, Hovawart’s face missing its skin and Bakker missing half her head. So it went, on and on everywhere he looked.
It was when he saw Hellseig that he realized what was going on. His old feldwebel’s face was torn by shrapnel, scorched by fire, his arm missing. Feathers and fur were burned away in massive clumps, but his uniform was just as Cyril remembered seeing it the very last time in Temsoar Forest, bloodstains and grease up and down the side, charring on the collar. But Hellseig merely reached up, removing his cap as he bowed down with it over his breast.
In terrified panic, Cyril looked back at the front row. Paige was gone, disappeared without a trace.
“Cyril?” asked a voice that caused him to freeze, his panic and horror giving way to absolute terror. He knew that voice. “Aren’t you going to accept your decoration, son?”
He turned slowly, knowing exactly what he would find even before he turned all the way round. In the oberst’s place, there stood Stefan Richtofen as Cyril last saw him. Gray uniform, a row of decorations and braiding across the chest, a medallion around his neck to celebrate his service to Kaiser and Kaiserreich.
Exactly how he’d been dressed when they closed the casket to bury his father after he’d been shot in Romau.
“You’re a hero, son,” Stefan said, the medal he was to pin on Cyril still held in his claw. His father then gestured to the crowd once more. “You’re famous! See, look.”
Cyril turned back, only to find the applauding crowd replaced with row after row after row of headstones and grave markers, some of them as simple as helmets on rifles speared into the ground, as far as the eye could see. In the distance, a tattered Imperial banner flying overhead, he could see the outline of an Imperial Gryta, sitting on a hill. Behind it was a massive newspaper article.
‘CYRIL DUSKWING’ the headline proclaimed. ‘HERO OF THE KAISERREICH’.
“Cyril?”
-----
July 10th, 1012 Imperial Occupied Illeagle, Aquileia 3rd Armee, 19th Panzer-Division ‘Landgraf von Aiwlen’, 205th Schwere Panzerabteilung ‘Kampfgruppe Lehr’ Unternehmen Kaiserschlacht
With a shout, Cyril awoke, a claw snapping out and grabbing his sidearm and bringing it up in a flash, even before he was fully awake and aware. Gasping for breath, he blinked as he realized he was alone in the room, his temporary billeted officers’ quarter in the Illeagle trainyard. The regiment the Kampfgruppe were attached to were getting ready to move out in the morning.
It took him a moment, sitting in his cot bathed in cold sweat, to realize he was truly alone. The room was dark, the candle he’d been using to illuminate the place burned down until it went out. He could hear the rumble of aircraft overhead, the clatter of panzers, rumble of trucks and the low buzzing murmur of troops on the march.
He was alone.
Cyril lowered the pistol. He had to take extra care uncocking it and thumbing the safety on, for his claw was shaking violently, gently setting it down on the crate that did extra duty as a nightstand. Every time he blinked, scenes of blood and fire flashed across his still partially unconscious mind. The dead stared back at him, certainly far less welcoming or put together as they had been in his dream.
He found the bottle where he had left it at the side of his cot. Still some schnapps left. He drunk it down greedily, desperately. If he did it fast enough, he knew he could fall back asleep. And if he drowned his mind in alcohol and diluted his thoughts, he might not dream again.
In the distance, someone had a radio on. The last song had just finished, and he could hear the next one come on. Long, soulful trumpet backed by a snare drum, woodwind instruments and a slow piano waltz. He knew this song.
”Stars shining bright above you Night breezes seem to whisper 'I love you' Birds singing in the sycamore trees Dream a little dream of me”
Thankfully, he was asleep again before the next verse began, the empty bottle still in his claw as he curled into the fetal position, the pistol still loaded next to him.
July 11th, 1012 Fillydelphia Airport (Northeast), Fillydelphia No. 2 (Bombing) Group, Number 99 “Bloody Nightmares” Squadron
Paige couldn’t focus on the book anymore. The copy of Advanced Arcane Theory and Practical Applications lay abandoned next to her, as it had every night the past few weeks. It was ironic, in a way. Ever since her ‘groundbreaking’ revelation, she had labored every spare minute she had when not flying, filling out reports or helping maintain White Castle to page through her tomes, reviewing her notes and working with Maverick to figure out the engineering side of things. And, so far as she could tell from the books she had checked out both on base and from the Fillydelphia public library, she had been correct. The theory of arcane neutralization had not been very deeply explored. Hurriedly, she had composed her thoughts, theories and all the work she could remember off the top of her head from her work on arcane crystal matrices and energy storage together in a brief document. It had involved several sleepless nights slaving away at typewriter, pencil and wading through books as she spilled years worth of her own research and theories, attaching a revised copy of what remained of her thesis. Lucky her, White Castle had needed the time to receive critical maintenance, and the crew had mostly been recovering from the long string of missions they had been flying, so she had the hours needed. And so, after weeks of frantic, frenzied obsessions where she tried to get her thoughts out before she forgot them (or was killed) she had put together the document that could potentially change the world. Oh, she’d likely get little credit for it, but the sense of accomplishment was real enough for her.
Or so she’d thought. After she had packaged up the stack of sheets that had represented what would probably be her life’s work for the foreseeable future to somepony else who could actually take the time to test her theory in a real lab with real materials, it hadn’t taken long for the depression to settle back in. It was odd, really. She felt normal enough, but the realization came about that she had been this way for some time. The brief era of discovery and excitement in her life had merely snapped her out of something like a grim trance. A wave of bitterness had rolled over her, and it was at dinner that she realized what was so wrong in her mind.
So here she sat, on top of her barracks, the textbook set aside opened to her bookmarked page for the third night in a row. She doubted she’d flip another page in it for some time. Instead, she sat looking east across the night sky, watching stars up in the inky blackness. Every now and then, the black shapes of aircraft would streak by, the low roar of their engines barely audible from here.
“So, this is where you’ve been hiding,” said a voice nearby, and she glanced over her shoulder to see none other than Lieutenant Solar Ace clambering up a ladder, joining her on the roof. This took her genuinely by surprise. Nopony, not even the other pegasus or thestrals or even the griffon mercenaries on base had come to join her, preferring their own perches on other structures (for the griffons, it was understandably for security, as they could get a better view of the base they were supposed to be guarding). But Ace was an Earth pony, and going up into elevated places such as the top of a building wasn’t quite in his nature (then again, a good portion of the ironworkers building skyscrapers in Manehatten were Earth ponies, so what did she know).
“I’m not hiding,” Paige said a little too quickly, a sudden flare of defensiveness in her voice as she turned to face him, surreptitiously straightening her jacket. “Sir,” she finished awkwardly.
“Of course you are. These days we all are, in our own way.”
Ace came to sit next to her, though instead of the stars his gaze flicked across the airport, back towards the hangers. Even as they watched, several Spitfires from the base’s combat air patrol were touching down to allow the next squadron on rotation up into the sky. Row upon row of aircraft were parked near the taxiway under guard by patrolling sentries, ready to take off in the morning when flight operations were ready to begin, just after weather pegasi had adjusted the forecast to allow clearings in cloud covers, rain squalls and high winds where mages were even now attempting to slow the changelings down. In an odd twist, several of those CAP fighters were old Blenheims, upgraded with new radar systems to level the playing field against changeling bombers at night. Technology had allowed them to take the fight into the changelings’ realm.
“Static says you’ve been distracted lately,” Ace continued, straight to the point and matter of fact as always. “Maverick too. Everything alright, Sergeant?” She looked away, feeling the sea breeze tug at her mane, recently clipped short to military standard again, and he frowned. “Nothing happened overseas, I hope? Cyril and your parents…?”
“No,” Paige quickly shut down that line of thinking. “They’re all okay. Cyril’s rotating back in and my mother and father are settled down safe.” Her father absolutely despised where they’d taken refuge, but that was another issue entirely. “I don’t mean to be a bother, sir. It’s nothing important.”
Ace watched her carefully before he turned back towards the air field, a frown creasing his brow.
“I’ve been part of the Royal Air Force nearly since we started flying planes,” he said, out of the blue. Paige glanced over, surprised. Ace’s personal interactions with the crew were usually professional, to the point, and contained little personal information. She still knew little about his family, aside from the fact his wife and foals had escaped Tall Tale ahead of the changeling advance. A good thing too. Many civilians hadn’t, and now their scorched bones were buried in the ashes of their home.
Ace went on. “I was a test pilot before I went into bombers. It was quite exciting, the ability to break free of the bonds of earth and fly like a pegasus. Like my friends could. But test flying aircraft is a lot like flying in combat. A lot can and will go wrong and unless you have wings there’s only a slim chance of escaping your mistake. Your focus needs to be tight, on point. When my wife Sugar Rose had complications in labor, I was supposed to go up in the air that day. The hospital said I had to wait to hear news. My captain immediately grounded me. He told me ‘Ace, when one pilot isn’t flying straight, none of the wing is.’ He -was- a pegasus, so I assume he knew what he was talking about. And he was right. I was a nervous wreck, distracted. I was a flight hazard.”
Paige wasn’t sure she would agree with that. The whole time he had been waiting to hear if his family had gotten out of Tall Tale, Ace had flown commendably again and again into the teeth of the enemy, and was probably the biggest reason they had never been shot down. Then again, by his own admission he had been flying almost as long as Equestria had aircraft.
“Maverick had money troubles after his home bank was bombed out. I directed him to the appropriate ministry and helped him fill out the claim forms. Eventide didn’t feel comfortable joining our plane with so many non-thestrals around, so I made sure she knew how to take that little extra step of isolation so she felt safe. If one of us isn’t flying straight, the plane doesn’t function.”
That was all a very good, well constructed point. Which didn’t keep her from feeling stupid as all hell as she took a breath and tried to figure out where to start, watching the stars as if they could give her an answer. Ace sat next to her patiently, calmly observing the airfield as aircraft buzzed down the taxiway. In the near distance, a glow on the horizon told them of the absolute pounding across country as the changelings once more tried to press and Equestria tried once more to hold. The Royal Army tried to counterattack where possible of course, but the changelings and their superior maneuverability seemed to be able to sweep the flanks and counterthrust, again and again. It painted a grim picture for Canterlot.
Paige finally decided to just have out with it.
“I don’t know how I got here. I mean…I know -how- I got here, to this moment. But I came to this country to learn. I was so proud when I got the scholarship. Everypony in Rijekograd wants…wanted to come to Equestria to be educated by the Land of Harmony. The Chancellor did it, and I was going to join that illustrious circle. None of my family have a high education. Bogovi iznad, they were so…proud of me. But when I got here, the Crystal War broke out. I didn’t have to go. No draft office was going to conscript a foreign student. But umbrals started attacking the woods near Luna Nova, and we got bombed. I think that was the moment I wanted to change things. So I did. I flew, and I came back. Then I went to Hoofington U until…well, I got here. And I’m a good bombardier. You’ve seen it.”
Ace nodded in silent agreement, his face impassive marble. She didn’t need to humble her accomplishments, she knew that with her exceptional math she had likely placed some of the best bomb releases in the RAF this entire conflict. It was good he hadn’t spoken, as she needed to get this all off her chest before her courage left her and she no longer wanted to say it.
“But…I don’t want to do this. Not for the rest of my life. I only signed up in the first place because I felt I needed to do something. I never intended to keep going for years and years. I always wanted to do what I was supposed to do. I wanted to learn. To discover. I’m an academic under it all, I’m not a soldier. Not really. I’m not like you, or Cyril or anypony that sticks to this madness. I can’t go on like this and just say it's what needs to be done. I just gave away the biggest discovery I’m likely to make in my life, and I can’t even figure out if it’s actually going to pan out. I had to send it to someone else so they could take the credit. If it winds up working, of course. I mean, what am I doing with my life? I could be shot down anyday, and then there goes anything I might have learned, any breakthroughs I could make. I’m just…rotting here.”
“Do you want to leave?”
The question derailed her, and she fumbled in what she felt was her rant of righteous indignation as she glanced over at her pilot’s stony expression. He seemed, to her eye, absolutely dead serious. But then again, he always seemed that way.
“Well…I mean who doesn’t want to go home? Get out of this war and just get back-”
“No. I mean, do you want to hop one of those freighters in the harbor tonight and sail across the Celestial back to Griffonia?”
She gaped at him, trying to figure out what the hell he was getting on about. Was he serious? Even after a year of flying together, she still hadn’t figured out how to discern humor 100% of the time behind that dry, level personality he held. But he had literally just asked her if she was going to desert her post, and from all appearances, he was waiting for a serious answer.
“I mean…no. I guess not. I signed up for this job when I stayed in the Reserve. I guess I knew this was always a possibility.”
To her surprise, he nodded quite firmly.
“I didn’t expect you to. I know you well enough to know that disloyalty isn’t something you take lightly. But I wanted to make sure. Getting it out in the open is the best way to get it taken care of. I trust you, Turner. But I need your head in the game, focused on the fight. In the meantime, keep your chin up. It won’t last forever, and you’ll be back making the discovery of a lifetime like the genius I know you to be. This will be over soon, one way or the other.”
They were silent for some time after that, now both of them watching the horizon, seeing that distant glow, the one that told of rockets, bombs, shells and incendiary munitions and spells that were ripping Equestria apart. It was still, to them both, a grim omen and it underlined Ace’s words. The statement he couldn’t say out loud that they both knew at this juncture was a real possibility. It had certainly been a very strange conversation. But Ace had been right. Getting it all out in the open instead of stewing in her head had allowed her to get rid of the gnawing anxiety in her gut. Sure, he didn’t have an answer for her, and the old aches of worrying for her own life and that of Cyril across the sea were still present. But just being there and reaching out meant the world for her.
It didn’t matter if they were possibly getting ringside seats to Equestria’s funeral pyre. Ace’s words had snapped her from the bitter fugue around her mind. When she climbed down, she put the tome back and intended not to take it back out until the war was over. She needed to focus, after all. There’d be plenty of time to get to her studies, after the war was over.
"Truth is the first casualty of war." Ferrous Adler, Ost-Griffonian Reichsminister of the Interior and Propaganda
July 13th, 1012 Hellquill Hellsword Territory, Ost-Griffonia 1755 hours GMT (Griffonstone Mean Time)
Time was the city of Hellquill, as more military frontier outpost than true settlement, existed as a strange collection of ancient, carefully tended structures that had stood for two centuries, their medieval style and outdated construction almost preserving the style of the age. The Orders hadn't cared much for updating buildings, so long as they worked. Houses, stores, storage centers and village infrastructure all remained largely unchanged for a large majority of the crusader states’ history. But the Order’s actual priority, military buildup, had kept up with the age, resulting in more and more modern roads, fortification, artillery and armory structures. The Knights and Order sponsored auxiliary militias had drilled with first gunpowder weapons and then motorized vehicles, the predecessors to the national army that marched alongside the Empire’s own today. This strange mix and flow would keep up until 1008, when things in the Order changed. For better? Worse? Many said it was too soon to tell.
Now, many houses built in the old medieval style had been torn down, replaced by more modern brick and mortar construction. The wooden huts of rural villages had been torn to pieces while their residents lived in temporary camps, returning to find their hamlets and towns upgraded as the new Ost-Griffonian Empire sought to undo much of the Order’s neglect. Many dirt roads were torn up and replaced with asphalt, more important roads turned into proper highways, and with the investment of many nobles and the Imperial coffers of Griffenheim opened to them, the payoff of those looking to escape the vicious wars of the west resulted in a Hellquill that was quickly coming to resemble many of the urban centers in the modern world. Electric street cars rumbled down the rails built into roads that were packed with both pedestrian carts and Imperial automobiles, the skyline sprouted smokestacks where factories were still going up to produce material for both the Ostheer and the Reichsarmee as a whole. A black-skinned polizei airship flew overhead, both the Imperial and Reformisten banners and its infamous totenkopfs streaming from its belly gondola as it watched the streets far down below, streets now far more visible thanks to the electric street lights lining the avenues. The antique fortress walls still stood, but now as more of a cultural relic compared to the more modern fighting positions and fortifications further outside the city, including the airfield that belonged to the nascent Ost-Luftwaffe. Everywhere anyone glanced were signs and propaganda posters extolling the Black King Wingfried, the young Kaiser Grover VI, the Empire as a whole and the Reformisten. Here in Hellquill proper, the polizei -were- the Heer, what the Reichsarmee would call Feldgendarmerie or Feldjagers. But for the Reformisten capital, nothing less than full military authority would do to prosecute the law and support order. Vollstrecker, Feldjagers and even the local militia patrolled the streets, occasionally overseen by a knight from the Order, typically clad in older style enchanted plate, but more and more often wearing the same modern style as their Herzland brethren.
Today, of all days, the security here was especially tight. Landsers from the Ostheer, full line units, patrolled the streets as well, rifles held at the ready to watch for trouble. But the majority of troops in the city were marching down the main street, from the Ost Gate to the Vest Gate in lockstep formation, followed by trucks, staff cars and even panzers (many of which were western patterns manufactured in the east’s new factories). Many would be forgiven for thinking them on rotation, deployed to retain control of the Grenzwald in Kosakenland, Reichsmandat Asterion or manning the Ostwall. But today, this was not the case. Today, there was a celebration. Today was the day these divisions were loaded up to depart for the Western Front to join the fight the vaterland was currently embroiled in. No more piecemeal battalions and detachments. While the carefully husbanded troops of the east were few next to the massive legions the Kaiserreich could summon, the Reformisten had made sure these were the best trained and equipped they could spare from all the deployments of the east. At last, it was time to start paying back everything the Empire had done for them.
To one individual in particular, it was time to pay the Reformisten back for -everything- they and the Empire had done -to- them.
He leaned the Puška M6 rifle against the lip of the window, gazing out on the city’s avenue. This guard tower had been the perfect choice to get the best view, and a quick bit of stealth work had dispatched the two sentries, neither of which had been ready for an attack from inside the wall. It wouldn’t last past the next patrol, of course. But he had some time. The last radio check in had been tense, but his imitation of the sentry and use of Reformisten battle cant had allowed him to play it off. Now, the enemy was none the wiser as the assassin carefully scanned the streets below. It wasn’t hard to find where his target would be. Today, the arrogant Knights were throwing a victory parade, celebrating their success in the East as they reclaimed the Grenzwald and founded Ost-Griffonia. He felt his lip curl up in fury for a brief moment before he asserted control and calmed down, pushing the anger into mere simmering resentment. Back in Lake City, Winter Dawn (Zimsko Zora as he’d been forced to make his name to get over the border, though how he’d so far evaded the Geheimstaat and their infamously paranoid security he’d rather not question at present) had been a top-level marksman in the Lakeish Republic Army. He’d been instrumental in the Grand Prince’s ascension during the coup, and served with distinction. But there was always the Reformisten over the border, always Wingfried’s dogs. It didn’t seem to matter to the Empire that they had once been genocidal maniacs. So all they had to do to earn redemption was burn a few scapegoats and they were okay now? Disgusting. To his immense disappointment, the Prince’s armies had been more focused on conquering the rest of the Riverlands than addressing the threat, though the speeches had always said otherwise. Zimsko cursed at the thought of the inaction, the hypocrisy, the disillusionment he’d felt. Didn’t it matter how many ponies the Blackcloaks had killed, on their side of the border and this one? Or how they had conquered the Grenzwald and minotaurs? Nopony else seemed to take the threat seriously, too wrapped up in dismantling the River Coalition.
Well, he had found somepony who -did- take it seriously.
The parade continued on as Zimsko set his binoculars down, carefully taking up the rifle and checking the scope. True, it was just a telescope he had mounted to his service rifle, but he’d had plenty of practice with the weapon. He knew exactly what he was doing. The Imperial Kralle might be considered the best mid-range rifle on the market, but a Puška M6 wasn't far behind. A hoof came up and worked the bolt, racking a fresh round as he felt the burning fury simmering in his gut. He knew this was a suicide mission. Above all else, he had two goals; kill the Black King Wingfried and let himself be caught afterwards. The resulting outrage would spur the idiotic Knights and their sense of honor into invading the Riverlands. Then the Riverponies would see the threat, and respond. The Empire had their claws full in the west with Aquileia and the northern allies. But everypony with eyes knew that wouldn’t last. They’d finish one way or the other, and then come to Hellsword’s assistance. But now, if a crisis were to flare up while they were so busy?
Now, they might just reject their rogue province. Maybe even put them down. He felt a buzz of excitement at the thought of that. Revenge, indeed.
Today was Der Kaiser’s Lebenstag. While not a universally recognized holiday, to Ost-Griffonians it was a day of pride. Two years ago on this day, the traitor general Dawnclaw had used his position to slaughter the Imperial Regency Council and attempted to kill the Kaiser. But he had failed due to the valiant efforts of the Imperial Guard and the Black King Wingfried. This was, after all, the event that had made him the Lord Protector and proven to the Empire that Ost-Griffonia’s intentions were true, that they had cast off their dark past and were ready to return to the Vaterland. Having been there himself, Erich could remember it quite vividly.
The cars in the convoy were Rubins, imported from their neighboring province of Angriver, in the Empire proper. It was a massive step forward from Lowensteins all the way from Griffenheim, and for a province that was also suffering from economic hardships in attempting to rebuild after the Herzland War and decades of being little more than a backwater, it was a good exchange of cash. Talks were already underway for Rubin to set up factories in Hellquill, to turn out more of these surprisingly rugged vehicles. All Prince Erich knew was that the Integralists liked them, and were already talking of supplementing the Reichsarmee Lowensteins they had been provided. Many civilians who could afford them were buying Rubin Automobile cars, following the example of their Knightley masters. Perhaps a cooperative could be established between Rubin and GroßTatze to make something local? A brand new, purpose established Integralist company?
Erich wished the order no longer went by the name ‘Reformisten’. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. It was the organization’s birth title, and it defined their purpose quite plainly and directly. But while its definition was fine, it carried with it too much baggage. The Reinigers, those renegades the Herzlanders and others called ‘Blackcloaks’ had tainted the title, corrupted any possible use of it going forward. The older Knights and Ostheer soldiers still said it, of course. But he wondered if perhaps the full commitment to the term ‘Integralist’ was overdue. This was all from a pragmatic angle, of course. If he had it his way, the idea could be comfortably dismissed. They had been making the name work through this time of change. He wanted to say ‘flawlessly’. Flawlessly. But he honestly couldn’t, not with the memory of darker days in his mind.
He was hesitant to bring it up to his adopted father. The last thing they needed was such confusing developments as changing names, propaganda and symbolism. Wingfried was a creature of sheer focus, so much so that sometimes even his wide ranging sight could suffer from tunnel vision. But Erich kept it in mind as he watched the crowds on the main boulevard cheering for them, waving Imperial banners, Ost-Griffonian colors and totenkopfs of all three variations. He had to admit, skulls on black fields sent quite the message. It was, after all, his own duty mark on his flank (what other ponies abroad called ‘cutie marks’) the pony totenkopf. So far as he knew, he was the only one to possess it, and the normally cold and aloof Wingfried had practically burst with pride when it had emerged on his flank.
He waved back to the crowd, of course. These were his people. Ponies, griffons, dogs. One day, he would rule them on behalf of the Kaiser. He needed to be front and center, presented before them at his father’s side. See your future king, was the message. See how we have changed, was another. He took his future duty very seriously, as it would one day be his to oversee the Great March and then on to the Riverlands after the inevitable Final Crusade to conquer their hated rivals to the east. If not for the Entente War, he mused bitterly, the Riverlands Anarchy would be the perfect time to enact such a plan. End the menace of the east and finally achieve the distant dream of Grover II. It was more important now than ever, with socialist mobs springing up out of the rotten chaotic woodwork of Bakara and Rijekograd. But he had time, he reasoned as he leaned down to give a more intimate wave to a little filly and a griffon chick standing next to one another, eagerly leaning under the barrier to wave frantically up at him.
“You’re distracted,” said his wife as she too waved. Princess Morning Flare knew they couldn’t be heard by those around them, even the motorcycle outriders that were closest. Their driver knew better than to let his lips flap, either. They rode in a separate car from Wingfried and Taillow, primarily to underline the image of the royal heirs themselves. Given again how much the two were supposed to be thrust out as the future of Ost-Griffonia, it wouldn’t do for him to be swallowed up by Wingfried’s presence. They’d be on the stage together soon enough regardless.
“Is your mind wrapped up in politics again?” she continued, giving him a slight nudge as she turned to wave in the other direction. She was surprisingly plain to the casual eye, a cream-colored coat blending naturally with a mane of three shades of brown. Unlike her husband or the king and queen, she didn’t even wear an elaborate uniform, merely a plain if very nice white shirt, regulation pony style skirt and a few decorations pinned to her lapel. When placed next to Erich who wore his service blacks with pride, Wingfried who of course had royal pins and symbols suited to his station to go with his singular medal (the Knight's Cross with golden oak leaves, swords and diamonds he bore on his breast), Taillow who still preferred the trappings of her former station as Countess, and many of the generals and high officers in the Ostheer, Morning Flare was almost forgettable if not for how odd her subtle appearance was next to the others. True, she was a former oberleutnant, but she had voluntarily left the service behind. While a willing participant to bringing down the traitorous Reiniger forces, her’s was not a militant mindset to the same degree to commit to a life in service. She had done her time, and quite admirably. She had earned the Knight’s Cross as well, though she did not wear it at this moment. But a lifelong soldier, she was not. And she was willing to admit to such, as were many veterans of the vicious conflicts that had gripped Longsword and Hellquill to finally put such evil griffons to the sword. Morning Flare was more of an intellectual, regardless. It was a good counter balance to the military mind of Erich.
To Erich, she would always be his valkyrie, a tightly controlled bundle of fury that was tamped down and contained on the outside. But if you riled her up and got her temper going, Morning Flare was more than willing to show you that she was one unicorn that did not shy away from direct confrontation, her very name was not for mere show. He needed her, just as she had come to rely on him.
“I have to keep my mind on what comes next, meine Liebe,” Erich replied as he turned to glance back over his shoulder a brief moment, the wind tugging at his white mane. “This parade is only a small part of the day.”
“It’s an important part of the day,” Flare retorted as she nodded in assurance to Queen Taillow, who had glanced back towards their car. “It deserves your full attention, don’t you think?”
“I can manage to work out the machinations of state while smiling and waving at a crowd. It’s the same as rubbing your belly and patting your head at the same time.”
“A poor analogy,” she said back as she focused her waves and smiles on a group of Youth Pioneers cheering nearby for a moment. “Since I have watched you attempt that specific action and fail in seconds.”
He spluttered a moment, his facade cracked as he shot a glare in her direction. She, steadfastly, refused to acknowledge him as she knew he would be doing so. In but a moment, he was back at it, sending a salute to a cluster of veterans wounded even beyond what Herr Longpaw's gadgets or zebrican alchemy was capable of correcting. They were the most tragic of the crowd, as he knew of plenty with valuable experience if they could but even be advisors. Alas, coming to this celebration was likely to be all those poor souls were capable of. Perhaps Flare was right. This -was- important. It -did- deserve his full attention.
Finally, they came to the square where the stage had been set up. The plaza was packed with citizens from across Ost-Griffonia. As well as Hellquillian locals and those who had taken the short trip from Longsword, residents had traveled from serene Lushi, once near starved Prywhen, ever resolutely loyal Cyanolisia, reluctant Blackrock, the wild Kosakenland and the split domain of Knightly and corporate ruled Gryphus. Erich knew the rail companies had offered discounts for fare on the lines connecting to Hellquill for the celebration (primarily because he himself had thought of it and ordered it be so) and the result had brought all those willing to attend in scores. He also knew from an insider tip via the Geheimstaat that several representatives, reporters and minor nobles from the Kaiserreich were in attendance as well, come to see what all the noise was about surrounding the Black King. They were always welcome; the more westerners came to Hellquill and saw for themselves that many of the rumors were not true, the more the truth could spread back through the Empire. It was, he knew, an uphill battle. But a fight won by attrition, though undesirable, was still a victory in the end.
Wingfried and Taillow’s car had already pulled up to the stage, where the Black King was helping the White Queen down. Surrounded by Knights in enchanted black plate, it was a strange contrasting sight of one normally so cold and aloof and surrounded by martial might to be doing something as gentle as helping his pregnant wife down from their vehicle, an expression of concern fluttering across his face.
Flare jabbed him in the side as she too spotted the display, testing Erich lightly.
“Promise me that won’t be you.”
“I make no promise I know I cannot keep, my lady,” Erich retorted, and Flare turned away with both a smile and a blush. It was an inevitable topic for the royal heirs anyway, but they did not have to give it thought yet. They could wait until the time was right.
Their car pulled up to the stage, and Erich stepped out as a soldier pulled the door open for him, turning to help Flare down as well. As they moved to follow the King and Queen, Erich was surprised to find the green-gray of a Reichsarmee commander speaking with none other than Grand Inquisitor Erlinger and another figure he recognized as wearing the black and red of a Vollstrecker, surrounded by a small ring of a clawful of Reichsarmee landsers and a few black uniformed Geheimstaat agents, the silver eye emblem of their office on their lapel the only indication of their occupation. Curious now, and knowing he would not need to be present on stage for a few more minutes, Erich stepped aside with a curious Morning Flare in tow to see just who these strangers were.
Erlinger was still speaking to the Herzlander as he came within hearing distance, apparently on the tail end of some deep discussion the two were having.
“-and I want to make sure there’s not going to be any complications. Cloudbury is going to be thick with guerillas after the Reichsarmee is done with it. Ela…Minister Grimwing will need all the help she can get.”
“I don’t see how that’s going to be a special issue,” the other griffon replied, his accent clipped and his tone rather dismissive. “The whole front is having trouble getting supplies out there. Not much in the way of roads to begin with in the north, and the Rebels tore up everything they could falling back. We’ll take the city, Herr Inquisitor. But your agents can wait the same as everygriff else until we get the roads repaired again.”
“Grand Inquisitor,” Erlinger corrected, but before the situation could devolve more, the Vollstrecker seemed to notice Erich and Flare approaching, saying something he couldn’t hear to the head of the Geheimstaat. To his credit, Erlinger reacted quickly, turning to Erich with a smile plastered on his beak like nothing was wrong, trademark albino-red eyes hidden by the tinted glasses that helped to protect his vision. Erlinger was unique in many ways. A demigriff who had suffered the tragedy of having his wings forcefully removed, an albino of unnatural make and one of the tiny clawful of griffs to possess magic thanks to foul Barradian experiments, his position allowed him to harness the positive aspects of these ‘gifts’ as well. To Erich, he was a trusted confidant and quite possibly the most effective protector against the Riverlands menace they had, even above the Ostwall and a korps of soldiers.
“Your Highnesses,” Erlinger greeted, a claw over one breast to give a short bow. “Is this not an auspicious day?”
“Indeed Herr Grand Inquisitor,” Erich replied, straining to both be heard over the crowd and keep his tone civil. “I wasn’t aware we were entertaining His Majesty’s generals.”
It wasn’t unusual, of course. But it gave Erlinger the right and proper opening to make an introduction of a stranger to the Kronprinz. Traditional nobility may no longer have much place in the Great March, but certain Imperial traditions refused to go away. Erlinger, of course, understood.
“Might I introduce Generalmajor Arnold Scheer, of His Majesty’s Reichsarmee, Oberkommando Divisione.”
“Your Highness,” Scheer responded, also giving a short bow. Being far more accustomed to interacting with high nobility back in Griffenheim, the motion was natural and practically automatic, and he executed a second bow to Flare. He wore a blue beret, an oddity in the Reichsarmee that had a preponderance of black, red, green, tan and gray. Its meaning escaped Erich as he tried to recall what that particular color represented.
“General Scheer is in overall command of Reichsarmee Logistics,” Erlinger continued the introduction, in that moment reminding Erich of what the beret color meant. “He is here to lend his expertise on several projects we have ongoing. Hindendbark was supposed to meet him here, but affairs in the north delayed him. We were just discussing what would happen when Cloudbury falls and the supply issues of the far north.”
“It’s an inevitability,” Scheer agreed, nodding in agreement. “The only question is time. Unfortunately, Cloudbury might be our last victory in the north for a long while. With the miserable state which their road network is in, and the long winters they suffer, the city is going to be home until next spring.”
Erlinger didn’t seem to physically react, but Erich had known the demigriff long enough to recognize the small tells the spymaster displayed, however subtle they were. One place Erlinger had trouble suppressing, for example, was his magic aura, as there were few other griffon mages to compile a tome on the art. For a moment, Erich felt Erlinger’s aura flare in mild irritation. Something the bookish Scheer had said annoyed Erlinger, likely to do with the discussion they had been having before Erich and Flare walked up.
Fortunately, they were all spared an interesting and awkward exchange by the Vollstrecker stepping forward, shifting Erlinger’s attention.
“Ah, yes. Vollstrecker Helga Grimwing, representing the MfÖS on behalf of Minister Grimwing, currently indisposed.”
“She was blown up,” Helga said bluntly before she too bowed before the royal heirs. “Your Highnesses.”
“Blown up?” Flare asked, genuinely concerned at this turn of phrase as she leaned in to join the conversation. “I do hope that’s not a serious statement.”
“She got better,” the griffon replied dryly. Erich cocked his head as Flare glanced to him, a bit puzzled. The younger Grimwing was a face not accustomed to smiling. Erlinger, in strange contrast, always wore the expression if he could help it whatever his mood. But Helga Grimwing lived up to her surname, stern and serious as a block of iron. It was characteristic of Vollstrecker and those in the black greatcoats of their position, he supposed. But Helga seemed genuinely unhappy with mere existence, if that were possible.
“Fraulein Grimwing is helping me in an investigation,” Erlinger continued, gesturing to the crowd. “Today just happened to fall on a day she and I were already working. Given the significance, I see utilizing her experience as both Vollstrecker and agent would be a great boon to our security.”
That was, almost certainly, a clever ruse. Erich and Erlinger had worked together long enough to know the Grand Inquisitor had a hundred small projects going, and few that required his attention to turn to the Herzland. If Grimwing was here, it was for a purpose beyond mere coincidence. He didn’t want to say it out in public, but his nagging suspicion pointed towards either the rise of Riverlands socialists on the border or the strange Black Claw group Erlinger had quietly told him about one dark day in a secluded office. Neither were things they could discuss out loud where any ear could listen, but he trusted their chief of intelligence, and if the Vollstrecker was here working for MfÖS Erich could trust her too.
“Well in that case, we welcome you both as honored guests! I trust Erlinger is doing everything to make you feel welcome in our city.” He shot a knowing glance at the Grand Inquisitor, one that seemed to say ‘we will talk later’. Erich prided himself on not being a petty stallion. He took everything seriously and dealt with it in a fair and even headed manner.
But all the same, he and Flare then left the demigriff to deal with General Scheer with no further preamble. That did seem rather petty after all. Erich didn’t care. Let the Grand Inquisitor deal with his secrets, so long as he understood what came with them.
As they mounted the steps onto the stage so they could wait off to the side as Wingfried prepared his speech, Flare leaned over to Erich again.
“A Reichsarmee general and a Vollstrecker who happens to be the daughter of the wounded MfÖS kommandant? Here on today of all days? Erich, I suspect there may be a plot in the works.”
He had the same suspicion buried under his skin. Normally, the Black Prince wouldn’t give it much thought. This was Erlinger, the Grand Inquisitor. Between him, his father and the demigriff there were few if any secrets, or at least none that a command would not reveal. But Flare had a point. Scheer’s command was logistics, and he was talking about supplying Erlinger’s operations in remote places like Cloudbury. Meanwhile, Helga Grimwing was apparently both Vollstrecker and spy, attending a ceremony that in all brutal honesty had nothing to do with her. Yes, this was an important day. To Ost-Griffonians. There could have been several conclusions he could have leapt to, but he feared his own opinion was too close to the subject.
“What do you think?” he asked his wife as they moved off to the side, now separated a bit more from the noise of the crowd. Flare, as an intellectual with military experience, was an expert in recognizing patterns. She was an ace at mathematics, and he had relied on her help for large compiled lists of information like census and budgets where, he admitted, his own military and political specialization often let him down.
She only needed a moment to chase the evidence to one of his own top conclusions.
“They’re expecting something. Either something to happen or waiting to jump on it. A general in charge of logistics in the Empire and a Vollstrecker with a sub specialization as a spy. Erlinger wants to flush something or someone out of hiding, and he’s expecting a wide range of places to search, some of them remote. He needs to keep his strike teams supplied, and maybe he’ll even rely exclusively on Herzlander personnel to maintain security.”
Erich nodded in agreement, glancing out over the crowd apprehensively. He was suddenly very glad for the magic defenses he had applied. Even here, in the center of Reformisten power, with their loyal soldiers arrayed around them, banners snapping in the breeze, examples of their power and image all over…he suddenly felt exposed. Like something or someone was watching him from afar, and he had completely neglected the odds of them taking their chance.
The music from the loudspeakers cut out. Horns blared. The honor guard marched out in perfect parade formation, rifles shouldered, gas masks affixed in place, bayonets gleaming and dress blacks pressed to within the strictest regulation. He and Flare moved into position, behind and to the right of the podium. Taillow was at Wingfried’s left, closer in. Generals, knights and advisors were lined up behind them. The crowd was falling silent at the display, as the honor guard of the famed knightly Stoßtruppen marched before the stage in silence, pivoting in formation before taking position before his father’s podium.
He glanced at his wife. She nodded back imperceptibly. Good. She understood. They were as ready as they could be.
Wingfried tapped the microphone with a talon, listening to the feedback and nodding in satisfaction. He leaned over the podium, talons digging lightly into the wood as his claws clenched. The audience was now in silent rapture, hooked onto his every motion and eagerly awaiting their king’s words.
“Angriff,” Wingfried said. It wasn’t a declaration, a battlecry or even a statement. The level tone and simplicity threw off many in the crowd. Regardless, a hard coded response meant many automatically repeated it, and a ragged return came back. But this was apparently fine to the Black King, and he waited another minute for silence to fall before he continued. “Attack. Strike with power. With honor. With intent. Our nation, our Great March, our Ost-Griffonia is centered around that idea. To act with power. With honor. With intent. Four years ago, we stepped from the dark. Two years ago, we rejoined the Vaterland. We acted. With power, with honor, with intent. I stretched out my arm,” and here, Wingfried did just that, a claw clenched into a fist. “And I struck. My knights, my soldiers. You. Were it not for all of you, I would not possess the power, the honor, the intent. I would not have stood before the Regency and been able to act, to save the Kaiser we all love and serve. The clenched fist is but a useless show of defiance without the strength to -drive- it! And we, the Reformisten, the Ostheer, the Order are the clenched fist! A mailed fist, made to smash those who stand before us! Before our destiny, our Grand Crusade! But you, the citizens of Ost-Griffonia, of the Grenzwald, the Great March, are the arm behind the fist! Angriff!” The response was much stronger now, and many fists were raised in the air from the crowd in reply, some even from children lifted by their parents to get a better look, copying the adults around them without full understanding of what they were doing. “The fist smashes! The arm drives it! With power! With honor! With intent! That is why, though I was the one who executed the traitor, it was your victory too! All of you, assembled here! Or in the factories, or on the field of battle marching west to face the enemies of the Vaterland! We drove that intent, and we smashed the traitors, the renegades! We smashed the communists, the minotaurs, the bandits! We are even now rising to smash the republicans, the old enemy that darkens our doorstep! And one day, my Ost-Griffonia, my Great March, we will smash the greatest of foes! But until that blessed day comes, we must continue to do the great work we have labored for until today! You will be the strength in our arms! We will march side by side with the Vaterland and His legions! And when the deed is done and every enemy is struck down by our righteous fury, we will know it was done with the fist above and the arm to bring it down! Today is a day of celebration -and- intent! Today, we join our brothers and sisters who have already marched to the west! The Black Knights and several units have already joined the fight, and now the rest of our mighty host will join them! And -I- will lead that host! Your king is not a monarch who sits around a fetid castle and sends off his subjects to die from the lap of luxury! And we are not a people who are prone to idly watch others go fight for us! I will be the fist of our intent! So! Be the strength in my arm! In OUR arm! For Ost-Griffonia! For the Order! For the Kaiser, and the Kaiserreich! ANGRIFF!”
The resultant swell was immense. Suitably egged on, the crowd’s response almost seemed to project a physical wave. Erich and Flare, unicorns both and tapped into the energy of magic, could feel the natural ebb and flow of the crowd’s energy. It wasn’t just here, either. The crowd couldn’t all fit in the square, and so loudspeakers across the city that normally trotted out propaganda slogans and music around the clock as well as radios throughout Griffonia at large were broadcasting the King’s speech instead, for those souls who could not physically see. The black, bug-eyed glass of lenses poked out from moving picture cameras set up by reporters, recording this event onto film to take back to wherever they reported from, process and develop the speech into a form that could be played on a screen and shown in cinemas across the continent. Maybe even the world. For a moment, Erich forgot all about his nervousness, about Erlinger and the danger he and Flare had suspected might be lurking around them so abruptly. For that moment, his chest surged with the crowd, and he breathed deep as he basked in the moment. It almost reminded him of the feeling when he had given the Mad Count’s execution order himself. Almost.
Something on the edge of his vision twinkled. Erich frowned, trying to focus on whatever it was. Like a deflating balloon, all that valor and pride sputtered away. His subconscious was screaming at him, trying to warn him. He knew what that shine was. He almost didn’t recognize it in time.
“Flare-” he started, half-turning to his wife.
With the scream of burning motors and the scorching light of phosphorous effects and colored gunpowder, fireworks shrieked into the night sky from behind the stage, dozens of them blasting into the air with the colors white, orange, yellow and blue. The crowd fell silent in awe as they watched, eagerly drinking in the spectacle.
Something smashed into Wingfried’s form. Delayed by distance, the sound of the shot was almost lost in the pop and bang of the fireworks. Belated by only a heartbeat, the shattering of Flare’s magic barrier she had projected in front of the podium in the nick of time sounded just like a glass bottle smashing on a stone floor. It wasn’t enough. The bullet slammed into Wingfried, sending the Black King, the Lord Protector, stumbling back in a small cloud of blue feathers and a spatter of red blood.
The crowd went ballistic. Awe turned to sheer panic, pride and happiness to frantic fear and anger. Lined around the perimeter, the Stoßtruppen responded immediately as they attempted to rein in the sudden frenzy, though they too were shaken. A cry for a medic went up and was carried from a dozen more throats nearby, generals and ministers ducking for cover. They were swiftly being ushered away by bodyguards and soldiers. Who knew how many assassins waited in the wings to decapitate the Ost-Griffonian government?
He didn’t wait. He had the shooter’s position, and waiting on military response would take precious time. The assassin, if he was a professional, would be long gone. If he was a novice, he still had a chance. A thin beam lanced from Erich’s horn, across the plaza, over the streets and away to the target, a watchtower on the city’s edge. An eyeblink later and the beam abruptly quadrupled in size, the impact shattering in an explosion of magic energy like someone had directed a cannon onto it. Erich had been preparing his magic for a moment like this. It drained him of arcane energy to do it, and he wouldn't have the juice to cast any other type of spell all night, but it would be worth the cost. The upper half of the tower sheared away, blasted to slag and shrapnel. The structure itself managed to remain upright.
Erich and Flare both dove for the King, and reached his father’s side the same moment Taillow did. His head was swimming. One would expect a lady of noble birth to be beside herself with blubbering incoherency, but Taillow had survived two revolutions, a military occupation and a liberation by force. Aside from the Duchess Gabriela, you couldn’t find a monarch of sterner make. Erich pushed hard, trying to flip Wingfried over, desperately looking for some sign of life, or the wound, whichever one he could get to first.
“No no no no no no!” he heard someone muttering frantically. It took him a heartbeat to realize it was him. But before he could really break down and become even more useless, Wingfried took a rattling breath, hacking and coughing as he tried to sit up. Flare, having moved into position to help the prince, stumbled back as she was almost knocked aside.
“Damn, that smarts!” The normally taciturn king slipped out, his usual stoicism breaking momentarily before he reasserted himself, merely gritting his beak as he tried to rise, failing as the limb refused to move and had to rely on his wife and son to support him. “By the gods, I’ve been shot…”
Another claw, this one black, joined the searching one of his wife. As Wingfried tried to assess his condition, he glanced up at Erich, blinking as he tried to focus on the stallion.
“The assassin?”
Erich nodded, though his head still swam with sudden exhaustion. That wasn’t a spell he could use often, and he desperately hoped there was only the one shooter.
“I blasted his perch. Need to send someone to get the prisoner. Or the body. Not sure which yet.”
Wingfried smiled, nodding as he laid his head back, breathing hard. Erich felt a swell of pride once more, recognizing the gesture. He’d done the right thing, and his quick reaction would keep this from becoming even more of a debacle than it already had.
Flare leaned over, concerned as she too looked towards the watchtower that was still crumbling to rubble, though the last of it was now falling.
“A single shot to go through my shield…Erich, that has to have been a dedicated sniper bullet. Tungsten core, perhaps. High-powered. A normal rifle couldn’t do that…”
Taillow whispered something, and Wingfried was talking to her. Erich blinked, realizing he’d missed what she had said, overwhelmed by the events and distracted by Flare’s statement.
“You’re sure?” Wingfried was saying, and the Queen nodded in response. The blue drake’s head swung back to the unicorn, the expression suddenly determined. “Get me up.”
“Father?” Erich pulled back in surprise, a little bit of fear coming back to him again. “No, you need to stay down. The medics are-”
“Hang the medics! Get me -up-! The bullet is only in my shoulder! Get! Me! Up!”
It was difficult to tell, as Wingfried’s black uniform would of course make it hard to track any bloodstains. But as Erich did a cursory inspection, he found the Knight’s cross on Wingfried’s breast. The medal, cast from tin, had a neat bullet hole punched in the top large enough to swallow the portion between the arms of the cross. When Wingfried had been shot, his arms were up, reaching into the sky. The medal would have been in the way. Erich frantically tugged at his father’s uniform. Underneath, the enchanted armor breastplate the Black King wore had a similar hole punched in it as well, and the white shirt was beginning to dark with bright crimson. But the blood flow was much slower than a heartshot, and Wingfried did not appear to be struggling for breath, so it was not a lungshot either.
Erich let out a ragged sigh of relief. The breastplate had been a gift from the Kaiser’s Regents, a piece of experimental armor similar to the full torso ones worn by the elite Stormtroopers and Imperial Guard. Hefty and uncomfortable under a jacket, it had come with the warning that such a thin plate of armor wasn’t as effective as a full piece. But it had done its job here, and coupled with Flare’s magical barrier (and dare he say the medal may have slowed the round as well) the bullet had lost its lethal momentum.
“Father, the bullet is still in there! We should-”
“What you should do, soldier, is GET ME UP! Angriff!”
Hard coded to respond, Erich immediately stiffened before he nodded, planting his hoof under Wingfried’s good shoulder and beginning to lift the king up. Several knights and officers nearby, watching cautiously with baited breath, stepped forward as well, bringing Wingfried to the podium.
The crowd was a seething mass of panic. A riot was already in process, and creatures below were getting trampled in the chaos. The landsers around the plaza were already grappling with the surge, trying their best to restrain the outbursts without violence. But they would likely resort to guns, clubs and fists any second now. There were children in that crowd. Elderly. Some were likely already injured in the chaos, adding to the pandemonium. Many were shrieking that the Black King was dead.
Wingfried’s claw sank into the podium, splinters flying as his talons dug in so forcefully, and he hauled himself free of the claws, paws and hooves pushing him up to snap up to the microphone.
“I AM NOT DEAD!”
At first, nothing changed. The crowd still seethed, still roiled and bucked. But some looked up in realization as the fog cleared and the voice registered in their ears.
“I AM -NOT- DEAD!”
Better now. More and more people were hearing the truth, turning away from their frantic attempts to break free. Soldiers and knights hesitated in their strikes, looking up from the civilians they’d been trying to corral. The screaming, for the most part, halted.
“I AM. -NOT-. Dead!” Wingfried chorused the third time, straightening himself up and using the podium to support himself fully now. The Black King’s blood was now evident under his collar and across the podium, splashed as he leaned over it to stay standing. Some of it leaked out of his beak, but he paid it no mind.
“AND! I am not FINISHED!” he roared. A few answering cheers rang out at the sight of their king standing, defiant and alive on the stage in front of the crowd, people suddenly given hope. Several injured and trampled and crying in the mass were finally given the room they needed to be freed and pulled out, dragged away so their injuries could be attended to. Up on stage, the medics finally arrived, but Wingfried held up a claw to forestall them before turning back to the plaza again.
“I have more to say!” he shouted into the microphone. His cap was askew, his uniform a shambles, but right now he cut a figure dashing and full of martial spectacle. “I still stand before you, cut down by cowards who would rather try to finish me from afar than come out and fight with anything like honor or chivalry! To any others out there who may seek to finish the job…” He spread his arms out wide, showing off his bloody torso, the ruined uniform hiding the punctured breastplate beneath.
“IS THAT ALL?!”
The crowd went ballistic. That same frenzy and energy that they had been channeling mere moments ago was abruptly turned towards the stage and podium as fists flew into the air, voices screaming in adulation and wonder, some chanting his name over and over again.
“WINGFRIED! WINGFRIED! ANGRIFF! ANGRIFF!”
“Angriff indeed!” the Black King seized on the ad hoc war cry and finally noticing the wrecked tower where he assumed his would be assassin was struck by his son’s magic, smiling again he continued. “It takes more than a coward’s bullet from beyond sight to destroy the righteous! My brothers, my sisters! My people, sons and daughters of Das Vaterland! I STAND! The Empire, and we ARE part of the Empire, never forget! The Empire has always had enemies! Mighty and weak aplenty! And we have shared many of those enemies, and they have sought to destroy us because they HATE us! The Reinigers tried to overtake us, and they FAILED! The Riverlanders wanted to dismantle us! They FAILED! The communist hordes streaming across the Republic, and Bakara, and Diamond Mountain! They CERTAINLY want to destroy us! And they WILL fail! I stand before you, and I declare that whatever dishonorable cad thought one bullet could destroy Ost-Griffonia, destroy the EMPIRE has FAILED, and WE will make sure they do, FOR MORNING WILL COME FOR US AND FOR THE EMPIRE! ANGRIFF!!”
The chant went up.
“ANGRIFF! MORGEN KOMMT! ANGRIFF! MORGEN KOMMT!”
And then, bleeding all over his podium, slumping into the claws and hooves of his family, bodyguards and generals, Lord Protector King Wingfried finally allowed the medics to pull him over to the stretcher and be taken away at last.
Erich and Flare met Taillow offstage, as the three were hustled away by the Black Knight protection detail. Just ahead, the stretcher bearing Wingfried was now being bustled into the rear of the ambulance, and Erich winced as he realized his father’s movements had grown still. The grand spectacle appeared to have drained the king of his remaining strength. The prince hoped that wasn’t an omen. Shoulder wounds killed only rarely, and he swore the blood didn’t look dark enough or fast enough for an artery. But his knowledge of battlefield medicine was only that of a soldier’s, after all.
Taillow pushed past her protectors, approaching the heirs quickly.
“We need to regain control, before any disruption happens,” she said curtly. The snow white formel was normally the image of the last remaining aristocratic grace in the Great March, but now she showed the side of her that had allowed her to keep Cyanolisia afloat and alive as long as she had. “Cyrod and Silvertalon need to be contacted and in position. I doubt we’ll see a coup attempt, but we’ll suffer if we’re not ready. Muzzle the press, make sure the story is controlled, tell Ferrous to get on it. It will be harder to change the narrative later if wild speculation gets out of claw. Secure the city, send word to Hindenbark and Beekyarov to activate the garrisons across the March. And get a message to Gabriela, too. If we are at threat from within, a division or two from the Reichsarmee will limit the damage.”
Despite her gracious, noble demeanor that she projected, the White Queen knew exactly how to handle a crisis, and her snappy orders were delivered with the same firm inevitability as a drilling ground training NCO. It wasn’t a question, you -would- obey her orders as if they had come from the god Arcturius himself.
Erich and Flare both nodded automatically in response before Taillow finally allowed her bodyguards to whisk her away, separate from the ambulance carrying her husband, already ringed by motorcycle outriders. If a followup attack sought to kill the King and Queen together, it would fail.
He blew a breath out from tight lips, trying to exhale all the stress and worry away. This was it, the day Wingfried had warned him about. Even if the Black King lived, it was up to him to keep it all together in the meantime. If he died, Erich would take up the mantle. He was prepared, certainly, but now it was a possible reality he felt terror and anticipation grip his guts.
“Hey,” Flare said to him, lightly nudging his shoulder with a hoof. “C’mon. Breathe. We’ve got this.”
“Yeah,” Erich said, nodding. He was grateful only his wife knew him well enough to read his physical reactions like that. It wouldn’t do for his advisors, generals and subjects to see his nerves. To distract himself a moment, he looked to her and smiled. “Thanks…for saving him. If your barrier hadn’t gone up in time, I don’t think that breastplate would have saved him.”
She flushed a little, smiling back in appreciation. “You were the one who warned me. If you hadn’t said something-”
“Stop,” Erich said, waving a hoof. “Let’s not go around in this circle. Thank you. I know…I know he thinks of you like a daughter. However distant he acts. He used your name as the rally cry, did you notice?”
Her blush grew deeper, more flustered as her smile faltered in surprise. “‘Morgen kommt?’ I thought he was just saying the morning would come…” She trailed off, thinking about it from Erich’s point of view before nodding, slowly. But the Royal Heirs couldn’t say anything else, as the calm moment they’d had was ending. It was time to get to the unpleasant task ahead.
Even as they began issuing orders, Erich couldn’t help but glance back at the watchtower again, though he could spy the response force closing in right now. It kept bothering him, like a loose tooth that refused to let go and pop out. Though the clawing in his gut was of a far, far deeper anxiety than that.
The response force was small. It had to be, for the on claw troops in the city would be immediately securing VIPs, the government buildings, the routes in and out of Hellquill and clearing the crowds. But, to be honest, she hadn’t expected to be in front leading the charge. With Agent Blaukralle at her side, Helga Grimwing led the way up the service path towards the ruined watchtower, ten Ostheer landsers and a single Black Knight in tow. Grand Inquisitor Erlinger took up a middle position, his magical aura flaring so hot it was visible as a thin red mist around him. Helga wasn’t an expert on magic, so she wasn’t sure if it was simply responding to Erlinger’s burning rage or if he was simply building a spell. Either way, it was to their benefit to keep their most powerful mage in the center, where a lucky shot was less likely to pick him off.
The tower was truly a wreck. Built of sturdy and modern brick and cement work, steel rebar jutted out from the concrete chunks around them like broken bones from severed limbs, the larger pieces gouging furrows out of the grass around the base. At least some of it must have been blown outside of the city as well, into the surrounding forest. Despite how much had been taken off, the rest was still enough to hide a single gundrake. The door at the base of the tower was intact, and Helga wondered what had happened to the sentries that were supposed to have been posted here. Had the assassin bribed them off? Or simply killed them and hid the bodies first? Questions for later, she decided.
Blaukralle reached the door first, pistol in claw as he ran his talons around the outside edge, feeling for wires or pressure triggers. The other troopers stood back warily, eager but outside their expertise. Fantastic in discipline though they were, MfÖS urban combat techniques were absolutely foreign to them. Like the Reichsarmee, their own methods of breaching involved breaking the door down, tossing in a grenade and then clearing a structure room by room, but the Ministerium were a little more...thorough.
Blaukralle stood, silently making a claw signal that the door was clear, moving to the breach position. Helga stood opposite, ready to make the strike to clear the way for him. To her surprise, Erlinger assumed the opposite position, which would have him enter third behind her. He nodded to show his readiness, magic aura still hot as he gripped his own C78, and she suppressed a scowl. Of course her mother would have allowed him access to MfÖS training programs. She shouldn’t be surprised.
But that could wait until later. She signaled to Blaukralle, who nodded, and Helga took a step away, gathered all her strength and lunged forward, planting a booted paw into the door to the left of the lock. The door burst inwards as the iron exploded out in a cloud of splinters, but Helga had already stepped away to avoid incoming reactive fire. No shots came, and a split second later Blaukralle was storming the door, then her, then Erlinger.
The bottom floor was exactly what she expected of a guard tower. A rifle rack off to the side held both Ost-Griffonia’s own M-02 heavy caliber service rifles as well as Imperial M-10 Specht submachine guns and the newer Gerund rifles. A smaller rack held service pistols, and a locker next to each would hold a sufficient amount of ammunition and perhaps some explosives. There was a table and chairs, all of them covered in debris from above, and in the corner were a pair of bunks for those on extended shifts to get rest before coming back on duty. The staircase, unsurprisingly was cluttered with shattered wood debris, concrete chunks and steel shrapnel, as well as what looked like the panel door up to the top section. But what was most interesting was what sat at the foot, or more likely who.
“Gun!” Blaukralle declared, moving forward with his pistol trained on the figure slumped in the stairwell, kicking the rifle away from their assassin before stepping back, allowing the three of them to keep their weapons trained on the pony. A pony who, to all appearances was extremely unremarkable. His coat was a neutral tawny brown, his mane the color of dark chocolate. He wore a plain shirt and a worn jacket, and while his Duty Mark was that of a crosshair it wasn’t as rare in the East as the west. The stallion was clearly injured, bleeding from several small wounds in his neck and chest. A piece of rebar stuck out of his side, but Helga had seen enough wounded creatures to know there wasn’t any immediate danger yet. Oh, he’d bleed out in a few hours if the wound wasn’t seen to but it wasn’t like they needed to get a couple of fliers to rush him out or blitz a unicorn healer to him.
The stallion coughed, dust and debris lightly puffing from his shoulders before he slowly raised his hooves, looking the three of them in the eye with an expression of resignation.
“I surrender,” he said plainly, his accent a curious lilt that Helga struggled to place. The Riverlands had a dozen dialects at least and that was the major languages and cants. If she had to guess, he was Lakeish, maybe even Wittenlander. “I shot the Black King Wingfried. The king is dead, long live the king.”
“The King lives,” Erlinger retorted coolly, his tone flat but his aura not receding in the slightest. “You have failed.”
The assassin didn’t seem too put out by this, simply shrugging wearily in that world-worn way many who have consigned themselves to their fates adopted.
“Maybe. Maybe not. We shall see. But I got my revenge. I took revenge for thousands of ponies, millions who died at the claws of him and his mad followers. One life for many. It is both fitting…and not.”
“You’re awful chatty for a sharpshooter with a few holes in him,” Blaukralle noted, thumb hovering over the hammer of his revolver. “Not gonna go with ‘please spare me’ or ‘I need a doctor?’ C’mon, those are the classics.”
“Why?” the stallion asked back. “You have me in your power. All I have left is to express my intent. So I will, even if you kill me here. When Ost-Griffonia comes for its revenge on the Riverlands, when all see the true face of the Reformisten, the one you have hidden behind your lies and your slogans and your speeches, the world will reject you again. With one bullet, I’ve killed not just your King, but your nation. Even the Empire will have to take notice of what you are. What you -still- are.”
“I see,” Erlinger said simply. To Helga’s surprise, the magic aura receded, and the Grand Inquisitor seemed to relax. “Not a bad plan.”
And then, without further preamble, he shot the pony in the forehead.
Helga wasn’t a stranger to summary execution, hell it was part of her job as a Reichsarmee Vollstrecker. Though a drastic resort, summary execution worked wonders on restoring morale in the pitch of battle, provided your troops were more afraid of you than your enemy. But she hadn’t quite expected Erlinger’s reaction. Blaukralle was a bit more vocal, stumbling back in surprise before he scoffed and holstered his revolver.
“Well, now we’re getting -nothing- outta him.”
“We don’t have to,” Erlinger said plainly, still staring at the corpse. “He said everything we needed to know. Why he did it, who he is and what he expects will happen, however delusional. With those, I know exactly what is going on.”
“Care to fill the rest of us in, then?” Blaukralle responded, leaning down over the pony and patting his pockets down as he too looked for further evidence.
“I shall,” Erlinger replied, holstering his own pistol. “First, you’ll find all of his proper documentation on him. I believe his papers will say he is a refugee from Lake City, and was only processed recently. Everything will be in order. His background will list him as former Lakeish military, and a cursory check will probably reveal it to have been recent, so in the Grand Prince’s army.”
Blaukralle extracted the pony’s passbook, flipping open the pages until he found what he was looking for, nodding after a quick examination.
“Zimsko Zora, Lakeish, processed over the border two weeks ago, former military. All right there.”
“Quite. Now, he’s assumed we will take his statement as fact and go to the next logical step; we investigate any and all connections to the Grand Prince. I am betting we will find he is still technically listed on active duty, if perhaps deserted. Given the distance of the shot, the specialized tungsten core ammunition and the rifle itself, he was likely a sharpshooter of some skill. Lakeish marksmares and stallions are trained to eliminate knights with this kind of shot, and to my knowledge are the only ones who do so. In the west, the Empire, Aquileia, Wingbardy and the Revolutionary Army prefer light cannons or crystal rifles. But I digress. The connection. If King Wingfried had been killed, and we were the shallow sort of zealots he took us as, this would allow us to declare the Great Crusade and march on the Riverlands with the fury of the people at our backs. Clearly, the plan is for us to be so caught up in our desire for revenge, we are driven to abandon the Kaiserreich in arguably their hour of greatest need…and also arguably before we are actually ready. This would seem like the grand, elaborate scheme of a stallion acting alone…but I know he’s not.”
“You think there are other assassins lurking in wait,” Helga stated, but Erlinger shook his head.
“No. It has to -look- like he was alone, a single forlorn soul caught up in his madness that he concocted this scheme by himself. Multiple assassins implies greater strategy, coordination and an even greater amount of resources for infiltration. Then we must ask ourselves how exactly this pony came over the border with such a background. Why was he not detained, interrogated and isolated, placed under observation by the Geheimstaat or sent to a refugee camp to ascertain if he was a risk? Standing procedure exists to prevent exactly what just happened today. And then he penetrates our city’s security on a day when it should be highest and gets past the guards stationed here? For an event like this, there should have been a squad of at least ten at this post. I estimate that though he is no slouch, our assassin would only have been able to cleanly kill two, perhaps three on his own. And he knew when to strike between patrols. I suspect we will find no anomalies on radio logs either, so he knew the passphrases and how to properly respond.”
Erlinger looked between Blaukralle and Helga, nodding as he saw realization drawing on their faces.
“For a single stallion, acting on his own, with no escape plan? Impossible for such an amateur. He wanted to be caught, so he could state who he was and leave no doubt to the fact. He told us exactly what his intention was, so it was his goal for us to know. Most professionals I know of would either have killed themselves to avoid capture, gone down fighting to the last or quietly gone to prison and let their connections get them out. No, we’re not dealing with a professional hit. Merely a soldier frustrated by something that outraged him…and recruited without realizing he was being wielded like one picks up a rifle.”
Helga and Blaukralle glanced to each other again, a new kind of understanding dawning now. A dark one.
“You think the Claw set him up for this?”
“My dear, I -know- the Claw set him up for this. All the evidence points to a benefactor. And no group that I can think of would want events to line up as they would in this ideal circumstance. Wingfried possibly killed, mistrust in the Black Prince because of his species and nation of origin, the Riverlands invaded in their time of vulnerability, the Empire abandoned and, if worst comes to worst, Ost-Griffonia potentially dismantled either by the Kaiser’s Regents themselves, an effective Riverpony counterattack or maybe even crumbling under its own weight without the king's leadership. There is no Imperial noble, Ost-Griffonian zealot or Riverpony warlord that could seriously look at this scenario as a whole and think it a victory. We’re dealing with a group that -wants- that kind of devastation. What would the Empire do if it had to fight both the Entente and and the RIverlands? What instability would rock Griffonia in such extremes?”
Erlinger’s face, normally stoic or controlled, became extremely grim.
“The possibilities are, honestly, not anything good for the future of the Empire. It goes without saying, the truth cannot get out. A Riverpony did not do this. We will find another scapegoat, a lone stranger who came in the night and attempted to kill the King. We have dozens of potential enemies we can frame this on, and few who can possibly dispute it.”
Helga nodded, seeing the pieces falling neatly into place to avert the potential disaster.
“That’s another cold lead, though. We’re no closer to finding the Claw with this, and if we just stay reactive there’s every risk they’ll succeed eventually.”
“We shall simply have to keep up our defensive measures. Until we have information to act on, that is all we can do. Call the landsers in, we must move the body at once and contain the story.” Erlinger glanced to Blaukralle, who had gone quiet as he stood there, staring at the body of the assassin. “Agent? Are you coming?”
“Yeah…yeah I’m coming, Herr Inquisitor.”
As Erlinger, annoyed, turned fully to correct Blaukralle and inform him once more that his title was Grand Inquisitor, it was with shock that he realized he was looking down the barrel of Blaukralle’s service revolver, the hammer thumbed back and the agent’s face a grim mask of determination. No, he wasn’t aiming at Erlinger. Helga was just off to his right, heading for the door with every intent to start issuing orders, her mind likely already ahead in the office as she resumed her work trying to figure out the next steps in her investigation. Blaukralle’s weapon was pointed directly between her wingjoints. At this range, he couldn’t miss.
He had no time to attack. But he was close enough to intervene.
“Helga!” he cried, swiftly maneuvering into the path of the gun’s muzzle. Two shots rang out, and Erlinger let out a pained squawk as he dropped, the muscles on his back spasming as, though long parted from his wings, his instinct was to flare them out in pain and distress. With no time to prepare a magic shield and no experimental enchanted armor like Wingfried, the two 10mm rounds buried themselves in his torso. The albino thrashed on the floor, and though this all happened in the space of a heartbeat, it was more than enough time to drag Helga’s mind straight back to the present time and space. It didn’t matter that the one holding the gun was her partner, the one she had shared this investigation with the past few months and spent countless hours alongside trying to connect all the dots, the stormtrooper training and vast combat experience already had her reflexively drawing the Blautal pistol from its holster, safety thumbed off on the upswing.
Blaukralle’s surprised expression as she drilled two shots into his chest and one in his skull told that he had just enough time to realize the devastating consequences of his action right before she killed him in a flash. It almost seemed she was unaware of committing the deed, her face resolute and hard as if she had just delivered a summary execution to a landser in the field, or perhaps killed a socialist agitator she had been interrogating. She remained this way, hard and unmoving, until the body of her former partner crumpled to the concrete right next to the sniper pony. It had been a very neat, textbook spread to ensure a kill.
But then she let out a shaky breath, her pistol wavering and her back suddenly releasing its held discipline and tension, wings half flared in emotional response as she tried to get herself back under control.
“Well,” she muttered shakily to Blaukralle’s corpse, carefully holstering her weapon. “Fuck you too, I guess.”
Erlinger groaned at her booted feet, and she abruptly remembered his presence and injury before she holstered her weapon, leaning down to inspect him with her training on battlefield aid.
“Dammit, you albino fool. You didn’t have to do that,” she growled as she yanked his jacket open, her claws slashing the belt and buckles to get quicker access. Erlinger chuckled in return, though his cough immediately after said he regretted that action quickly.
“If I had-” cough “-let you die, your mother would have killed-” wheeze “-me anyway. This way, I might survive too.”
“Stop. Talking,” Helga snapped, finally getting the vest open as well and inspecting the Grand Inquisitor’s shirt, feeling and trying to get a sense under the feathers and cloth. The bloodstains told of where the shots had impacted, but low-velocity police rounds like the Reichsrevolver wouldn’t have penetrated all the way through. Erlinger’s quick reaction might have saved her life, but he clearly hadn’t the time to put up a magic shield to protect himself.
Still, to her relief she found that the wounds were not in critical places, or bleeding out of control. Gunshots were still gunshots, of course. But Erlinger had a bit of time.
“Landsers!” she called out, tearing at Erlinger’s coat and shirt in an attempt to create more padding to stem the bleeding. “I need help in here!”
Dammit, where were they? Come to think of it, while they might have ignored a single shot as a summary execution, the brief firefight that had broken out not twenty seconds ago should have brought them running, despite orders to hold position until the clear signal was given they were expected to have initiative. What was taking so long?
She looked up at the door. They had left it open, after all. But what she hadn’t expected was the scene of carnage outside. Just beyond the shattered wall and the door they’d kicked open, pools of blood and ribbons of flesh decorated the ground, the grass stained crimson and overlaid with shredded scraps of black. She could only tell them apart roughly by looking for mismatched colors of fur and feathers, and in one instance the crumpled remains of what had once been a suit of enchanted armor plate.
And, to top it all off, it had been completely silent. That meant overwhelming power, overwhelming speed or overwhelming numbers. In the worst case scenario, all three. No shouts. No reactions, no gunfire. She hadn’t even heard the landsers being butchered. At the very least, the knight should have put up a struggle.
She drew her pistol again, swiftly exchanging magazines, though what eight rounds of 9mm were going to do against something that could carve enchanted plate open like a buzzsaw against aluminum she had little idea. Not for the first time, she cursed at not getting herself some specialty ammunition before coming to this event. Stupid, stupid girl.
She rose, moving silently to the door. Erlinger, for all his suffering, quickly caught on to the danger, keeping his agony muffled and applying pressure to the ad hoc bandages. Helga made it to the wrecked portal, not daring to go outside just yet, instead trying to lean around what little cover it provided and get a better view. It did her little good. The lane was deserted, a consequence of the controlled perimeter and the city being locked down. The garrison would not come here until the all clear was given, and so far as she knew none of them had a radio. She glanced at the corpses once more, wincing at the sheer level of savage violence committed here. They weren’t just dead, they were shredded. Ten troopers and a knight turned into dog chow like they’d been run over by a combine harvester. Helga had seen some horrendous carnage in combat, whether on the battlefield or off it in the shadow war she waged on behalf of her mother, but this was…purposeful. Nogriff went to this level of effort unless they deliberately wanted it done so.
There was nothing more to be gained by staying here. They couldn’t wait out whatever this was, not with Erlinger’s injuries. And help wouldn’t be coming with higher priorities than a pile of rubble. And so, she stepped out, scanning the lane with her pistol up, her claw gently flexing on the grip as her wings half flared before she put them back down with effort. The silence was unnatural. True, Hellquill was no Griffenheim, but even a city this size had plenty of ambient noise nearby. Stray feral animals, late night skulkers, the hum of idle machinery or buzz of electricity. With Prince Erich’s focused shot, she realized even the nearby streetlights had been blown out. Any ambient noise was distant, distracted and focused on more important efforts. She was alone with whatever had committed this slaughter.
She tried to focus her senses, pick up on whatever might be out there. Her eyes widened, trying to absorb every beam of background light. Her ears twitched back and forth, trying to listen for something, anything. At one point she spun, trying to pinpoint a scraping noise, only to realize it was the sound of her own clothes rubbing against themselves. She released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and to her amplified and adrenaline soaked hearing it almost sounded like a rattle of machine gun fire.
Calm. She needed to calm down. Breathe in, count to four. Breathe out, count to four. Repeat as necessary.
Something clattered off a tin roof nearby in the middle of her mantra and she snapped around almost completely reversed, her paws following her upper body motion with only a heartbeat of lag. That hadn’t been imagined, and it certainly sounded like talons on metal. Another sound, up a rain gutter, and as she spun back she swore she caught the glimpse of a shadowy form clambering up a wall. On reflex, she squeezed the trigger, too late realizing the shot wouldn’t connect. In an instant, she was blind and deaf, her keyed up senses leaving her briefly insensate. And helpless.
Out of the darkness made deep again by her abrupt reaction, something came out. Her mind took a moment to realize that, despite the utter -wrongness- about it and the sense that it put her in mind of burlap being slowly torn by pulling it down over steel spikes, the sound was a -chuckle-. A dark laugh that made her gut churn and her feathers and fur stand on end. She couldn’t place it, not just because it was a single chortle and thus far too short, but also because it seemed to be coming from everywhere around her.
”Meine Tochter,” came a voice, just as utterly repulsive and slick as the chuckle but far worse now because her mind could no longer subconsciously reject it as a figment of her imagination. She spun on the spot, saw a shadow and pulled the trigger. The pistol barked again, but in the muzzle flash there was nothing and then she was blind once more, blinking as she tried to clear her eyes.
“Meine Tochter.”
Chills ran up her spine, a thrill of ice cold water poured down her jacket at that. Once more, the words had rolled out of the darkness as if from everywhere, but seemingly from nowhere. Only now, she recognized them. Though that subtle sense of wrongness was gone from them, they terrified her for a different reason. That voice she had last heard as a little chick, all those years ago.
Whatever this thing was, it spoke with her father’s words, dead for two decades after being stabbed in broad daylight on the steps of a military akademie in no different a state as the bodies outside now. This was no mere apparition, no figment of her nightmares and hyper-active paranoid imagination. It -wanted- her to hear this. It had gotten her attention, and when she was searching and listening carefully, had slipped into its mimicry. And it was perfect mimicry, too. She heard the huskiness in the tone, the tired edge to it she wouldn’t recognize until she was older. To her ears, that -was- her father.
But he was dead. Long dead.
“Meine Tochter.”
She spun again, firing a pair of shots into the dark. This time, she wasn’t even sure she’d seen a shadow. But if she wasn’t careful, she’d burn through her ammunition and be fumbling for a reload. That’s what this thing had to be doing. Provoking her into wasting her shots and striking when she was defenseless and occupied. She wanted to run, to fly. To turn and flee into the night sky, wings spread and pumping for all they were worth as she tried to escape and save her skin, call for help as all she left behind was a cluster of feathers.
Calm. Down. She tried to steady her breath. It was no easy task, and she hiccupped at one point as she accidentally swallowed an air bubble.
Where was it now?
“Tochter.”
THAT had been right behind her, and she pirouetted on the spot to find herself looking up at a figure that absolutely towered over her, letting no light touch him or reveal his features. He was so close, he was TOO close. The arms were long and strangely proportioned, tipped in wicked talons or claws like a brace of bayonets. With a sick thrill, she spotted the shadowy wings and the sinister white beak and she realized this phantom was some kind of sick, malformed version of a griffon. The sinking feeling crept over her. This had been a trap, and they had walked right in.
She fired again, feeling the pistol buck. Even from a lowered position, she couldn’t miss. And yet, as she blinked to banish the muzzle flash, she realized the bullet had struck the stone wall. How? It had been close enough for it to reach out and touch her, and even though it had been at least twice as tall that meant it had been practically in her face.
“Silly,” said in a carefree tone of voice behind her, and she spun once more, leveling her weapon to find…she blinked, trying to realign her mental track. That was a griffon, a drake dressed in bright red robes, decorated with some kind of white sigil. In the smothering darkness, she couldn’t quite make out his face, aside from the eyes. His eyes were like liquid pools of petroleum, the iris replaced with glowing white orbs. The effect was similar to looking at the reflection of the full moon in a pond. But the emotion behind those eyes held nothing but rage, contempt beyond any soldier she had seen, any zealot championing their cause. Something animalistic was behind those eyes, those pools that utterly radiated sheer sadism.
And that voice that had uttered from his beak, she realized, had been that of her father.
She didn’t hesitate, raising the pistol once more and firing. But, just like before, he disappeared. Not as neatly, this time. This time, though he vanished in an eyeblink, he left behind a puff as if blasting apart into smoke, a few feathers lazily drifting down before appearing to just slip straight into the ground and disappear.
How many shots had that been now? Was that really so important, the damn thing that admonished her like in her chickhood all those years ago could clearly move fast enough to seemingly dodge bullets. She began backing up, trying to keep things under control, her boot slipping in spilled intenstine. If it had wanted her dead she would have been by now; it was toying with her, playing with its food, savoring its last victims. Erlinger. He was a mage, and if there was a mystery monster in the world, this -thing- was it for certain. Long ago, a common saying had laid down the law, before magitek was even a dream; ‘only magic can defeat magic.’
“Erlinger, whatever you’ve got I need you to help me with this thing!” Helga declared as she practically scrabbled through the door backwards, wings flared uncontrollably as her fear spiked through her despite the discipline and experience at least allowing her to still act in the face of such a nasty, despicable creature, born from what had to be the darkest stories of old legend, some phantom from the deep forests that made creatures such as hydras, manticores and ophiotaurs seem like a mundane joke. She didn’t take her eyes off the lane ahead, for she knew the second she did it would manifest and come for her at last, its amusement at the play acting exhausted.
She received no response.
Despite every bone in her body telling her not to, despite knowing the second she did she would look back up to dark, rending claws and a maw stretched open to tear her to ribbons, she glanced down. Grand Inquisitor Erlinger lay unmoving in a puddle of his own blood, the bandage patches no longer pressed to his wounds. She was certain he was still alive, as she could hear his shallow breathing, but that seemed the only source of life in him.
“Ah, scheiße!” she hissed. That was it. Her last resource, exhausted. She was a dead formel now, and no one would know the truth of what happened here. All they’d find was the dead sniper and the entire investigative team wiped out. If the Geheimstaat were on the bounce, they’d still make the same connections, and all of Erlinger’s predictions would still come true. Her eye suddenly snatched up to the watchtower’s armory. Maybe, just maybe, if they were still outfitted properly, there would be a grenade in there.
She turned back. There it was, as she knew. Even though she had only looked away for what had to have been a heartbeat, the -creature- had reappeared before her, claws reaching in after her. The one saving grace was that it was too tall. As one sickeningly long appendage slammed into the floor, the other gripped the top of the doorframe, and it leaned down so it could enter. As it came into the light, Helga could finally get a good look at it…and utterly wished she hadn’t. The skin was black and twisted, stretched to accommodate whatever growth this thing had gone through, the flesh underneath ragged and holed, exposing white bone underneath as well as some black seeping fluid she suspected substituted for blood in its twisted frame. Its plumage was the same, as if someone had taken the skin and merely stretched it on a skeleton that was both too big and the wrong shape for it, brown and black feathers sparsed out thinly on the thin and sickening tapestry, interspersed by smaller spikes of midnight black. As it leaned down, the head abruptly spun on the long neck, practically twisting one hundred and eighty degrees like an owl as it looked her directly in the eye with those massive, sadistic milky white orbs. Though it held no obvious expression on its stretched, malformed face, she almost felt it was giving her a sinister grin as it concluded its playtime and moved in for the kill.
She wanted to be sick. Desperately, her gut wanted to eject her last meal in that pit-formed response to horror and fear. It was only by the edge of her willpower clinging on like one does to the lip of a cliff that she kept it from happening. Instead, wings flared in a show of whatever defiance she could manifest, she dove towards the arms locker, raising the pistol and squeezing the trigger. If she was going to die, she’d go down fighting dammit. Her pistol barked twice before the slide locked. Two shots was a poor note to depart on, she lamented as her talon tightened on the trigger again and again for bullets the back of her mind reminded her would no longer erupt forth. It didn’t even bother to dodge the shots this time, one 9mm round burying in its face as the other pockmarked the wall behind it. Though the bullet pierced twisted flesh and black blood spurted out, it wasn’t enough to stop it. A claw shot out, lightning fast, the snapping and crunching of breaking bones and contorting joints allowing it to reach around the angle most others would find awkward. In a stroke, it had negated the few advantages she could make for herself. Now, there was only death. Would it be at this monstrosity’s rending claws, or would she have enough time to arm the grenade before it blasted her off to stand before Boreas’ gates? At this point, there would be only seconds to answer it.
Grand Inquisitor Erlinger’s eyes snapped open, the magic aura he’d been quietly gathering around his wounded form flaring to life in a blast of red energy. His claw swiftly raised from where it had been laying next to him in concealment, C78 clutched in his talons tight enough that the skin under his feathers was pale from tension. This was one of the modernized versions, with a red 9 stamped into its grip, and the shot that erupted was also a 9mm. Taken offguard from a direction it had ignored, the creature twisted devilishly fast, pulling itself aside as it sought to avoid the shot. For a split second, Helga assumed Erlinger had used his last moment to buy her time to get to the locker. He would now be torn to shreds, but it might guarantee her the time to get to the grenades, maybe even arm more than one and take this thing down with them.
She was wrong. And never before had she been so glad to be.
Almost as soon as it had been fired, the bullet was wrapped in a pocket of red energy, faster than the eye could process. It arced around, changing its trajectory and casually flipping the bird to the laws of physics as it practically reversed course, plunging down and slicing into the creature’s neck. Again, coming from an unexpected direction, it had no clue of what was coming even as it loomed over Erlinger to finish him. It shrieked as the shot tore through showing actual weakness for the first time, recoiling at the unexpected pain. The cry was some kind of guttural scream, like talons raking on a thousand blackboards, deafening like an artillery barrage. Helga, her claw on the grenade she had sought, talon in the safety pin, found her joints frozen up as she was battered by the force of the scream. It had to be cursed magic, and she couldn’t finalize the motion that would end it all. But Erlinger hadn’t actually stopped firing, his talon jamming at the trigger again and again and again, and each one was a guided missile of red tracers lancing out from his pistol barrel to keep smashing into the monster over and over, driving it back. It had no reference, no movement to avoid and the shots chased after its erratic motions. Momentarily confused, it jerked out the door like an arm pulled out of a tight space when something nips the tip of a knuckle.
Spotlights snapped on from above. A heartbeat later, the lane outside was swallowed by a storm of machine gun fire. Once more, that long, piercing scream as black blood splashed the ground, the sight obscured by the dust kicked up under the barrage.
When it finally stopped, the creature was gone. No black blood or feathers remained to show any sign of its existence. Just bullet holes and the remains of its butchered victims. Above, the polizei airship drifted closer, the drone of its engines lessening as the craft descended towards the ruined watchtower and the scene of battle outside. Ropes descended from the belly as winged shapes glided down, griffons and pegasi alike holding rifles at the ready as they scanned the area from the surrounding rooftops.
“Thank the gods,” Helga breathed, gently setting the grenade back into the arms locker, pin still in place. “Boreas protects.”
A cough and a splutter from the floor quickly dragged her attention, and she remembered Elringer was still wounded. She stumbled over, her claws seemingly weak and numb as the adrenaline bled back out of her limbs.
“You stupid idiot!” she cursed as she once more applied pressure to the bullet wounds. “You made me think you were dead! Or in shock, at least!”
Erlinger coughed, and it sounded wet this time, though no blood came out.
“Ulvesang! Ravenholm-”
Whatever he was about to say was cut off, however, as his head snapped back down to the floor, his cap askew as he convulsed, beak clenched shut as the pink tip of his tongue lay nearby, having been snipped off at the violent action. His eyes had rolled up into his head, and he was no longer coherent enough to speak. His spasms got sharper, more severe.
“No you don’t you bastard!” Helga bawled as she immediately threw her weight onto him to pin the Inquisitor down. “You don’t get to pull that stunt on me and die after all that!”
She could hear booted paws and the clatter of hooves and claws outside, the polizei troops moving in to secure the area. They were still out of sight, and she couldn’t quite lean over to see out the door.
“Hey! You out there! I need a medical lift! The Grand Inquisitor is going into shock!”
The clatter swarmed towards her, and she shifted so whoever came through the door first could get at Erlinger, aware she was now covered in his blood, her own cap sent askew even after it had remained on her head in the whole struggle. The ruined door, already left wide open, was suddenly full of griffons and ponies as they burst into the too small space. Of course, adding to this was the fact that their frontrunner was a coal black griffon whose feathers were even darker than his uniform, a massive drake who seemed to just stretch up higher and higher above her even on all fours. For a moment she had a startling flash of a reminder of the creature, but her self control reasserted itself as she realized she was gazing up at Luftfeldmeister Beekyarov, commander of Ost-Griffonia’s fledgling air force, his blue rank flashes on his collar matching the ribbon threaded into his lapel. Though she had never met him before now, she knew him from his photograph, both the propaganda shots in the papers and the MfOS files she had been given.
“Herr Vollstrecker!” he bellowed, and Helga realized that with such a big frame naturally came a loud and deep bass voice. “Allow us, if you please!”
She gladly leaned back, allowing Beekyarov to scoop Erlinger’s twitching form up in his arms. A strange contrast they made, Erlinger’s albino feathers against Beekyarov’s pitch black ones, and the air kommandant wasted no time in turning and hustling out the door, barking order at the polizei troopers as he did so. If they got Erlinger to the airship’s small but capable medical bay, they could stabilize him long enough to rush him off to the city hospital.
In an instant, she was alone. Oh, the troopers were outside securing the area, and she wouldn’t be by herself for long. But right now, it was just her sitting amongst the dead. She sat back, leaning against the wall as she gasped for air, trying to process everything that had happened, running a claw over her face and forgetting the blood that now painted her feathers. Her eyes glanced over to the sniper stallion, almost forgotten and rendered nearly irrelevant in the desperate struggle that had reared up out of nowhere. Then she looked over to Blaukralle, whom she had dropped with almost no hesitation.
First, a sniper that had managed to infiltrate the city and take a shot at Wingfried, then a turncoat agent in their own ranks, and a monster so supernatural it had to have crawled from the cursed pits of Tartarus under Maar’s guidance. Her claws shook as she tugged out a cigarette, managing to light the smoke after struggling with the lighter. In the silence and gloom, only one coherent thought struggled out of her racing mind.
“What the fuck just happened?”
She could have imagined it, her mind was swimming hard and fast and she swore she could feel the onset of a dizzy spell about to settle on her, maybe even pass out, but as she slumped forward a sound seemed to drift to her in the wind, and while it held the same unnatural reverberations as the creature, she almost thought that if she was actually hearing it, her father’s voice might have been under the word.
”Tochter…
30 km northeast of Vanguardigo, Aquileia 3rd Armee, 19th Panzer-Division ‘Landgraf von Aiwlen’, 205th Schwere Panzerabteilung ‘Kampfgruppe Lehr’ Unternehmen Kaiserschlacht 1643 hours GMT
It was very odd for the commander of what was essentially a battalion sized element to call on a single panzerzug officer. Perhaps not so strange, Cyril thought, when thinking of the drake in question. Heimclar, after all, had a very claws on direct command style. So it was that, answering the summons, Leutnant Cyril Duskwing dusted himself off, tugged on his jacket, and told his crew he would be back soon. They were gearing up for another offensive, it was clear. Unternehmen Kaiserschlacht was set to sweep the dead center of the Republique. The northern part of Aquileia’s Crown Lands (as they had been known under the monarchy) had fallen into Imperial claws after months of blood and struggle. Now it was time to open the gate for the knockout blow.
Around him, an entire shock assault regiment composed primarily of veteran battalions formed up and readied to move out soon. Preparations were still underway, but scratch built formations like this one were hardly a rarity. In the grinding attrition of trench warfare, units from other divisions might be pulled together to shore up losses in troops or material, and the Reichsarmee had learned the hard lessons the last year had taught them about the importance of combined arms warfare. Ranks of infantry marched past, rifles and submachine guns slung over shoulders and across backs, while pits cared for panzers, halftracks and other armored fighting vehicles. Row after row of dug in artillery was already firing shells and rockets high overhead, the heavy guns hammering the line in support of the units already there while light guns were attached to trucks, ready to move into position. Colonial units, newly arrived in Cyanolisian ports, were sectioned off from the rest, foreigners in a foreign land and strange to look upon, their striped hides the subject of much curiosity and wariness in equal measure. Knights carefully mended their enchanted armor and weapons with secretive artificers, armorers doled out ammunition like they would be charged for every bullet they did issue, and tents set up as prayer posts hosted a priest or two giving blessings and benedictions. It reminded him of the preparations leading up to Unternehmen Donnerkiel, when they were about to storm Adelart. Had that really only been a few months ago? The Westkeep Deadlock, as many called it, had felt like a never ending nightmare, despite lasting ‘only’ eighty days.
Only.
Cyril shook his head to himself as he stepped towards the tent flap nearby, pulling out his identification papers for the two Ost-Griffonian landsers standing sentry, though they waved him in without much pause. Without a permanent structure, Heimclar’s command post was run out of a trio of heavy trucks and a few command panzers, as he ran his part of the amalgamated formation. Inside was carefully managed chaos as radio operators chattered away at their stations, staffers and aides ran reports and files back and forth to relay information, endless updates to posted information on hastily erected blackboards. In the center of it all was Heimclar himself, notably alone. Van Zieks presence, if he was even near here, was sparse. A desk normally reserved for the general stood off to one side, though nothing lay on it. Cyril huffed. Some nobles were okay. Some generals were absolute morons. Van Zieks, as it happened, was the worst of both worlds. Though of course Cyril was forbidden from saying so out loud.
Like the rest of the Kampfgruppe, Heimclar’s command staff were a merging of Reichsarmee and Ostheer, Reformisten blacks and Herzland green-gray by now a long familiar contrast. Heimclar made no distinction. As long as you were Imperial and knew how to do your job, you had a place by his side.
Cyril shifted through the crowd, carefully sidestepping two Rittermeisters in black who were arguing about the timing on creeping barrages to roll forward to clear the way for an infantry charge before coming to the thick ring of officers and aides demanding to get close to Heimclar and the central table. Curiously, several bore cream-colored armbands on their uniforms that bore the word ‘TARTARUS’ in white stitching. This time, only the black and gray coats of Ostheer landsers wore them, tugging a frown onto Cyril’s brow. Both Reichsarmee and Reformisten had stood shoulder to shoulder in Prywhen, facing down the socialist remnants and then the determined minotaur offensive when it crashed over them. Now, it seemed somegriff had issued the armband as a way to let Reformisten veterans of that operation stand out. At least, that was Cyril’s assumption. He hadn’t received one, and if he didn’t he wouldn’t be too offended by it. The dark memories it stirred up were furiously drowned out by alcohol whenever he needed to forget.
But he shook himself, pushing thoughts of campaigns and dark forests to the side for now. He had a purpose here, after all. He had indeed been summoned. He awaited his turn in the jostling wave attempting to get near Heimclar, almost getting elbowed by the imposing figure of Talonhoff, the kampfgruppe’s senior Vollstrecker. Being outside the chain of command, they followed a much looser rank structure, with only a dozen or so scattered across this unit in particular. He had heard that more troublesome divisions had a Vollstrecker in each platoon, though this sounded like a waste of griffpower to him. Talonhoff, a big and imposing griff with feathers eggshell white and flecked by black spots, glared down a hooked beak at Cyril, who merely saluted and stepped back in deference. Haul typically had taken a hooves off approach to discipline in the ranks due to the Reformisten’s own unique take on enforcing discipline, but Talonhoff was very much in the mix of it, preferring to attach himself where the fighting was fiercest to inspire, intimidate or punish where necessary. The word was that the landsers didn’t know who they feared more; the enemy or the Vollstrecker’s shotgun.
Talonhoff moved off again, apparently stalking after some goal in particular, and Cyril could approach the map table. Compared to some of the more impressive versions he’d seen courtesy of his uncle and the akademie, this was more modest to fit its nature, merely a large map of the countryside overlaid on two folding tables. Pins, flags and figurines represented various units, and it didn’t take him long to spot his own marked under Stahlbeak’s kompanie, a little flag with the Hauptmann’s name on it. This was really massing to turn into a large scale assault on Vanguardigo, the whole of 3rd Korps assaulting in regimental sized assault waves, two working in tandem. If one was stopped, the other pressed harder while reinforcements were brought in to overtake the delay. A rolling tide of steel and flesh, certain to smash the Aquileians. Predictions, at current, were that they would reach the outskirts of Vanguardigo in this fashion in about two weeks time. The fighting in this part of the country, the very center of the Republique, would be fiercer than anything before, even Westkeep. Elite units had been spotted in the enemy ranks, from the vicious Republicaine Garde, veteran fusilier divisions that had become lethal trench fighters to row upon row of Vanguard Prime heavy panzers. Intelligence had even confirmed unicorn mages en masse and the grapevine whispered of secret enemy weapons released from their experimental divisions. Ever since their new president had taken over, the Aquileians had injected a quarter ton of steel into their backbones, rising to the challenge once again.
Well, Cyril considered, looking at a mass of pins representing their Luftstraitkrafte support, that was fine. They’d just smash the foe flat once again to drive the point home.
Heimclar finally spotted Cyril, and after a moment passed over whatever he was doing to Major Rokhford (their Reichsarmee 2IC) and Rittermeister Schnaubel, a Bronze dog knight still clad in his enchanted plate (interestingly, he appeared to have abandoned his Bronze Cross heraldry for a sensible tan and gray smash camouflage, which was typically a Stormtrooper technique) to work his way over to Cyril, taking him by the arm.
“This way, let’s get a little quiet.”
“Sir.”
They didn’t have far to move, as the command tent was only so large, but over by the trucks that had been backed up to the tent flaps they finally caught enough peace to not have to yell to be heard over the racket. Heimclar examined Cyril up and down. Not quite the battered and broken youth he had found holding on to his last shred of willpower in the ruins of Westkeep, the leutnant was dressed in his panzerwaffen blacks, though it was merely the coveralls with his jacket thrown over them. Technically acceptable, but hardly the wear to answer a summons. The lad must have just come out of his panzer. Bags under Cyril’s eyes told of hard sleep, and Heimclar thought to the discreet reports that had crossed his desk. Behavioral issues, not something that needed to be addressed yet. But it would have to be soon.
Now, he needed one of his best to keep his mind straight.
“How are you settling with the new crews?”
Cyril shrugged, a startling casual gesture, though the two were clearly speaking in an informal manner.
“Settling in. They’ve got the training, some of them even saw combat in Vilein or Vigovia. But…”
He paused, and Heimclar reached up, taking the monocle down from his eye and gently polishing it with his handkerchief. It was almost an automatic action, and he barely realized he was doing it.
“Speak candidly, Leutnant.”
“I don’t know them, mein meister. In Adelart, and in Westkeep, I had officers I’d trained with for six months. Zeldstadt meant we all knew what we were capable of, so we knew everyone else was too. Now, I’m supposed to lead a platoon into battle and I don’t know any of them. I barely know half my crew.”
“I know,” Heimclar nodded, gently replacing the monocle. “I am of the same mindset. But that is the unfortunate nature of replacements. The Empire needs every heavy panzer unit committed, as often as possible. There is no time to rotate back and attain our former status. And so, we make war next to strangers. What do you think of the colonials?”
“The stripers?” Cyril asked, surprised before he shrugged. “Dunno. They’re infantry, not my foray, mein meister. I am a little curious about their officers, though. They’re all griffons.”
“Ah. That’s more a regional issue. I don’t like it…but we’ve been given them to help the push. Sud-Zebrika stands with the Herzland and Ost-Griffonia, and they deserve our respect.” Heimclar cleared his throat, indicating now was the time to end the courtesy small talk. They would have other briefings to discuss the tactical situation, other talks where he spoke to his officers junior and senior. “Leutnant Duskwing, I wanted to give you a full ceremony for this. But standing Reformisten protocol is clear; no ceremonies are to be given in a time of war aside from burials. You are Reichsarmee, but you fall under my command. As such, I will simply hand you this.”
With that, Heimclar reached into a pocket, extracting a small leather box. Cyril’s head rose, his eyes curious but his ears flattening against his head a moment, wings flaring only slightly. Heimclar knew that look, but persisted on as he cracked the box open, exposing a flash of bronze inside.
“Leutnant Cyril Duskwing, for actions above and beyond the call of duty in the Battle of Westkeep, participating in a key action against overwhelming odds in the face of extreme enemy resistance, I hereby award you, on behalf of the Lord Protector, the Order of Boreas, with Totenkopf.”
Indeed, as he stated the award was laid inside the box. A sibling award to the Order of Arcturius Cyril already possessed, it was modeled nearly identical, with the holy icon of Boreas on its front, Ost-Griffonian coloring on the ribbon and as Heimclar had stated a Totenkopf icon decorating the top, indicating this as a Reformisten decoration. It held the same weight in the Kaiserreich, and was meant to be a match two of three set. Of all the soldiers in this war, Cyril knew for a fact very few had lived long enough to earn two of the trinity. The number to be awarded the entire thing was less than twenty. This was typically only a medal awarded to the cream of the crop, nobles and knights of high standing and never to commoners, not even those elevated to the peer.
Cyril felt the breath catch in his throat. He had expected some kind of medallion, or one of the minor decorations. He seemed to be collecting medals and decorations lately, the words of that damned Hindian reporter reverberating in his head at all hours of the day, and the nightmares that refused to leave haunting him in his sober hours. But this…there was a reason such a decoration was named after the god of gods.
Heimclar went on in the same matter of fact monotone, as if handing out one of the highest decorations in Imperial military service was but another day to day affair.
“Your efforts to come to the aid of two of your brothers, both knights in the service of the Lord Protector and His Majesty the Kaiser, showed the very essence of gallant chivalry. Your courageous and honorable behavior also saved the lives of dozens if not hundreds of wounded behind the lines. If I may be candid, I can list a hundred reasons why this is not only deserved…but overdue. As it stands, I shall be brief instead.” He reached out, pinning the medal on Cyril’s dirty, worn panzer jacket with practiced ease before stepping back and giving him a salute. Snapping to out of long habit, Cyril automatically assumed the position of attention and returned it, still in a daze.
“Angriff!”
“Angriff.”
The return was said automatically, memories of the parade ground snaps back in the Offizier-Jungeschule etched into his memories and what the instructors did to kadets who forgot to return the courtesy. It was just a matter of etiquette, he told himself. Still, his mind was rocked, and as he released the salute, he felt he needed an answer.
“Mein Meister, if I may ask?”
“You may, Leutnant.”
“Why?” Cyril swallowed, then started again and corrected himself. “I am a little befuddled, sir. I was under the impression only the peer were allowed the highest of honors. The only thing higher is-”
“The Griffonia Cross, yes. I can see your confusion. Need I remind you, Leutnant, that your Knight’s Crosses were awarded by both the Lord Protector and the Reichsarmee? Merely one would have you seen as a knight in the eyes of the Reformisten. Two, and you are as good as noble blood to us.” Heimclar’s beak twitched as he suppressed a smile. Given how Ost-Griffonia treated its nobility and the state of the few that had clung on, it was rather ironic to bestow the young officer with it as an honor. Though after a thought, it made sense officers were the nobility out east.
“Do you give yourself such little credit, Ser Duskwing? It was no mean feat you pulled off. I was there, if you recall. I saw it for myself.”
Cyril glanced over his shoulder again, looking over the command tent behind him. He had seen such a space several times before, normally just delivering reports or acting as courier. August had taken him into such a clawful of times in the long distant past (1007 only being five years ago was an impossible thing to consider) and he was accustomed to being around officers and commanders of noble prestige and high rank. A general had shown up to his eleventh birthday after all. But now, in this time of war, so many of them bore scars and decorations, carried their experiences in their faces and bearing. Reichsarmee and Ostheer both, knights and common soldiery. These griffs, dogs and ponies were heroes and legends.
And who was he? Some dumb boy from Industrie who got lucky and had a connected family member. But he couldn’t tell Heimclar any of that. That wasn’t what warriors did.
“I just did what I needed to survive, Ser von Lehr,” Cyril responded as he turned back. “I came back, and many of my comrades didn’t. It feels…a bit much. Sir.”
The purple drake studied his leutnant carefully. Heimclar recognized that hesitation, that insecurity. Combined with the reports quietly crossing his desk, he had some suspicion of what was going on in the younger Duskwing’s mind. His soul, more like. Unfortunately, there was little he could do to help the promising young officer without potentially exposing him to scandal and infamy. To say that battleworn soldiers were ‘tired’ was one thing. To slap on them the label of ‘shellshocked’ was damning. Right there, he reminded himself to check on the paperwork to get Leutnant Machinki back. Duskwing needed somegriff to be an anchor, and he needed his other promising officer back, before some other battalion commander snatched him up.
“You did what was right,” Heimclar replied, carefully selecting his words as his thought process sorted through these mental missives. “That’s the most important part.”
An awkward silence between them again. For all the encounters they’d had, Cyril knew better than to try and introduce small talk to someone so senior to him, and Heimclar had little experience with the concept. So they both merely settled for an uncomfortable pause as they both formulated their thoughts, watching the functions of the command tent. Even without Oberstmeister Heimclar von Lohr standing there, the officers could conduct most of their craft without his direct approval.
“Ser, if I may be candid?” Cyril Duskwing finally asked. Heimclar looked over to him, frowning in thought before nodding, granting the junior officer the right to speak plainly. “Why are you not in command? I mean, overall. I see you in the field and hear your orders, but I cannot remember the last time I even heard Van Zieks over the radio.” A pause, as if rewinding and checking his words to make sure he hadn’t crossed a line somewhere before cautiously adding “If I may, mein Meister. I mean no disrespect to you or the general.”
“I take none, Leutnant. Unfortunately, it is not an easy question to answer. Most formations that are amalgamations like our have two officers in charge, to ensure no abuse of command. But as for why Van Zieks is in command over me…well, he is a general. And a member of the peer. I believe the second alone counts for quite a lot in the Kaiserreich. And, after Zeldstadt…again, it is not an easy question to answer.”
The words were clinical, detached and to the point. But without realizing it, Heimclar had reached up, removed his monocle and began polishing it with his handkerchief. Also without realizing it, his talons were pressed tight, squeezing so hard Cyril wondered if he might accidentally break the eyepiece. That, more than anything, told the leutnant far more than Heimclar’s words.
“It’s on!”
Heads spun like gun turrets towards the voice in the corner. A unicorn standing next to a radio set perched on a crate had adjusted the dials, turning up the volume to compete with the ambient noise. A ripple of movement went through many of the soldiers, mostly Reformisten officers and knights shifting to get a bit closer towards the set, clearly eager to listen in on whatever it was being announced. So far, it was just white noise. Cyril turned to Heimclar in confusion.
“Mein Meister? What is it?”
“The King’s speech, Duskwing,” Heimclar responded. Of course, Reichsarmee troopers wouldn’t be quite as aware. Some knew, but not all. Today’s date held a significantly different meaning to them than their eastern comrades. “Today is the anniversary of the Lord Protector saving the Kaiser and earning his title. It is the day Ost-Griffonia was born.”
A little overdramatic, perhaps, but it was the simplest explanation, and by no means untrue. Before that day, Hellquill and Longsword had been renegades Marches under the command of madgriffs and murderous knights. After, they had become a fully sanctioned sister to the Kaiserreich, serving her interests in the Grenzwald. This was, to them, their true founding day.
Finally, the white noise receded, and a voice emerged.
”This is the Reichswehr Rundfunk, once more announcing the broadcast of the Lord Protector’s speech from the city of Hellquill! Relayed to you on the frontline, we now give you the broadcast, live as it happens!”
“Angriff…Attack. Strike with power. With honor. With intent.”
“Amazing invention, radio,” Heimclar muttered as the Black King’s speech continued, sporadic applause audible beneath his words. “Just a decade ago, one could only dream of instant communication across the continent, or by telephone. Now look at this.”
Knowing better than to speak up during such an occasion, Cyril only nodded quietly, listening as well to the speech. The command tent had gone silent, and even the Ostheer sentries outside had opened the flaps to lean their heads in, ears intent as they also bore witness. Though certainly curious as to Wingfried’s words, after a time Cyril’s mind began to wander back to his panzer. The Eisener Riese was brand new to them, after all. Despite shakedown exercises and extensive maintenance from the crew and mechanics, they were still getting over the loss of Isegrim. Well he, Spotsley and Brightclaw were. It was easier on Axum and their new gunner Schneider. In attempts to make the Gryta feel more like home, they had put up decorations around the inside, from Eisenwing’s postcards carefully taped up across the turret interior for them all to enjoy, Brightclaw writing several passages from the Holy Books of each of the gods and taping them at his station and Eihol’s flask carefully perched up at the driver’s station, wedged in so it stayed safe and secure like a relic. Isegrim, Eihol and Eisenwing may be gone, but they all lived on with them. Cyril’s thoughts began to darken, as he wondered who else he would lose before this war ended. The bottle of whiskey in his bag began calling…
Suddenly, the command tent echoed with a rise in panicked voices, and Cyril snapped out of grim reverie as he realized some event had occurred. Officers were flocking around the radio set, arguing and squawking as they seemed distressed to get closer and hear what was going on. Over them, Cyril couldn’t hear what was coming from the set, and while the Reichsarmee personnel weren’t in the same state of breakdown they did seem alert and concerned.
“Sir, what happened?” Cyril asked as he turned to Heimclar. In typical fashion, the purple kommandant was stoic and reserved, but Cyril could see that he too was in an unfit state, shifting uneasily as he tried to listen from where he stood.
“A shot during the King’s speech. The crowd is panicking. Someone important might have been wounded.”
Suddenly, the panicked voices from around the set made more sense to Cyril, and now knowing what to look for he realized at least half the noise -was- from the set, as the broadcasters picked up the screaming of the crowd. Cyril could only picture it all too well, and if it was as large as this event seemed to imply, it likely meant thousands stampeding to escape the area. It would get ugly, even if order were quickly restored.
”We apologize for the interruption,” said the broadcaster, clearly somegriff attempting to fill the silence and keep listeners from jumping to conclusions. ”There appears to be some disruption here in Hellquill. We’re not sure what’s happening, but the King has stopped his speech…yes, we can confirm a shot has been fired at the stage.”
“It’s the damned Riverlanders! They shot the king!” shouted an officer out of Cyril’s view, followed by agreement and rage amongst the Ostheer personnel, almost like fire spreading through a wheat field. The anger was so infectious that the Reichsarmee officers began grumbling in agreement, the old hatreds against the eastern ponies reignited once more.
Cyril turned back to Heimclar.
“Ser, you don’t think the Lord Protector has been killed?”
“Eyr’s Mercy, I hope not,” the Oberstmeister replied. If feathers could change color, Cyril wasn’t sure if the purple drake would be going pale or blistering with rage from his tone of voice. “It would mean…many terrible things to follow.”
Before Cyril could question just what he meant by that, the radio came back to life once more.
”The Lord Protector is coming back to the podium!”
“I AM NOT DEAD!””
Abruptly, the command tent went silent once more, all eyes transfixed on the set. Cyril had seen and felt such fascination at the moving picture theaters, drawn in and fixated on a picture and sounds from something so far away. The radio played hoofball broadcasts to just as eager fans on a regular basis, and he had gathered with his comrades around a set to listen fixedly to the Duchess Regents’ declaration of war on the Holy League. The air itself seemed still, as if everyone there were holding their breath.
“I AM -NOT- DEAD!”
A low cheer went up, quiet and hushed and paired with sighs of relief, one creature even sobbing quietly though Cyril could not see who it was.
“I AM. -NOT-. Dead!”
The cheer rose up a little louder now, even Reichsarmee personnel grinning at each other in celebration. The Lord Protector, though he might not even have been wounded, was alive and fine. If he was shouting at the radio like this, it meant he would be okay.
“AND! I am not FINISHED!”
The rant that followed (for it was a rant, delivered just as much from pain as from passion) was blistering to the ears and full of nothing but vitriol and spite, but by the end it had the entire command tent cheering like fans at a hoofball pitch, fists and hooves raised in the air at the end of every sentence. If the assassin had hoped to demoralize them by killing the Black King, his survival only whipped those who listened into a frenzy.
But, as the speech ended and Heimclar stepped up to restore order, one phrase stuck in Cyril’s mind. He cared less for the Lord Protector’s survival than the Reformisten diehards around him, but the words spoken resonated in his own heart. Especially, at the end, when the tent had repeated Wingfried’s own impromptu battlecry, seemingly adopted as a rally to the colors in response.
“Morgen komt…” he muttered. He had shouted it with the others, certainly, swept away by the energy of the tent. But now, he repeated it to himself. “Morgen komt.”
It was a song he knew. ‘Morgen Komt’ may have had its origins as a temple hymn, but coming from a family of laborers and soldiers he knew it was passed on in the masses of those who quietly toiled in the Empire’s lower social strata. A song of hope, the idea that though the night had enwrapped them all, the morning would one day come. It was an open secret, though not widely acknowledged, that it had been born in the dark times before the Empire even existed, when Nightmare Moon had enveloped the world in perpetual night.
“Enough!” Heimclar finally bellowed with wings flared, his attempts to restore order seemingly ignored for the most part, not out of ignorance or disrespect but because the command tent were swept away by the speech and their own feelings of relief and fury. Talonhoff appeared at Heimclar’s shoulder, his own wings kept pinned but the sinister expression more than enough to back up the Oberstmeister’s own words. Embarrassed, the senior officers finally quieted down.
“Yes,” Heimclar went on, glancing around at his staff. “The Lord Protector, the Black King, still lives. You have the right to celebrate. Take the moment for it. But we have to remember ourselves. Let us face facts; this was a close call. It could have easily gone wrong. The fact it has not does not mean we relax our discipline, instead we must fortify it to keep things like this from ever happening again. So feel grateful, and proud in the moment, but remember that we have a job to do. Return to your tasks and redouble your efforts! We still have a war to win! Angriff!”
However, as the cheer was returned from around the table, inspiration seemed to dawn over the purple drake, and he raised a fist into the air, clenched tightly in defiance and retaliation.
“Morgen komt!”
“MORGEN KOMT!”
This time, the response was much more energetic. While the Reichsarmee officers knew better than to not repeat the Reformisten battlecry, it was just that; Reformisten. It did not resonate with their souls as deeply. But taking Wingfried’s own inspired use of the phrase everyone knew from every corner of the Empire both former and current, it united the two cultures on a level that hadn’t been achieved before. This time, all answered back with just as much fervor and burning energy. In time, that fervor might fade as its general use made it more commonplace. But they would never forget, here and now, how deeply it resonated to them.
Well, Cyril certainly never would forget, as his fist came down after yelling just as fervently as the hauptmanns and rittermeisters around him. No, he would carry this memory with him until his dying day.
”We have set procedures: Patience and Pressure. The only way to get to the truth is to accept that first you get lies, then apply pressure to the subject; more lies then more pressure. As the lies continue so does the pressure until finally comes the break…and after that more pressure and -then- at last the truth. That is how you get it; pain is truth. All else is subject to doubt.” -Dominik Kingston, rumored agent of Skynavia
July 14th, 1012
”We interrupt this radio program to bring you this urgent news bulletin! This is Acapella bringing a special news report to the listeners of Baltimare Radio! Today, as confirmed by military authorities, Hegemony forces led by the Dark King Sombra have begun their assault on the Crystal City proper. Our brave Crystal and Soviet allies fight on to stem the tide, much the same as we do here in the south! Earlier, Princess Celestia and Cadence stood at the podium to deliver a speech where they promised to continue supporting each other in this dire endeavor and begin pushing the foe back from both Canterlot and the Crystal City! Prince-Consort Shining Armor has returned to lead from the front once more, and has taken charge of the defense of his adopted home, meeting with Field Marshal Nestor Lunin to coordinate defense strategy for both of their lands. I feel confident when I say all our hopes and prayers go out to the brave fillies and colts manning the trenches to defend our very freedom! Have faith, dear listeners! Faith in the Army, faith in the Sisters, faith in Equestria!”
July 17th, 1012 No. 2 (Bombing) Group, Number 99 “Bloody Nightmares” Squadron, Skies Over Changeling-Occupied Shire, Equestria Operation Great Raid
It should come as no surprise that the Royal Air Force was still making attempts to break the changeling advance. Troops, tanks, supply trucks and more came pouring down the northernmost roads and rail-lines. From the Wildlands, Olenia and polar bear lands came a veritable river of material and fighting power, the artery of it connected through the two vital cities of Seaddle and Acornage. Arguments could be made for the importance of Vanhoover, but the amount brought in by shipping as opposed to overland trains was miniscule in comparison. From there, the long lines of supply sprinted southwards to follow the expansive gains of the Heer, through several lynchpins and connecting cities and towns. Given the distance and the massive demand the bugs were placing on their own forces to maintain the steady crawl towards Canterlot, these logistics narrowed out, rather than be spread like a more complete supply chain.
And this particular operation was going to be hitting those one after the other. Hundreds of craft filled the sky, heavy bombers the most valuable of all. Lancasters, Beauforts and the brand new Mosquitos were flown in successive waves, escorted by Beaufighters and Spitfires to carve openings in the Luftwaffe swarm, pound the logistics hubs and hopefully buy them some precious time and relief for troops on the ground. Pharynx’s infamous Desert Korps had cemented their hold on Hoofington, Sombra’s horde was devouring the outskirts of the Crystal City and Trimmel’s forces had essentially turned Hope Hollow and Luna Nova to little more than rubble, with battered Royal Army regiments crawling forward again and again to lock horns with the advancing foe, creeping backwards one step at a time as Luna and Blueblood desperately worked to hold onto what they had left. With the enemy at the gates Canterlot needed all the room to regroup and erect new defensive lines, bring up the heavy armor manufactured in Fillydelphia and Manehatten and assist in relocating the New Marelanders to plug holes in the line.
To Paige, this felt like the desperate lashings of a cornered beast. Oh, they may not be hopeless yet, but she could hear the flak bursts outside, and occasionally Ace would jink them around to shake off a changeling Sv.109 that had grown interested in them before the fighter was chased off by an escort. This many aircraft flying straight into the teeth of the enemy on so bold a mission would certainly result in a lot of losses. But more than that, it was the atmosphere in the White Castle. Normally, they would chat idly, exclaim at close calls and throw banter and insults at each other to kill time and tension. Not today. Even Static was quiet on the intercom, likely too focused on her set as the rest of them were on their own tasks. It wasn’t hopelessness the bomber crew felt, not quite yet. But there was the sense that out there, the world had gone very wrong indeed. Hoofington’s fall had shaken Equestria’s defenders in various ways. Reports of desertions were rising alongside stories about regiments literally refusing to give the field to the changelings until the last pony had been killed. The Celestial Fleet seemed more determined than ever to keep the Grand Armada contained, and now the Royal Air Force was carrying out these raids with strategic bombers of all things. Even the newspapers and radios couldn’t buoy spirits, their positive affirmations ringing hollow and disingenuous now more than ever. It seemed even the propaganda spinners couldn’t spin this disaster. But with that shaking, a grim resolve had settled on the Equestrian military. It helped hone their focus, keep them fighting if not for victory than for the sense that spitting in their murderer’s eye as they drowned you was better than going down with a whimper.
”Sixty seconds to target,” Ace reported across the intercom, and Paige flipped open her bombsight as she felt the bomber ascend. Stretched out below her, the green summer hills of the landscape around Shire, coupled with the last crags of the nearby mountains and the darker green of the forest, showed her just what was below. Gray blocks made up the city, and from it came yellow bolts of tracers and black puffs of flak as the enemy below attempted to blow them down once and for all. She watched her crosshair drift over the city, squinting as she attempted to make out concrete details. From this high up, a lot of this just looked like smudges and squares. She couldn’t even see what was supposed to be a military target, a panzer, a mustering yard. Though, she finally spotted the train tracks. Any structure around the railhubs and road nexus, as Colonel Fancy Pants had told them, were fair game to the bombers. The objective was to hurt their logistics, after all.
These days, she had felt a certain detachment from pressing her button, dropping the Lancaster’s payload and watching the rain of bombs fall away. But this time, it gave her a certain sense of malicious satisfaction as she began to watch the string of explosions light out like multiple fires across the ground. She couldn’t see all of it, of course. Ace was too good a pilot to let them linger where a Luftwaffe ace might swing around and come nail them, but knowing she was hurting the buggers gave her a kind of…pleasure, she decided was the best word to describe it.
As the White Castle turned for home, the flak and fighters biting at her tailfins, Paige smiled as she climbed up out of the bombsight. She didn’t realize that rare of late, tired smile was there for a long time.
When they landed back in Fillydelphia, no tragic news greeted them. No disaster had occurred while they were up in the air. True, the news wasn’t good. Hoofington was still in changeling hooves and Ponyville under threat, Sombra’s legions were still laying siege to the Crystal City and Canterlot was still being bombed. But at least the world hadn’t ended in the meantime. It disturbed Paige how that was a relief more than anything.
No, the trouble indeed came after the crew had dismounted from the plane and were in their post-flight checks. True, it was the job of the mechanics and technicians to repair and maintain the White Castle, but any good crew learned the crate they rode on down to the rivet, even the Meatheads. So, even as the Lancaster was being pulled into the hanger to deal with the bullet holes in her tail and the flak shards buried in her aluminum hide, Paige was down in the bombsight, scribbling on a notepad as she took a record of each piece and its status. As the primary tool of her workstation, she needed to make sure everything was in order, even before she could get some much needed sleep.
From above, a voice said “Sergeant Paige Turner?”
She glanced up to find a unicorn standing there above the turret hatch, her coat a shade of pink so bright and plain that Paige at first thought it was white, her vivid red mane contrasting sharply with the rest. She wore what was clearly an Equestrian Royal Army uniform, though Paige noticed it had absolutely no decorations save for a captain’s insignia on her epaulets and a single pin at her lapel, which showed the alicorn emblem of Equestria topped by the letters S.M.I.L.E. Paige knew exactly what that acronym stood for; the Secret Military Intelligence League of Equestria. Internally, she groaned. A spook.
“Aye, that’s me,” she said aloud, closing up her notepad, already knowing there was going to be trouble.
The mare wore a small smile herself, absent of any joy that reached up to her eyes. For such a brightly colored thing, she was devilishly cold in her demeanor. She stood rigid and alert, her eyes switching from narrow and focused to darting and always observant. She was clearly on watch for something, at every moment.
“Agent Cherry Blossom, Military Intelligence. Can I have a word with you, please? Outside.”
The Rijekan pegasus paused for a moment, watching the agent carefully before nodding, clambering out of the station. From the cockpit, Ace glanced back at the noise of her emerging, normally just him checking any sound to make sure the plane was alright, before he frowned at Cherry. Had he not heard her come aboard? That was a bit scary in and of itself.
“Turner?” he asked apprehensively, frowning as he set aside his own clipboard, standing to address the seeming issue. At his words, Eventide’s curtain opened a hair, the thestral poking her nose out to investigate…and then immediately ducking back inside as she spotted the newcomer.
Agent Blossom beat Paige to the punch, that false smile widening even more as she fixed it onto Ace.
“I’m just going to ask Sergeant Turner a few questions. None of your concern, Lieutenant.”
“I see,” Ace replied, his frown deepening as he glanced over at Paige, his normally stoic upper crust discipline melting as he clearly began connecting the dots and arriving at something being very, very wrong. “Any chance I can ask you, Captain, where you’re taking my aviator?”
“No,” the agent shot back immediately. “You may not.”
Paige bit her lip at Ace’s narrowing of his eyes, praying he would just let it go. Him trying to ‘save’ her was only going to make things worse. She’d been interrogated by police, Riverlander and Imperial both to know the best way to walk through this was to just go along with the agent, find out what they wanted and present the facts. She glanced back at another noise to find Static emerging from the tail section, one of the Meatheads in tow. While the latter only seemed vaguely curious, Static stared in wide eyed horror as the other unicorn swiveled around to stare back. But, fortunately, she didn’t say a word, and Paige followed the agent’s gesture to depart, stepping off the plane entirely.
Out in the hanger, Paige saw that her reasoning had been smart. Standing there were no less than three Military Police soldiers, their Limestone submachine guns slung across their chests as they waited for Blossom to return, Maverick and several other ponies nearby staring in concern and awe. As soon as they had her, the MPs formed up around Paige, frog marching her off towards the airfield’s main building. It didn’t take long before she was shuttered up in an unused office, seated at a desk and made to wait as two of the MPs stared at her impassively, not once taking their eyes off her. Paige didn’t try to engage them in small talk. From experience, she knew they wouldn’t answer her, or might even tell her to shut up with hooves for encouragement.
It was just as a half hour had rolled by, and she felt her bladder begin poking at her bored brain coming down from its adrenaline and anxiety soaked high that she needed to relieve herself soon, the door flew open. In walked Agent Blossom, casually inspecting a file she had levitated in front of her face as she walked, pink magical aura keeping it suspended. The third MP shut the door behind her immediately from the hallway, and the Agent took a seat.
“Well, you’re quite interesting Sergeant,” the unicorn said, as if she was just reviewing the file for the first time. Paige highly doubted that, as she had spotted her own name written on the folder sideways through the magic, and the portfolio was quite thick. More likely it was supposed to be the wind up to a grilling Q&A session where the agent tried to get her to confess something. What, exactly, was unknown for now. “Born in the River Republic, traveled here for a scholarship in magical theory, fought in the Crystal War, changed schools afterwards, now here fighting in the Great War...what an exciting life you lead.”
Paige didn’t reply, resisting the urge to snap off a sarcastic quip as she merely examined Blossom with a critical eye, her own expression blank. Was she concerned? Certainly, but compared to umbrals in the woods, changeling aces and flak barrages, this mare was joking herself if she thought this little grilling was intimidating. So, Paige began gathering data. Not a large sample size, but from the short time she had observed the agent, she had picked up a few things. Blossom looked to be in her late twenties, carried herself like all of Faust owed her a favor, acted like she was always in control, very unsettling behavior (likely purposeful), forced courtesy, an archetype of unicorn arrogance. Signs of sociopathy, perhaps. But Military Intelligence liked those types, so that wasn’t saying much. She might not be. Paige would have to watch for more.
Blossom let the folder fall to the desk, examining it for a few moments more before she sighed, shaking her head and stepping off to the side, looking deep in thought.
“Honestly, it doesn’t look good for you,” Blossom started.
‘Here we go,’ Paige thought. Time to see what this was all about.
“I have no personal judgements myself,” the agent continued as she casually meandered around past Paige’s vision, and the bombardier didn’t give in to the temptation to turn her head. The unicorn kept talking from behind her. Clearly former law enforcement, or training at S.M.I.L.E. academy had caught up to this little trick. “If you want to have a relationship with a carrion bird, well…I’ve seen stranger.”
A personal attack on a loved one, using a racial slur to make it personal. Paige had to give the agent credit, she knew how to directly go for a pressure point, even if the method was clumsy and worn.
“But that’s not illegal. All love is legally allowed in Equestria. Stallion, mare, somewhere in between, thestral, yak, griffon, sure. But what strikes me as odd, and I’m sure you will agree is…according to those letters you’ve been sending, the two of you haven’t seen each other in the flesh since…1007, I believe. Star crossed lovers, you could say.” Blossom’s voice suddenly popped up right next to Paige’s ear, almost a soft whisper. “That’s so sweet, isn’t it?”
While the statement did indeed confirm that Military Intelligence had been reading her letters (hardly surprising, there was a war on) it confused Paige more. Where was this going? If there was no barrier to her relationship, why was this unicorn giving her the squeeze? ‘Focus,’ she told herself. ‘Let her make the slip. She’ll get to it eventually.’
A pause. She felt Blossom step away, and could practically hear the smirk she wore.
“Nothing to say? Embarrassed? It is rather remarkable, being able to keep up such a relationship for five years without seeing each other. Even through wars, doubts…disloyalty.”
Paige flinched at the last one, her teeth grit as her eyes narrowed. To her credit, she kept her eyes fixed on the far wall, but internally she smarted. Involuntarily, she’d given in, even if just for a moment. Abruptly, she felt a nick on her foreleg and jumped, clapping a hoof to the spot. Red blood welled under her hoof, and for a moment she was stunned by the sudden appearance of the wound. Where the fuck had that come from?
Suddenly, the floating scalpel drifting into her view, held up by a magic aura, answered that question Blossom herself reappeared once more, that same sinister smile in place. Her eyes, though. The agent wasn’t happy.
“Well, that rules out a changeling, at least. Funny, I would have put money on that being the most likely answer.”
“Ti luda kučko!” Paige hissed, more outraged than in pain as she inspected the cut once more. It was indeed a shallow wound, and the stinging was fading already. But the surprise had been total, and she swatted a hoof out at the hovering scalpel. One of the MPs leveled his weapon, but Blossom waved him off with a chuckle.
“How interesting. You’ve lived in Equestria for five years now, almost lost your accent for the most part. And yet you default to your mother tongue when you are off-guard. That’s -very- interesting,” Blossom remarked, letting the bloody scalpel settle onto the table, not bothering to clean it as she came around to the other chair at last, that damned empty smirk still affixed. “So, let’s move on. Tell me you’re not a spy.”
“I’m-what? Why on Faust do you think I’m a spy?”
“Not quite the response I was looking for, but oh well. We can do this the hard way.” Blossom began laying out documents on the tabletop, one at a time before she pointed to each one in particular. “First, your home country. We could contact the Republic to ask for records about you, but with the chaos the entire Riverlands Anarchy is causing, not to mention the distance it would certainly take an extremely long time. Long enough, I dare say, for you to slip away into the confusion we’re under. A foreign land on the far side of Griffonia, and let’s be frank there are many ponies who have left to join the Kaiser’s ranks. You gained a scholarship at Luna Nova for your papers on arcane theory, though as a pegasus you cannot use it yourself. Then you just -happen- to meet the nephew of a high-ranking Imperial general in Rottendedam the day you leave for Equestria. Upon arriving here you excel in your classes and joining the Batpony Acceptance Team…cute. What a goody four-shoes you are, caring for the downtrodden so far from home. Until the start of the Crystal War, where you enlist not in the Pegasi Corps but the Royal Air Force. After the War ends, you enroll at Hoofington University where you once more excel, all while keeping in contact with your…lover. Not to mention you continue writing to many old war comrades, and yes we have copies of those letters. Luna mobilizes the reserves and you’re sent north before the war begins, and once it does you bounce from a heavy fighter to a heavy bomber all while never being directly shot down. Our agents say you have continued your studies in magic and correspondence with Griffonia the entire time, and the information you have collected on aircraft and the war at large are both extremely suspicious, as well as your general attitude against the values of harmony. During your time in Hoofington U, we have you conversing not just with your parents, not just with Cyril Duskwing but with several others in the engineering fields in Griffonia.”
Blossom sat back, empty smirk still in place as she watched Paige, like a hunter squinting over clear sights at their quarry grazing in a field.
“If you’re going to tell me that’s passing information, you would already know I contacted arcanists and engineers in Equestria, New Mareland and Aris too. Are they also under suspicion? Or do you just make it a habit to only follow on leads from griffons?”
“A good cover, a good smokescreen. But you wrote a lot more contacts in Griffonia. A LOT more. Now…try to tell me you’re not a spy.”
“Really? This is the evidence you have?” Paige scoffed as she shook her head in bewilderment, looking over it all. “Military Intelligence must be desperate. I’m -not- a spy.”
“You’re telling me there’s no code in these letters you’re sending to Griffonia?”
“What code, that I love a drake who happens to fight in the Reichsarmee? Last I checked, we’re -not- at war with the Empire.”
“Yet. But it’s no secret that they and the changelings traded doctrinal strategies, technology and trained each other’s forces for quite some time. Who’s to say they’re not still sharing intelligence?”
“They’re not.”
“And you would know that…how?”
“Because the Exchange was shut down just before this war started. Because there's a lot of mixed sentiments between them right now. Cyril told me-”
“Cyril Duskwing? Nephew of Feld-Marschall August Duskwing? Devoted anti-harmonist and currently a war hero on their List of Aces?”
Paige paused. That last one was news. He hadn’t mentioned any such thing. Then again, Cyril despised his decorations and titles, specifically because the only reason he was recognized was because he had survived hell and back while many others had died around him. Of course he’d never mention being on something as flashy and self-glorifying as a List of Aces.
“That last one is new to me.”
“All part of their propaganda machine, decorating their most savage war criminals.” Blossom regarded Paige carefully, the smile slipping a moment. “Which you say Cyril is not?”
“Some say war itself is a crime but my Cyril has honor. A war criminal, him? No, I would never believe that.”
“I suppose there’s that chance. Who can say. But the Reichsarmee’s behavior in Aquileia would argue against him being pure as the driven snow, at the very least. Mass execution of POWs and civilians, chemical weapons deployed into cities-”
“They were invaded first! Why don’t you ask Feathisia how many civilians were given the chance to evacuate before Rottendedam came under attack! How about who deployed chlorine gas on Westkeep? Has everypony forgotten it was the Entente who started this war?”
“Easy there, Sergeant. You’re getting a little bothered about a few dead birds.”
“Death is not something to be worshiped. Bad enough we have to fight, the fact some exult in it is a tragedy of the highest caliber.”
“Even changeling deaths?”
“You’re not clever. Yes, even changeling deaths. I’m not naïve, I know war and death are a fact of life. But I’m an academic. There’s no -good- reason for this; at its core, war is nothing but a large scale robbery.”
“You’re not trying very hard to argue your innocence.”
“You’re struggling to prove I’m a spy to begin with, I don’t have to argue too hard.”
Blossom abruptly rose from her chair, snatching up a typed copy of one of her letters to Cyril, slamming it down in front of Paige. The sudden movement and noise made her jump, but otherwise Paige remained cool under the pressure.
“What is the cipher?” Blossom growled, all sense of smug superiority gone from her expression. Paige narrowed her eyes tilting her head to the side, not even looking down at the paper.
“You’re desperate. Not just S.M.I.L.E., you. This is -personal- to you. You’ve put together this idea you have that I -must- be a spy for either the Empire or the changelings and you’ve been bouncing across topics trying to get me to slip. It all fits so neatly into your head, your little theory. Have you staked something on it? Something to do with your career? Or do you honestly think this is going to save Equestria?” Paige shook her head in disappointment. Behind Blossom, one of the MPs glanced at the other, expression impossible to read. “Agent, here’s the thing; I’m not a spy. And by now, I think you know it too.”
Blossom remained unmoved, dark eyes boring into Paige’s like drills digging into the earth, and just as impossible to hold off.
“I should have known better than to think somepony who was in love with a Reformisten trooper would be easy to crack. This seems to certainly be taking some effort.”
An itch crawled up Paige’s spine as she felt her gorge rise. Had she just said what she thought?
“Cyril’s -not- a Blackcloak.”
“I didn’t say he was,” Blossom returned, entirely nonplussed as she seemed to review a portfolio. “I said ‘Reformisten’. They like to go by ‘Black Knights’ or ‘Integralist’ these days, from what I recall. Did you know that? Of course you did. Apparently there’s a distinction between them and the Blackcloaks that were out and about massacring ponies, they say. I take it they’ve undergone a bit of a ‘rebranding’. Sure, put a new coat of paint on it and call it something different, sounds a bit too good to be true if you ask me. But maybe that was all it took to get your little lovebird into their…book club?”
Blossom glanced up, as if struck by something she had just read, as if she couldn’t detect the tightening in Paige’s jaw, the narrowing of eyes and the sharp intake of breath. All of which, of course, she would have. The novels. Of course she knew about the novels she and Cyril shared, it was in the letters, in the packages. Focus, Paige.
“You know…they’re really not that different if you ask me. ‘Oh please, we promise we were always good. We actually always liked ponies, it was all just a bunch of bad griffs, can we please come back to the Empire?’” All this said with a sarcastic, nasal whine before Blossom scoffed and continued her verbal assault. “And from all this, your innocent little Cyril Duskwing certainly seems Reformisten in all aspects. Awarded the Knight’s Cross by Lord Protector Wingfried the very Reformisten Black King of Ost-Griffonia himself, stationed in the 205th Heavy Panzer Battalion, a tank formation trained in a Reformisten facility with at least half of their personnel -from- Reformisten ranks, commanded -by- a Reformisten officer…he seems to hold little ill will with them anymore, aside from an occasional quip about their hard-headedness. I’d say he’s certainly had a change of heart.”
This, more than anything, disturbed Paige. Cyril wouldn’t have become one of their number…would he? No, he hated the Blackcloaks, (well Black Knights she corrected herself in her head) despised their message. But hadn’t he admitted they seemed different than what was reported about them? No, this was ridiculous. Would he love her if they were truly pony-hating scum, like their reputation stated? Of course, that thought assumed he had indeed joined their ranks and not told her. He hadn’t shared the information about the List of Aces. Paige’s mind attempted to analyze the situation from a rational standpoint, presenting the facts in a Venn diagram. While she was aware of the Reformisten and their history, much of it was second hoof and certainly told from a biased perspective. To counter that, Ost-Griffonia did also muzzle its own press, and it was hard to get anything but second hoof. So, what were first hoof facts she knew of? Cyril came to mind first, but after a moment of hesitation she decided to set that to the side. His thoughts and emotions were important, but also what was in doubt right now. Her parents. That’s right, she had their latest letters telling her about their lives in Lushi. By all accounts, it was fairly decent. They were getting by, and they had managed to avoid the refugee work camps or being turned back. The wheels slowly began to turn in her head. She would need to process this later. Right now, her mind was needed here.
Blossom’s face was still impassive, but as Paige tried to mentally struggle through the news delivered, the agent seemed to bask in her victory, however minute her reaction. And then, as if she hadn’t just dropped a huge lump of personal baggage into Paige’s head, she continued on.
“What. Is. The. Cipher.” Abruptly, Blossom seemed to sidestep tactics, and the words that spilled out of Paige’s mouth triggered a sharp mental jerk. “Možda nešto što mnogi ne znaju?”
Paige locked eyes on Blossom’s empty depths. No, she was wrong. If they were like drills boring into the earth before, now they were tubes reaching down to the pools of magma far, far beneath. Like a dormant volcano, just waiting for the right trigger to be ignited so the eruption could begin. But Paige held firm. No way this bitch got away with dragging her through this interrogation and slapping Cyril with mud like some hack reporter.
“The cipher is; you’re wasting all our time.”
With that, Paige settled back, knowing this wasn’t over. It would be a knock down, drag out affair lasting who knew how long. Secret police back in Griffonian were capable of making someone disappear for years, whether it was the MfOS or the Office of Harmonic Services back in Rijekograd. This would take a long time, and it would not be pretty.
-----
When she finally emerged, Paige felt drained. Of energy and spirit. It wasn’t even that the interrogation had descended from there. No beatings, no real abuse, no bag on head. While Blossom seemed to have some knowledge in how to crack into somepony’s psychology, cold blooded torture didn’t seem to be in S.M.I.L.E’s playbook. What was even more confusing was, after hours of intense interrogation (by Equestrian standards) the agent had simply stood, closed up Paige’s file and declared her clean. Apparently, she was not a spy after all.
Night had descended on the airfield by now, and as Paige trotted out to the crew’s barracks she was mostly alone. While the runway was lit up and flights continued around the clock to support the efforts nationwide, nopony bothered her heading back across the compound. Alone with her thoughts, she glanced back at the building she’d just been released from. Up in the tower the lone figure of a griffon, smoking a cigarette and cradling a rifle, was silhouetted against the young moon, watching the base from on high. Her mind went back to Blossom’s words, the little shreds that had been pushed to the back of her mind.
Cyril couldn’t have become an extremist. A Reformisten. That kind of descent into borderline villainy was what happened to terrible creatures. Monstrous ones. And yet, like her, Cyril was mostly alone in a place of violence, but where Paige could get some refuge everytime they returned to ground, he lived in the hell of war and death. She had read reports of ponies who snapped under the pressure of combat. Some turned into basketcases. Some deserted, fleeing away from the violence as fast and as far as they could. But some gave in and reveled in the violence, the hatred. And if that could happened to ponies, she thought, could it happen to the far more naturally violent and divisive griffons? She was almost certain it could. That’s where stories like the Reformisten came from.
Blossom’s words came back again. She shook her head. It wasn’t true.
Was it?
Fortunately, a voice called out to her, stifling the thoughts for the time being, a welcome reprieve.
“Paige! Holy buck, you’re alive!”
The speaker was, of course, Sweet Static. The radiomare galloped out from the barracks, followed by the engineer Maverick and more sedately by Ace and Eventide. To her relief, neither of the Meatheads were around. She only had her friends with her, as she calmly explained what the agent had put her through.
While she had been distracted for now, the words lurked in the back of her head. Suppressed, for now. But waiting for the right moment to strike once more.
Sent July 22nd
Dear Cyril,
More than most other times, I am so glad to receive your letter. It’s been a miserable time over here. I can’t say much because I’ve been sworn to it and I know my letters are being read by more than just censors, but I had a run in with Military Intelligence. They let me go after a while and I’ve faced no serious charges, but let’s just say it wasn’t a friendly interview. Getting an encouraging word from you is the best thing to happen to me in quite a while.
I’ve heard about changelings living outside Chryaslis’ domain, though I thought most of them were in Greneclyf. I suppose those who emigrated to the Empire wouldn’t have been her citizens, though I imagine plenty of them would have come back. At risk of being labeled a tad bit racist, don’t trust him Cyril. VOPS operatives are everywhere these days.
I’ve tried my hardest to keep track of the war on your side through the news, but with the front drawing so close to Canterlot the Equestrian papers are more concerned with local news at present. Not to mention what little gets told to me is from the Aquileian side. I’m not entirely happy about that, it seems kind of like a lot of information is getting skewed. According to the ponies here, the Republique would never use terror bombing or chemical weapons or anything of that kind. I’m not sure if that makes me dislike the local papers for lying or Aquileia more for trying to kill you. So I’m glad you’re giving me your side of the story, the Imperial side. I realize a lot of the situation over there isn’t black and white. It’s pretty gray, and you give me a personal reason to care about it.
It’s good to hear you’re getting word from my mother. I’ve only just gotten a letter from her the other day. My father hates it there, can’t stand the circumstances that forced them into the claws of ‘the enemy’. I get the feeling if he had any other choice he’d be anywhere else. But he’s also practical enough to know he needs to take what he can get. He tells me that security has gone haywire after a sniper took a shot at King Wingfried. Now the Reformisten are conscripting refugees to bolster the defensive militias. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if he gets drawn in, but that’s not something you can really refuse. I’m really scared of what he’ll do if he decides to dodge it. But if that doesn’t come to pass, I am at least happy they have finally found somewhere to stay safe.
I wouldn’t mind her visiting Griffenheim. It’s a beautiful city, or it was five years ago when I passed through there. It seems a lifetime ago, before all of this kicked off. Next time you’re on leave, could you get me some more photographs? Preferably not the bombed out portions. I have plenty of that over here to fill my day.
The major concern these days isn’t the changeling forces sieging Canterlot directly, what they’re telling us is called Army Group Center. Instead, Army Group South is getting ready for something big, and Army Group North is hitting the Crystal City hard. It’s going to be a hard fight ahead, and I don’t mind telling you I’m pretty scared of what’s going to happen the next few months. Maybe even just the next few weeks. And I know you understand more of the situation, so I won’t lead you by the beak. We’ll fight, and we’ll give them one hell of whipping whether they take us down or not.
A lot of my dreams haven’t been pleasant either. On lucky nights, I don’t really dream at all. But I at least have the fortune of not remembering much once I wake up. A lot of it has to do with fire, I think. Coffee is harder and harder to get these days. A lot of imports aren’t making it through anymore, and I think the brass is taking a lot of it for themselves. We’re getting by on something the southron ponies call ‘chicory’, which is a kind of coffee substitute made from chopped chicory root. It works the same to keep you awake, but the taste is not exactly pleasant. Tobacco imports are coming up short too. More and more ships these days are being sunk by U-boats, and I read an article in the Daily that some merchants don’t even want to try to sell in Equestria anymore. At this point, I think it’s just New Mareland, Puerto Caballo and Aris. If that’s not depressing, I don’t know what is.
I won’t lie and say I’m motivated by the same faith you are. I’m not a tritheist or an Alicorn worshiper. I’ll be honest, I have a hard time believing in any gods at this point. Looking out on the devastated cities and hearing the artillery and clattering of panzers in the distance, I guess you either dig further into your faith or give it up entirely. I’m sorry. I don’t want to push you away on that. It’s just getting harder to hold onto that here. Many ponies are turning to something called Solarism, worshiping Celestia and the sun. And I thought Lunarists were crazy. But you still have it, and I can’t fault the comfort and peace it seems to bring you. We don’t have to let that be a point of contention between us, I promise.
I would write more often, but I’m up in the air so often, it almost seems like the ground is becoming strange to me. So I get to it when I can, between sleep, flying and writing my parents. I guess it’s like you said, all those years ago; you can only take it one day at a time. You’ll have to excuse the delay, because rereading the letters you send me has turned into one of the free bright spots in my days lately. I’ll get back to you, as soon as I can.
Love,
~Paige
PS: Thanks for remembering my birthday. To be fair, even I hadn’t realized you’d forgotten to say. I’ve been rather preoccupied here myself, after all.
"The Empire may shatter our bodies, but they cannot break our spirit. Even now, the Herzland devils advance on our homeland, to seize by force what they cannot claim by right. They cannot imagine what awaits them…WE WILL -SMITE- THE INVADERS FROM OUR SKIES! Though they sweep over our lands like the snows of winter, never again will we bow before them! Never again will we endure their oppression; Never again endure their tyranny. We will strike without warning, without mercy, fighting as one claw, one heart, one soul. We will -shatter- their dreams and haunt their nightmares, drenching our ancestors' graves in their blood. And as their last breath tears at their lungs, as we rise again from the ruins of our cities…they will know: Aquileia -belongs- to the Republique." — President Hippolyte Nidmessant, upon being sworn in to replace Theodore Verany, June 20th, 1012
August 2nd, 1012 12 kilometers east of Vanguardigo, Aquileia 3rd Armee, 19th Panzer-Division ‘Landgraf von Aiwlen’, 205th Schwere Panzerabteilung ‘Kampfgruppe Lehr’
"Gotten mitt uns!"
The battle cry echoed across the line, torn from hundreds of parched, adrenaline charged throats. Another shell smashed down near Eiserner Riese, spattering the Gryta with mud and debris as she kept crawling forward, machine gun in both hull and coaxial mount sputtering death. In answer, smoke and tracers came biting back from the Aquileian trenches shortly before another high velocity, shrieking dart of death from an anti-panzer gun bounced off her turret. To her left and right, three more Grytas advanced with her, lumbering across the hills as the Imperial advance followed the rail line between Ileagle and Vanguardigo, of course wrecked by the retreating griffs in blue. Behind the Grytas followed a line of Griefkonig medium panzers, their own guns booming as they too advanced. Whereas the heavy panzers were less capable of hitting targets on the move, the mediums’ own new 6.5 cm guns were far more accurate when mobile. Around the advance, clusters of infantry advanced, panzergrenadiers that had dismounted from their halftracks to leave the bullet magnets that their transports had been now that advance had come to a grinding crawl, light infantry from one the supporting Sud-Zebrikan brigades, the flashing stripes of the zebra troopers led by their griffon officers a strange contrast to the rest. Following the Grytas put a bit of a brake on the advance, but at least they were now grinding through the storm of fire coming down on them, encouraged onwards towards greater glory by black clad Vollstrecker that waved their claws, sometimes taking awing to make themselves more visible, shotguns and pistols daringly clutched and boldly brandished to display to the Imperial forces the disdain they showed the foe.
The regiment was in movement across the line, the Imperial advance stretching away onto the horizon as two entire panzer brigades led the charge for the lighter vehicles and infantry following up behind. Thanks to the fortified hills around the city and the dogged refusal by her defenders to give even an inch of ground without a fight, the Reichsarmee had been pressing this place for weeks without progress, slowed to a bloody crawl. Shell craters pocked the hills, strings of barbed wire and abandoned trenches carving sick gashes across the now denuded hillsides, wrecks of burned out panzers both Republicaine and Imperial found in clusters, all of it accompanied by rotting corpses yet to be recovered in clusters across no drake's land, in the trenches, strung up on barbed wire and many other gruesome fates. With bursts of color, gas clouds drifted across the field on both sides and throughout the advance there was the vicious, eternal pounding as another battery of artillery attempted to blunt the Imperial charge, shells and rockets whistling through the sky to target other big guns or the forces on the ground, carving a butcher’s bill out of the uniformed masses while supporting fire from Imperial positions tried to knock the guns and obstructing fortifications out for the advance. Overhead, aircraft commenced their deadly dance across a smoky sky, one side trying to force an opening for heavy bombers and support craft, the other desperate to stop them as tracers and flak bursts cut the air around them, flaming wrecks and smoking craft spiraling away regularly.
Wedged in the middle of the regiment, the kommandant of Kampfgruppe Lehr Oberstmeister Heimclar von Lohr himself sat in his command Gryta, listening to the radio chatter of the advance. Hauptmann Stahlbeak was further up the line, as it was his role to command a clawful of panzers. But Heimclar had the entire force to think about, and this was as far forward as Reichsarmee doctrine advised for top level kommandants. Given how many senior officers had been shot in the field, there was something to that caution, but he refused to give orders from a command post with only a map and radio. He would leave that to the ‘honorable’ Yanek Van Zieks. Now was the time, and he was here, amongst his troops and watching with his own eyes as the battle played out. He leaned down, removing the clawset from a separate system than the radio, clearing his throat as he keyed the speakers affixed to the outside of the Gryta. A similar system to loudspeaker towers to be found in cities and camps across the world, the Reformisten had realized the Reichsarmee’s panzer had a large amount of open space if not filled with extra equipment. Space that could, for example, mount several banks of speakers.
“Soldaten of the Vaterland and its noble provinces,” he started, squinting through his vision slits as he looked ahead, at that stubborn blob that was Vanguardigo. “Today, we advance on the enemy heartland! Ahead of you lies Vanguardigo, the gateway to what was called in civilized times the Crown Lands! Ahead lies the very heart of the cancer that is the Republique of Aquileia! Never forget what they did to Feathisia! To Greifenmarsch! At Westkeep! At Illeagle! They started this war! And now! You will storm -their- heartland, and end it! Forwards! For the Regents! For the Black King! Für Kaiser und Kaiserreich! Gotten mitt uns!”
Inside of Eiserner Riese, Leutnant Cyril Duskwing kept his eye glued to his vision slit. Ahead, he could just see the edge of the city itself on the horizon beyond this latest defense line, and dreaded the fight to come. This one was half again as large as Westkeep, and given its location as the entrance into what was the center of old Aquileia and the final road to the southern coastal cities (including the capital Aquila), the defenders were putting up a vicious struggle to keep the Kaiser’s forces out. If this was half the fight Westkeep had been, the slaughter would become unimaginable.
A black shape flashed across his vision, crawling through the mad frenzy of bullets and shellfire, heading straight for the Grytas.
“Carpiquet!” Cyril called out as he got eyes on the remote controlled bomb vehicle. “Schneider!”
“On it, sir!” called his new gunner, wheeling the gun around and switching to the coaxial MG 08. The weapon rattled, and after a few bursts the small bomb carrier flew apart as bullets tore its track off. “Target neutralized, mein meister!”
Like Eisenwing before her, Gefreiter Schneider was a good gunner. A graduate of the Imperial Youth Pioneers, she had entered the 205th fresh from the Ost-Panzer training center at Beakstadt with good marks on her gunnery and combat assessment, probably one of the better kadets they’d received. Though the same rank as Axum, the brown with purple spotting pegasus carried with her a clinical sense of superiority that wouldn’t look out of place on a noble in high society, except instead of being smug about it Schneider would bite out some line about patriotism and purpose and duty. This was, Cyril considered, fitting for somepony who had come from Soldau, practically Reformisten heartland and right on the border of the Empire proper. Her accent was clipped and sharp, but she carried herself like every move she made was vital to the war effort. She was, in his mind, exactly what Ost-Griffonia had aimed to produce. Stiff, unwavering, cunning, but literal to her orders and unimaginative outside them. The mannerisms were off-putting…but for now, Cyril needed soldiers like that, who snapped to their tasks with skill and little hesitation. He didn’t object nearly as hard as he thought he should have. Most Reformisten he had served with, from Heimclar to Machinki and Haul, had formerly been something else. The first a knight serving in Hellsword’s Order, the second an Opinicus fighter battling guerillas and minotaurs and the latter a former militiapony under the command of General Silvertalon’s force during the fight against the mad count and all the Reiniger officers. Certainly devoted, but molded into the life afterwards. Schneider was proof of the Ost-Griffonian system at work. Born, raised and graduated under their careful, clinical watch. Like Axum, she tended to stick to Cyril whenever she could unless he detailed her on another duty. She had no life outside her service, and no desire to find one. He pitied her. Maybe that was why he wasn’t put off by her so much, felt he could guide her.
Cyril scanned the horizon. No more Fantomes came to challenge them, the better part of an armored battalion smashed and burning out here in the field already by the Imperial charge. More Carpiquet remote bombs appeared up and down the line, but no more rushed at his platoon. The Reichsarmee had been relentlessly pressing Vanguardigo even since Illeagle had fallen, as the schwerpunkt had to be maintained. A month of fighting over this ground meant that, when Kampfgruppe Lehr had arrived two weeks ago, this killing field had been hammered without relief. The enemy had to be running out of everything, or so the hope went. Supplies from Aquila had too many places to go, trying to hold the Reichsarmee back, and too few troops to use it. Or so the hope was. But this new president of theirs, this Nidmessant, had the population fired back up again with his speeches on the radio. The frogs were fighting with a fury that seemed completely at odds with their losses, like the further the Empire got into their territory, the more furious they fought. If they had before been fighting like mad to push the Reichsarmee out of their homeland, now it was with a spine and dedication redoubled. It was…concerning.
Finally satisfied there were no more mobile threats coming, Cyril got onto the platoon channel once more.
“This is Zug-Aktual. All panzers, form up on me for barrage formation. We’re going to let them have a few volleys, then clear the way for the footsloggers, over.”
Three other affirmatives came back at him over the channel.
The drew a line five hundred meters from the defense line, when they were on relatively flat ground with the fortifications still spewing fire down on the advance, instead of crawling up a hill towards the trenches and pillboxes. On Eiserner Riese formed up Geißel der Seelen, Sag Deine Gebete and Altes Strontium in a line abreast. Shells and tracers still fell on them, but none of them appeared to be anti-panzer munitions of sufficient mass to harm the mighty Grytas. Behind the heavy panzers formed up Knights from the Order of the Fiery Heart, well-versed in cooperative panzer warfare and ready to assault the trenches once the way was clear. Behind them, lines of panzergrenadiers and regular landsers waited, crouched down and preparing to charge en masse, Ozelot half-tracks sheltering them from the worst of the fire.
The guns spoke twice. Massive 7.6 cm cannons, not as large as the 8.8s on changeling Tigers but arguably far more lethal at ranges one could actually spot targets, the guns hammered into hardened positions that even weeks of bombardment from both heavy artillery and bombers overhead hadn’t shifted, cracking reinforced concrete and fortified trenchlines and pillboxes. Machine gun nests and dug in field guns disappeared in showers of dirt and steel, the crews torn to bloody ribbons and feathers for their bravery in holding the line.
“Give them another!” Cyril cried into the radio, and dutifully the four Grytas loaded up their third volley, spitting the shells out at what was, for them, short range. Coaxial and hull mounted machine guns chattered away, sending streams of bullets chasing after soft targets in the ruins of their defenses as griffons and pegasi attempted to escape on the wing while others fled the old fashioned way. There was little they could do against a heavy panzer charge after all this.
“Panzerzug, Aktual. Cease firing and prepare to charge on my mark.”
In the hull, Axum hauled a high explosive shell from the shot locker, slamming it into place with the regular machine like precision he had shown so far. Up front, Spotsley eagerly gunned the engine with her paws gripping the controls, anticipation building. Brightclaw listened carefully to the wider net, almost shutting out the battle entirely aside from when Spotsley slapped him to get on his gun. Their roles cemented, the two had built a much better working relationship in much more comfortable positions.
The last panzer in his platoon signaled a ready, and Cyril stood up to the hatch, unlocking it and swinging it open, letting in the fresh air and raging chaos of battle. A stray round zipped past his head, and he found himself ducking less than he would have before. Oh, a healthy appreciation for the lethality of combat was still there, of course. But he felt it. The hunger to get into the fight personally, scraping at his belly. He needed this, to pull the trigger himself. His MG 131 was gone, replaced with the brand new MG 12 coming out of the factories back in the Herzland, Bronzehill specifically if he had read the label correctly. The MG 12 was, in all honesty, more or less a copy of the changeling MG 42 with modifications for Imperial service, such as converting it to 7.65x53 Imperial instead of the bugs’ own 7.92x57, on top of a slightly slower firing rate (900 rounds per minute instead of the blistering original 1200) and a modified stock for griffon users. All in all, this was more a brother to the MG 42, instead of a true clone. But all Cyril cared was he loved the damn thing.
There it was. That brief pause before joining battle. True, they were already in the thick of it, with shells detonating all around, mortars popping and tracers streaming. But every assault always had that moment of calm right before it commenced, and Cyril had become far more aware of it since Westkeep. For a moment, the ringing in his ears melded into white noise, a continuous buzz that settled into the back of his skull. For a moment, just a moment, all his worries melted away, and he felt light as air, like he was flying with his old wing back, up in the clouds.
He took a deep breath, shouldered the MG 12 and finally gave the order.
“Panzerzug, stürmen sie!”
With a roaring of engines and clattering of tracks and armor, the four Grytas in this platoon advanced. Behind them came the roaring of infantry, both heavy and light as they surged up in the churned up tracks behind the heavy panzers. Up and down the line, the rest of the regiment was repeating this same action, to varied success in areas. But it was a tidal wave of steel crashing onto the battered Aquileian line, and all signs pointed to the frogs not being able to hold.
Cyril squinted down the sights of the MG 12 before pulling the trigger. One huge advantage over the MG 131 was, despite the smaller caliber, it was much more comfortable to handle. He didn’t have to lean back and squint while fumbling a butterfly trigger, this gun was straightforward and he could pull it into his shoulder like normal. He squeezed off a burst that chattered like it’s namesake. Since it was the Imperial version of the changeling weapon, the troops had taken to calling it “die Kettensäge des Kaisers” (the term ‘buzzsaw’ wasn’t in much use in Griffonia, but ‘chainsaw’ was). It lived up to it, too, cutting Aquileian troopers almost in half where the bursts smashed into them. As the Eisener Riese advanced with her sisters, figures in chalk blue spilled out of the remains of a smashed blockhouse nearby, rifles snapping and submachine guns chattering. One of them briefly took awing, a grenade in his claw. Cyril swept the MG 12 over to him and let off a five second burst. Bloody chunks and a primed grenade returned to the ground, the explosive detonating harmlessly before he brought his aim back to the rest of the Aquileian squad. Between his weapon and the MG 08s in the hull and turret, they turned the infantry into raw meat with the efficiency of a drunken butcher.
Sag Deine Gebete reached the positions first, her main gun booming at practically point blank range to annihilate an enemy ELC that had popped up out of nowhere with far more force than was technically necessary. The light panzer didn’t really even have time to respond before its destruction, turning into a fireball as its massively larger opponent cored it, then crushed as the Gryta rattled up and over its hulk, armor plating crumpling and crunching as if in a sense of finality.
The infantry following behind joined in on the chaos, rifle troopers snapping shots with their Gerunds and assault grenadiers letting flying with new 9mm Krahe SMGs as machine gunners settled their MG 08s and MG 12s into capable position, ripping off lethal bursts with abandon. Grenades detonated in the trenches as Knights dove in among Republicaine soldiers, slashing and stabbing with their swords or letting off bursts of blue beam fire. Flamethrowers gushed curtains of fire into fighting positions to burn the foe out, and the field became a motley of screams, flailing and bloody figures on both sides. The support panzers, Griefkonigs and Herzlands following on the flanks, spread out to begin enveloping the trenches, machine guns chattering and cannons booming as they watched for enemies the infantry couldn’t handle, and their opposite number did the same, clearing panzer-zerstorer guns and hunting for figures with armor-piercing explosives. A few Griefkonigs and Herzlands were still lost regardless, but the reaping toll the Imperial advance was wreaking was far and away again more like Adelart than Westkeep, and within an hour the Grytas were rolling into the rear command trenches, firing off sporadic shots as trucks and smaller enemy panzers fled towards the city, lines of infantry following after.
“Panzerzug, halt!” Cyril called into his radio. It was the right thing to do, after all. They could not advance without infantry support, and it was better to let the Knights, panzergrenadiers and landsers finish their bloody work. These trenches would likely be passed off to the colonials, leaving the zebras to watch their backs while they waited for reinforcements before joining the advance again. Vanguardigo was now in sight, no more defensive works or fortifications between them and the city. It promised to be a hard fight, and even now was firing off artillery and flak in retaliation to the pounding they were already taking. But now they were breaking through. Today, Vanguardigo. In a few weeks, maybe a month or two, they’d be outside the gates of Aquila itself…
Cyril’s eye caught a line of infantry stumbling out of a shattered trenchline. Remnants, he knew. They took one look at the line of Grytas and fled, stumbling and crying out as they ran, two dropping their rifles and taking flight. By instinct, Cyril swung the MG 12 up again, squeezing the trigger as he lined up on the flying forms. They were moving targets, and up in the air too so they could evade, but he had just slapped a fresh box on. He could afford the waste, he thought as he walked the muzzle around two inches in each direction, sustaining fire the whole time. The two flying figures finally crumpled, crashing to the ground in bloody heaps. That done, he fixed his attention on the runners, galloping away on all fours. No problem, he thought as he inched the gun around again. One, two, three, four figures dropped.
“I love this damn thing,” Cyril muttered as he swung onto the next group of fleeing Aquileians. A few went belly down and fired their rifles, trying to buy time for the rest to get clear. As Cyril squeezed the Kettensäge again, he pondered why they had managed to flee in front of a line of heavy panzers and live this long.
A pause. He let go of the trigger, pulling his cheek up from the gun. No shots came his way. No panzers counterattacked, no shells or flying sword wielders or aircraft. Just fleeing backs and smoldering vehicles. He took a claw off the gun, found it shaking. What-
”-in Boreas’ name is that?” said a voice on the channel, bringing him back to the present. Cyril glanced up, scanning for another Vanguard Prime. They hadn’t seen any since Westkeep, but that didn’t mean the foe didn’t have more surprises coming. But the nearest moving ground forces were at the edge of Vanguardigo, where he could now see the rumbling forms of mobilizing armor, forming up after leaving the city to counter attack. A kompanie of armor at least, led by the deadly Fantomes at the fore. But the motley force had no heavy panzers amongst them, and Cyril nodded. This would only delay the advance.
“Copy, Aquileian armor spotted. All Panzerzug elements, form up on-”
But then, as he scanned the horizon again, watching for incoming artillery and turning an eye up to gauge the air battle, something caught his eye. In hindsight, it was likely the same something that had caught the wonder of whoever had uttered the question on the line. But now he saw it, it stole his words away.
The Empire used airships. Big, bulky Fliegender Teppich rigid vessels, gasbag relics from the last century when their kind ruled the sky, now relegated to patrol craft and fixtures of morale. The changelings had Veppelins, which greatly resembled the Imperial ones (shocker) and many in Zebrica still employed their own to good use where more modern aircraft weren’t available. But what Cyril witnessed, as the six forms emerged from the clouds, were nothing like those clumsy hulks. These were long, sleek and angular, like someone had grabbed a submarine and thrown it into the sky. Round weapon mounts jutted out of the hull on top and mounted on pods sticking out the sides, while black smoke poured from what was obviously a smokestack. Hatches rested along their bellies, shuttered tight for now, but Cyril got the impression he wouldn’t like what came out.
The Luftstreitkrafte, which had mostly been getting the upper claw in the aerial fight, responded almost immediately. A dozen fighters (Habichts mostly and a single Sperber fighter bomber) that weren’t in the middle of combat maneuvered to address the…flying ships. There was no better word for it. They were indeed flying ships, decorated with fleur-des-lis on their prows and dozens of maroon and dark blue snapping banners to mark their affiliation, as if emerging into the skies over Vanguardigo wasn’t enough to announce it. But as the Imperial fighters closed and their machine guns began lighting up, the ships responded. Gun turrets blazed, flak and automatic cannons chattering at the approaching crafts, ripping four of them apart in the first volley.
“Boreas preserve us…” he muttered. He heard the gunner’s hatch swing open, and Schneider’s head emerged to look up at the aerial battle underway, at the new foe that had literally dropped in out of thin air.
“What are they, mein meister?” she asked, her voice as awestruck as he felt, looking to her kommandant for guidance. But Cyril had no answer for her.
The Imperial fighters twisted, machine guns blazing as they dove and spiraled, trying to find some point they could punch through on these mystery vessels, strafing them again and again to seemingly no effect. The larger form of the Sperber snarled, ruptured and fell apart as two flak turrets combined to blow it apart at what, to AA guns, was point blank range. From the ground, he could hear the regiment’s own anti-air support blazing to add their fire to the battle, but as clouds of flak began puffing up around the battle, Cyril couldn’t see that it was working either. It was like the Aquileians had literally brought the armor plating of warships and impossibly thrown them up into the sky, in a place where plating of that grade should never have gotten off the ground.
“How the hell did they do that?” he muttered, eyes wide as he tried to process the impossible sight before him. “How by Arcturius’ claws did they fucking -do- that?!”
The sky possessed no answer for him, aside from the Imperial fighters, those that survived, twisting and fleeing the metal monstrosities. This wasn’t a fight they could win. Only now, those impossible ships, the ships in the sky that refused to make sense, were advancing on the air battle, the one the Imperial aircraft had, up until now, been winning. Once more, their cannon turrets churned, and even as Imperial fighters twisted to address them, they proved just as impervious as before. And the six vessels kept plowing on, never deviating from their…wait, if they were coming to break the battle, why were only half of them going into the air fight?
The answer to that question suddenly made itself clear as domes retracted on top of the crafts, exposing large, squat barreled gun batteries that angled practically up to the sky. His blood froze as he realized those were rocket batteries, entirely useless in an air battle. Each one had dozens of tubes stuffed into each pod, and they were rotating to point in their direction.
Swiftly, he dropped into the turret, slamming the hatch down on top of him. To his relief, Schneider followed suit a moment later. At least the mare had some common sense.
“Spotsley, back us up! We’re about to get plastered!”
Nearby, Axum trembled, his head whipping back and forth as he tried to process what was happening himself, helpless to act and blind to what was happening. To her credit, Spotsley didn’t pause a moment to question his orders, merely throwing the Eiserner Riese in reverse a heartbeat later and pinning the throttle. A second later, the screaming of rocket munitions began shrieking in, smashing into the ground around the Grytas with the fury of a vengeful god. Four ships, firing naval grade artillery down at ground forces within visual range? There was absolutely nothing good about this situation.
The platoon was suffering. He could barely see them through his vision slit, watching as the munitions hammered into the regiment’s frontline. Here, it was hell on Faust he could barely perceive anything through, sledgehammer blows smashing into the panzer’s top again and again. Altes Strontium was peeled open by a lucky shot, rupturing her hull and annihilating the crew inside. Over the radio, he could hear the other panzer commanders hollering at each other, screaming for orders or praying for mercy, when it got through. With every blast, the channel was filled with static and interference. He could only imagine how awful it was for the lighter-skinned Griefkonigs, or the vulnerable infantry.
”Panzers! the radio finally burbled at him. ”Fantomes, advancing from the city!”
Cyril tried to acquire them through the vision slits, but he could barely see any damned thing through the artillery hell those airships were raining down on them. Another direct hit smacked into Eiserner Riese, and he realized they were taking direct cannon fire. Was it from above? From the Fatomes coming to get them while they were helpless under bombardment? Another impact, and then the entire panzer -lurched- as they ran over whatever was behind them. Truck or trench, friend or enemy, who could say.
“Hives below, we’re dead!” Axum finally broke, holding his head between his hooves as he ducked, horn glowing green in his anguish.
“Defeatist!” Schneider barked, jabbing a hoof at Axum as she tried shaking him out of his breakdown. “Get a HOLD of yourself, where is your courage?”
“The same place we all left it!” Cyril snapped, smacking Schneider upside her hooded head. “Knock it off and focus! No summary executions inside a panzer in the heat of battle! That’s on -my- authority anyway.”
She was outraged, he could see that in her eyes she did not take his humor well. But that intense Ost-Griffonian conditioning asserted itself, and she nodded as she turned back to her gunsight, almost braining herself as the panzer rocked again.
“What the hell are we doing out here?!” Cyril barked over the intercom, more in frustration than because he expected an actual answer. They couldn’t see to shoot, they were being bombarded from multiple angles, their air cover was being pushed out and they were in danger of getting snagged on some obstacle they couldn’t see and left as sitting ducks. What were they supposed to do here?
Abruptly, Brightclaw sat up, wincing as he smacked the armor plating under another detonation.
“Leutnant! Message coming through on the Kompanie Kommando channel!”
“Got it, switching now!”
With a flick, Cyril could finally hear a little better, though the channel was still awash with white noise and hash. But through the mess, he could hear the tones of the battalion’s kommandant, speaking clearly and slowly, trying to reach as many of his griffs as he could.
’This is Kompanie Aktual to all panzerzugs! Orders directly from Van Zieks! Advance on Vanguardigo and take shelter from the barrage! Acknowledge!”
Cyril sat there, dumbfounded and aghast at the new orders. Advance through this insanity? They still had ten kilometers of practically open ground to cover before even reaching the city, and that was also while fighting blind against enemy armor, to take a city heavily occupied and fortified to the nines by the enemy!
He felt the rage boiling up inside of him. Again, they were being fed into the meatgrinder, again they were being set with impossible goals to claim by the skin of their beaks, bought with griffon blood and leaving mounds of corpses behind them. Again! Again, he had to listen to his platoon screaming and dying on the radio while officers sat safely behind the lines gave such asinine orders because they knew whatever they lost would quickly be replaced! Would they even make it to Vanguardigo this time? Who in Tartarus was giving these idiotic commands? Was it Van Zieks, or somegriff up above him who had inserted a pin and said make it so?
”Duskwing! Acknowledge your orders!”
He realized he was the only panzer kommandant who hadn’t responded. Plenty of complaints, he had heard them in the background while his anger and attitude had boiled and he had almost been set to screaming into the radio. But he hadn’t said anything at all.
With his beak grit, knowing what had to be done, Cyril responded “Aktual…I copy. Advancing Brutus up to assault Vanguardigo. Over.”
Without waiting to hear the response, Cyril tore the headset from his ears, tossing it up front with a savage short throw, narrowly missing Spotsley’s head as it sailed by the gun assembly.
“Fuck! Gods damn all the High Kommand and their inbred, noble asses! Gods fucking dammit!”
He simmered, feeling the outburst rippling under his skin before he got himself back under control. They were still being fired on, after all. The brutal artillery barrage seemed to have taken a breath. Was that because the flying ships were reloading? Or were they searching for targets? He could still hear combat outside, shells landing and rounds bouncing off the panzer’s hull, so the battle was still on.
He realized, as he came down from his seeing-red high, that the entire crew were staring at him. Well, he could barely see Spotsley or Brightclaw, but given how the headset had flown forward, she would hardly be ignoring him. Axum, already a ball of nerves and worries, looked fit to devolve into another panic attack again, his mandibles quivering and his chitin rattling under his uniform. Schneider’s response, however, was even more concerning. She had lost the severe, held up superior poise she had held, as if she was better than the rest of them, her spine straight and her movements purposeful and sharp. Now, she looked more like what she was; a nineteen year old who had just realized the war could, would and very likely was about to kill them. Her eyes were wide as she stared at Cyril, and he lamented inside at the realization now sharing in Axum’s despair and even comforting him as well. They were the Panzer Elite…or they had been before Westkeep. This was supposed to be the best of the best, and they were now being thrown into a suicidal action the likes of which would be considered idiotic to an army as griffpower conservative as Ost-Griffonia.
He swallowed, breath shaky. He had to regain control. Of himself and his panzer.
This must have been what Sergeant Hellseig had kept bottled up in his head all the time.
“Spotsley,” he said, voice cracking before he quietly cleared it and tried again. “Spotsley, would you hand me that back please?”
The headset was passed back quietly, and he affixed the device, taking a deep breath.
“Panzerzug, this is Brutus Aktual. Orders from the top! Regroup on Eiserner Riese and prepare to advance. How copy, over.”
As the expected chorus of despair and resigned acknowledgement came back, Cyril glanced over at Schneider. With that simple reassertion of control, her eyes at least had settled. She seemed to be breathing hard and fast, trying to control herself. He reached out, touching her shoulder a moment before pointing to the gunsight. They still had a job to do, after all. Orders were orders.
“Spotsley…take us in. Brightclaw, stir us up with a prayer. Axum, load armor-piercing. Schneider, find us a target.”
*****
“They’re called the Furieux-class Levant Grand Corvette,” Rittermeister Ruria said tiredly as she rubbed at the bandage across her face. A red stain indicated that the gash torn across her head hadn’t completely healed yet, but here she was regardless, after a piece of shrapnel had tried to behead her. “And Levant is frog-speak for ‘flying’. Well, close enough. And you all know that’s true.”
Two days after the retreat from Vanguardigo, pressed into the battered remains of a hotel in Illeagle, the command staff of the kompanie and surviving platoon leaders were watching the briefing provided by the Bronze dog, apparently a former aide to a Feld-Marschall. They were all gathered in the hotel restaurant, nursing various injuries they’d received in the battle and retreat, the less life-threatening at least. The attack on Vanguardigo, as expected, had been a colossal disaster. Hauptmann Stahlbeak was dead, and many of the Grytas he’d commanded were now smoldering wrecks out in the hills. The suicidal attack had finally been called off by Heimclar, but the damage was done. The Imperial advance had not only stopped cold, they’d been forced to give up the hard won fields between Illeagle and Vanguardigo, until the massive anti-aircraft cannons mounted into Illeagle’s defenses chased the damned things away back west. Now, even out the broken window, one could see the endless line of returning Imperial soldiers, still trickling in from the field they had fought so hard to take. Landsers, stormtroopers, knights, panzers, trucks full of wounded, halftracks pulling artillery pieces, it just kept going. Vollstreckers, NCOs and junior officers kept the column controlled, issuing orders and bawling abuse at any who held up the flow. The rumor was that Ober-Kommando was even now considering abandoning the push south towards Vinovia if a surefire counter to those flying monstrosities couldn’t be found. Luckily for Kampfgruppe Lehr and the rest of the 19th, panzer losses had been relatively low, the loss of Stahlbeak aside. They’d be ready to move on whatever plan the high foreheads came up with the moment it was announced.
“According to word from intelligence,” Ruria continued on, itching at her injured face once more. “Those ships are indeed real. And the Republique is building more, likely at the same facilities they use to build naval vessels like Aquila, Pridea and Skyluzzo. It would not take much to make the conversion from drydock, and they’d just look like a naval ship. Except for one key difference; aside from specific parts, these new airships are about 90% vrillium-steel alloy.”
That made Cyril sit up and take notice. Vrillium was one of the rarest metals on the planet, concentrated in a few key major deposits scattered across the world (though quite a few were in Zebrica) and smaller ones elsewhere. There might be more, but it was a completely useless mineral for anything, possessing no real special properties and holding the consistency of bronze once refined. It made no sense, why mine something that was functionally worthless but difficult to find and somehow build a flying ship out of it? The cost had to be immense. The assembled officers began murmuring, clearly wondering the same thing. But the Rittermeister wasn’t done yet.
“It seems a few decades ago, a Wingbardian scientist found out you can enchant vrillium. Give it the right one, and it…well, -floats- all on its own. It’s taken this long for somegriff to figure out what to do with that. And you’ve seen the results. Alloy it with steel, and you’ve got flying naval craft.”
Dark murmurs now. None of the assembled platoon commanders liked this news. If this was being passed down from the top, it was being shared among the other kompanies as well. The word would spread, and it wouldn’t be long before the civilian papers caught on to what had happened here.
Leutnant Grimfeather raised her claw, and Ruria nodded to her. The formel stood, cleared her throat and asked “Do we have a way to stop them?”
The other officers, Cyril included, nodded and murmured their agreement. It was an important question. Ruria sighed, shuffling uncomfortably and itching at her bandage again. She’d been a last minute addition, desperately attached to get the chaos under control. It hadn’t kept the truck she’d been riding in from getting smashed by a rocket, or her getting her face torn by shrapnel, but at least she lived.
But the question was clearly beyond her knowledge. She turned back to the other senior figure who had been present in the briefing, but had said little. Oberstmeister Heimclar had, for the duration of the discussion, alternated between staring out the window at the retreating column and plucking the monocle off his beak to polish it, however unnecessary at this point. He looked so tired, so completely out of the pristine, sharp and ultra-controlled knightly commander Cyril was used to. He had swapped out his filthy Ost-Griffonian blacks, briefly, for clean Reichsarmee green-gray but still looked a mess, the mismatched Reformisten cap askew on his head as the final indication, like he hadn’t gotten any sleep. Cyril knew, from talking to him on the radio during the withdrawal, he probably hadn’t. But now, he stepped forward to answer the question for Ruria, affixing the monocle. And for the first time since they had arrived back in Illeagle, Cyril noticed the eyepiece was cracked down the center, the lens likely only held together by the grimy brass frame. It was a grim omen of the once proud battalion, Cyril considered. Battered by Westkeep, shattered by Vanguardigo. But no matter how much Heimclar polished it, that lens would never repair itself. He wondered, briefly, what that represented about the Kampfgruppe.
Heimclar cleared his throat, a surprisingly mundane, mortal thing for the once imposing and severe purple drake.
“Yes and no. We’ve got weapons that can damage those airships, but none of them are aerial, which would be the most effective. Fighters can strafe the decks like a nautical vessel, but bombers are having a hard time reaching them. In short, unless they make a mistake, we can’t bring them down. I’m going to be honest with you here; it’s pretty grim. They’re working to arm some Fliegender Teppich ships with panzer guns as fast as they can.”
Dissatisfaction in the ranks as murmurs spread through the assembled officers, part of it motivated by fear. FT ships were a living artifact from the previous age, when armed aircraft were basic and just emerging into military use. Slow, already known to be obsolete compared to propeller aircraft and now weighed down by ordnance they were never built to carry. Was this the best the Empire could do? Send relics in against modern marvels and hope for the best? Heimclar seemed visibly taken aback at this response, but he rallied quickly.
“In the meantime,” he continued, killing the chatter immediately. “We’re going to hold the line. True, we can’t advance while the threat of one of these -things- dropping out of the sky and ruining our day is present. Aquileia just flipped the table on this war. They’re able to move an entire battery’s worth of artillery across country in just a few days that can for the most part take care of itself. And, to make it worse, they’re able to drop troops and supplies behind our lines. I have issued orders to disperse the kampfgruppe and support other units here. We are, as of now, on fire watch. Every time a guerilla force pops up, we crush it. Everytime an airship drops supplies, I want us all over it before the frogs are. We do this until those big thinkers in Burg Krallestein give us some of our own.”
He paused, waiting for more protests, but none ventured forward. What else could they say?
He nodded, having said his piece, and stepped back, turning the briefing back over to Ruria, who was inspecting the map pinned to the wall with two bayonets. The Rittermeister sighed, nodding again as she itched at her bandage once more, turning back to the officers.
“Obviously, I am a newcomer. This is a troubling time, but Imperial Oberkommando has issued the order to make replacements. I’ll be your new kompanie kommandant. There’s obviously a lot I need to catch up on, but my time under Feldzeugmeister Zugravescu has me educated on the basics. I need an official second in command.” She paused, reviewing the assembled platoon commanders before her. Some were new themselves, barely seeing their first action as replacements here on this disaster. The rest were veterans, Reichsarmee and Ost-Griffonian fighters who had become panzer savants in their craft. Needless to say, it didn’t take her long to decide.
“Duskwing. You’re field promoted to Oberleutnant. Congratulations.”
The assembled platoon commanders murmured their own congratulations, and Cyril felt claws, hooves and paws reach over to smack him on the back. The elevation was certainly a surprise, so abrupt and with no warning. He was no longer what the rank and file considered an expendable novice, the bottom barrel of the officer korps before you hit the obersts and generals who became strictly political animals. In practice, he reasoned to himself, very little had changed. He had acted as Stahlbeak’s second in command since Westkeep. There hadn’t been many of them to take the position back then, either.
Ruria continued. “You’ll all receive your orders soon. Resupply and reinforcement are coming. In the meantime, stand ready…and let’s get set for another slog. Duskwing, I want to speak with you at 1700, my command truck.”
She glanced to Heimclar. As the senior officer, he was responsible for closing. The Oberstmeister stepped forward to where a podium might have stood, and took a breath. For a moment he paused, and Cyril realized he was struggling with what to say. It was a completely alien look on him. Dressed in a different uniform, stuck in this quandary, Cyril almost swore he could have been a completely different person. Finally, their kommandant did speak.
“This is a dark day. I know we got off lighter than most of the regiment…but this was bloody for Kampfgruppe Lehr. Possibly our worst. You’ve all seen the casualty lists. I would expect some consolidation, if I were you all. You don’t lose a third of a battalion in one day and come out whole. But you’re -all- veterans now. You know what to do going forward. Listen to your kompanie kommandants. They will tell you what you need to know. Major Rokhfurt will take overall command.” Rokhfurt being the battalion’s official second in command, a Reichsarmee officer who had for the most part stayed out of the light of the rest as he conducted his duties in Heimclar’s shadow. Right now, for example, Rokhfurt was overseeing Kampfgruppe Lehr’s replenishment, reinforcement and repair efforts while this briefing was under way. “As for me…” he took a short, sharp breath, as if reminded of something he would rather forget. “Well, we will see. I suppose I’ll have to survive the court martial.”
The joke was weak, but the assembled officers both Reichsarmee and Reformisten chuckled at the attempt. Heimclar’s order to retreat had been on his own initiative. While it had undoubtedly saved the regiment from complete annihilation, the fact was that he had defied a general’s order. Only his rank had saved him from a Vollstrecker’s pistol, once Van Zieks had caught up to the retreating force. For officers of their caliber, a reckoning would have to be paid. And Heimclar, it seemed, would be the one hauled back to pay it. This was why he was here instead of out trying to keep his unit alive. Technically, until the courts martial (or the Vollstrecker and Feldjagers dragged him off in irons) Heimclar was no longer in command.
“There is good news. Fresh forces are coming. I have word that the 21st Stoßtruppen, the 509th Panzer Fusiliers and the 13th Feld Artillerie are arriving by rail tomorrow. Ost-Griffonian regiments at last. Most Reichsarmee forces follow after them.” A murmur went up, this one a bit warmer. The assembled ranks of the Lord Protector’s army had been promised for some time, but given their much smaller size compared to the massive Reichsarmee and allowing for the east’s border issues, it had taken time to properly spare them, pull them away from the Ostwall and ensure their absence would not be missed. Now, at last, with colonial troops from overseas and Knight-led forces from the Great March, this disaster might not turn into the rout it looked like.
"Angriff, morgen kommt. Gotten mitt uns." Heimclar's words, at the end of the briefing, still held some of their original steel in his commitment, but they sounded tired, and somewhat distant."
The briefing broke up after that with no one satisfied. They had some answers, some assurances, but the things they needed to know were still great big question marks. They couldn’t kill these ships yet, they could barely fight them. The only advantage the Empire seemed to have was that, with the small amount there were and the massively larger industrial base comparatively, the Luftstreitkrafte might have enough time to throw together -something- to fight these new machines. But wherever one popped up, it meant bombing raids essentially couldn’t go forward, and any ground advance was in danger of being bombarded without the chance to fight back. It wasn’t like a new panzer or an updated rifle or even a new naval vessel. The Republique had, in one week, rewritten the very dynamic of modern war.
Cyril sighed as he tugged another Eckstein from his pack. Just when things were starting to go their way. Just when they had won Westkeep and it finally looked like this war might be over in the near future. Now, they were shoved onto the backfoot again. He rummaged through his jacket pockets, glancing down at his rank insignia. He’d have to get that updated to reflect his sudden promotion, the one that hadn’t really settled into his mind right now, that he hadn’t processed yet, but that wasn’t quite a priority right now. Something rustled in his pocket as he tugged the green pack and lighter out, and he froze a second. A few postcards stayed in his breast, some of Eisen’s surviving postcards that had been a bit too damaged to be taped up inside the Eiserner Riese. He hadn’t sent them back to her parents when he had written the letter explaining her death. From her description, her seclusive and conservative (even by Imperial standards) family wouldn’t have understood her desire to travel the world.
“And they say war never changes,” he chuckled darkly, stopping in the hotel lobby, a once grand and luxurious room, to light his smoke. This hotel was now a barracks for Reichsarmee officers, and there were many soldiers still around down here, from personnel staff sorting affairs to various leutnants, hauptmanns, obersts and even generals on their way to or from their rooms. He was among their number now, no longer a kadet and no longer a wet behind the ears leutnant. Oberleutnant. In times of crisis, and there would be plenty, Ruria would come to him to take over command in her stead. If she was smart, she’d lean on him and the surviving senior NCOs to make her decisions until she got her paws under her. He was sure this was just a Charakter promotion, what other nations would call a brevet, an emergency promotion to fill absences. The Reichsarmee loved them in times of greatest need. He wondered how much would change…and what would stay the same.
“Leutnant Duskwing!”
He recognized that voice. Raising his head, Cyril turned to find none other than Sarika Basu, the Hindian war correspondent, fighting her way through the milling soldiers to appear before him, slightly out of breath.
“Fraulein Basu,” Cyril replied, surprised she had appeared so quickly in his life. “Interesting coincidence to see you here again.”
“I could say the same,” the deer replied, smirking as she tugged pencil and notepad from her bag. “Though I -did- cheat a little. I asked around for you. You wouldn’t believe how many folks thought they knew exactly where you were, and were wrong regardless.”
“Sarika,” Cyril started, already feeling the beginning of a headache coming on. His mood was not the best right now, and he knew if he snapped off on a reporter it would be all over the papers by breakfast. ‘Local war hero berates simple correspondent. Reichsarmee made to look like fools.’ Or, something like that, he ruminated. “Fraulein Basu. There are other, far more interesting officers in Kampfgruppe Lehr, Reichsarmee and Reformisten both. I’m not interested in doing an interview.”
She pouted, and he pulled back a little at the expression. A grown female, literally pouting in the middle of a military occupied hotel, in a warzone that had just stepped up in intensity. The entire prospect was, to put it bluntly, rather extraordinary. Several officers nearby were glancing over at them, expressions ranging from curiosity to annoyance to the kind of mood soldiers reserved for civilians who didn't belong where they had stuck their noses.
“You -do- realize you’re basically on the frontline right now?” he added lamely, realizing it wasn’t going to dissuade her.
“Listen, you stubborn fool!” she snapped abruptly, a pencil tip abruptly jabbing right at his face. “Over the past month, I’ve had meetings with Heimclar von Lohr, Rozen Machinki, Long Haul, every single major figure in your regiment that the newspapers are interested in. And you want to know what the results were? Heimclar immediately sent me packing, Machinki refused to speak about anything military and Rittermeister Haul just stopped talking and ignored me! Frankly, you’re the only one that has given me more than a ‘hello, goodbye’ after finding out what I do for a living! I feel like a-...what do you call them?” She pondered for a moment before coming up with the term she needed. “Streetwalker, that’s how they acted around me! Like I needed to be shunned for my profession! And before you tell me to go asking the Reichsarmee officers instead, -your- name is what my readers want! So, since you are now my best lead at this juncture I -will- get the story I need to send home and you have -no- choice in the matter!”
Cyril paused, taken aback. Sarika had to be a year or two older than him, but he still outmassed her by a considerable deal. Yet, somehow, this doe had still managed to intimidate him, albeit for only a moment compared to everything else he’d seen. She certainly had passion for her craft, and she definitely seemed like she wasn’t going to leave.
“It’s not your profession,” he said mildly, trying to make up his mind. The Hindian visibly deflated a little in front of him, clearly trying to process his words. “Yes, Kampfgruppe Lehr is both Reichsarmee and Ostheer. But you’re trying to talk to Reformisten officers. Ultranationalists. They don’t trust foreigners, at all. It’s got less to do with you being a journalist and more of you being, well…Hindian.”
Sighing, Cyril checked his watch as the doe tried to process what he’d said. He wasn’t expected to meet with Ruria for another hour. He’d specifically ordered Schneider and Axum to remain behind and get Eiserner Riese ready to move out again with Spotsley, Brightclaw and the mechanics. He had to be specific, they refused to leave him unless he directly told them. But that meant he also knew that someone who insisted on being a nuisance could often find very creative ways to stick around. But the issue of this reporter again. She clearly refused to leave as well. Now, he’d either have to call in the feldjagers…or give her a bit of his time.
Groaning, Cyril glanced down at her stern, determined expression. Haul was going to blow a gasket for this one.
“Alright, Fraulein Basu,” he said, almost smirking at her dumbfounded face that followed. “I have a bit of time. Let’s go stop at the mess tent. We can grab a bite and some coffee. Then I’ll answer your questions. And also; it’s Oberleutnant now.”
”It’s a lie to say you are far enough away from something to be unaffected by it. What happens over there affects you over here. If you’re in one country, a war across the world should matter to you. If you’re a pilot, it doesn’t matter that the fighting’s going bad on the ground, away from you. What happens when they get to your airbase?” -Flight Lieutenant Vapor Wave, Equestrian Royal Air Force
August 5th, 1012 No. 2 (Bombing) Group, Number 99 “Bloody Nightmares” Squadron Goldwin Airbase, Rainy Lowlands, Principality of Equestria
“That’s it…snap it together. Now slide the stock up and lock the pin into place.”
The Limestone gun was a charming piece of technology. Designed as a cheap replacement to the more expensive Thundersplash submachine guns the Royal Army had been purchasing previously, it only possessed fifty four parts in total, slightly less when the wooden stock was replaced with a more barebones one. Designed primarily to be assembled as quickly and cheaply as possible, it was made of stamped components with a few minor welds. Word was, workshops meant to churn these out had gone up in every city in Equestria after Las Pegasus had fallen. For an aircrew like theirs, it was vital to learn the basic functions, in case they ever had to use them. Given Paige’s brief experience during the opening night of the war, and the number of crews already shot down behind enemy lines, everypony took this seriously.
Ace was giving his crew their briefing, all sitting on the dirt in a half moon in front of him. They knew how to maintain their weapons, but a refresher for what they were expecting ahead was necessary. Nerves were on edge after the transfer. Colonel Fancy Pants had yet to tell them exactly what they were to expect, but the fact they were hung so far out on a wire was indicative that something big was happening. Nopony uttered a word of resistance as their pilot showed them all how to strip down, clean and reassemble their crew weapons. The silent acknowledgement that they might be desperately needed was enough. If they were going to fly a high risk mission into enemy territory, there would be almost no chance of search and rescue.
Beyond their little school circle, row after row of Lancaster bombers and Beaufighter heavy escorts. Five whole squadrons had been dispatched here, into what was clearly a recently slash and burn formed airbase at the very front of the battlespace. When they had touched down last night and understood exactly where they were, a lot of nervous comments were quietly exchanged. According to the latest intel maps, Hoofington and most of the southwest were still in enemy hooves, a bunch of dry but resource rich desert the Celestial Fleet could no longer reach and support. Even protected by the garrisons at Gallopfrey and Stableside and the Spitfire wings on scramble response near Baltimare, it still felt Goldwin FAB was a bit too close to enemy lines for their stated role. After weeks if not months of trying to delay the Hegemony’s advance on Canterlot by destroying logistics and denying the enemy the use of captured resources, what were they meant to accomplish so far from the homefront?
Paige snapped her weapon together with the surety of a veteran. She had used both this and the Thundersplash before, the so-called Hippie Gun. While she had an affinity for the latter’s massive round and satisfying rattle, the Limestone gun was effective, to the point and lightweight. Exactly what you wanted in a pilot’s backup. She slapped an empty magazine into the well and racked the bolt, pulling the trigger and letting it snap closed again. As she glanced up, Ace nodded over to her, and she felt pleased at her progress. If she was to be shot down, nopony would call her defenseless. She dreaded needing to use it. According to some of Cyril’s letters, he had been forced to go to infantry style grips more than once, and emerging from a stricken war machine with little more than pistol caliber weaponry in the middle of a raging battle sounded like exactly the right way to get killed in a hurry. Better that she keep to her bombsights, do her job and hope Ace could keep them from having to apply these lessons.
The air was hot and humid as she set her weapon down and glanced out at the perimeter fence and the jungle beyond. It was both weather and clime like she’d never known before. Most of her time in Hoofington, so mockingly close yet so far away, Paige had been in dry weather with the occasional monsoon. But rainforest like this was brand new to her. The air wings weren’t completely helpless, at least. They’d been assigned the 303rd Onhooves Regiment, which meant a few thousand rifle troopers were charged with keeping the airbase safe. Trenches, machine gun bunkers, mortar pits and artillery dugouts lined the perimeter, and she had seen constant patrols going out into the jungle over and over in the short time since they’d landed. Jackalope trucks were parked in lines, though many were occupied running supplies back and forth between the various corrugated steel structures of Goldwin FAB. It was clear that the infantry had only gotten there just before the RAF planes. Aside from the changelings, Paige knew hostile native ponies and even an isolated group of thestral tribes lived out here in the bush, both of which were not particularly happy with alicorn rule. If they were such a threat to warrant such protection, she thought, then posting this many valuable aircraft in such a treacherous place was only further evidence to what they were going to be asked to do.
“Bit for your thoughts?”
She glanced over to find Sweet Static had plopped down next to her in a practical heap. If Paige was uncomfortable about the weather, the red unicorn seemed to be downright suffering. She’d loosened the upper two buttons on her tunic, and her mane was practically glued to her coat. It made sense, in a way. Static was a native of Vanhoover, where summers were mild and winters rather chilly. To be thrown into the jungle where it was hot and humid and the air buzzed with insects and practically choked anypony who attempted to take a breath had to be hard on the unicorn.
Paige chuckled as she took in her friend’s appearance, especially after the red mare gave up trying to light a cigarette.
“Just wondering what we’re doing here. When we’ll get told.”
“Goddesses, I hate it here already,” Static complained, as Paige knew she would. “I have no idea why Equestria wants anything to do with this place. Aside from Baltimare, it's a land of primitives, batponies and renegades. Nopony gets anything from here. Should leave it to the bugs and let ‘em suffer.”
Paige raised an eyebrow. This was uncharacteristic for Static, who was a bitter if patriotic cynic. She seemed to support the idea of ‘my country, right or wrong’ but her criticisms of the Princesses and the state ran a mile long. The idea she was now advocating to just give up land to the changelings was certainly not expected.
“Oh come on, dragi. I’m sure we have over a hundred bombers here to protect something valuable. Dođi sada, what’s in the region?”
Static affixed the off white pegasus with a death glare, her red magic aura buzzing around her horn to indicate her unamused frustration. If anypony had snooped around for information on the area it would either be eternal busybody Static or their navigator Dusky Eventide. Given that Dusky was still fumbling with her Limestone gun while trying not to melt in the sunlight, the dark lenses of her military-authorized glasses glinting, the one to ask was clearly Static.
“Rubber, mostly,” Static grumbled, as if in conciliatory acceptance. It seemed to take effort to admit that this place, which they had written off for the most part as being worthless, actually had something to justify coming all the way down here. “Most of Equestria’s rubber reserve, and a good part of it gets exported to other countries. Some oil, too. Steel, up in the mountains. And a hoof full of cities. But that’s what these young bucks are supposed to do.” She gestured widely to the troopers rushing around, still working on their security perimeter and helping out with the base functions. “All of that’s something the Army handles. And certainly not heavy bombers.”
“Maybe they’re expecting us to hit Hoofington and Dodge City,” Maverick cut in, having invited himself to their chat. The engineer flopped down on Paige’s other side, glancing over towards the lines of heavy bombers. “Lancs have got quite a range. Heck, you could hit Las Pegasus, Applewood, maybe even Vanhoover.”
Paige shook her head again, muttering to herself in Rijekan.
“No, you could hit all those from Fillydeplhia. Or even Baltimare. Long as you were willing to brave the gauntlet, you could fly on for…what, a thousand miles before you had to turn back?”
When had she stopped thinking in terms of Griffonian metric and switched her mind to Equestrian standard? The question bit hard into her brain, as it had since Blossom had interrogated her. When had she stopped thinking in terms of where she had come from and more in terms of where she was now? It was hard to pinpoint an exact time or place. The scientific community, and thus the universities she had studied at, still used metric to a large degree, so staying in practice to that was fine. But Equestria used standard for everything else, including miles, pounds, ounces and inches. She had stopped measuring her groceries in kilograms and thought of how many pounds of potatoes she’d need, started thinking how many miles to the next bust stop to catch a ride to her job instead of kilometers, all long before this war had pulled her back in. She barely used Rijekan anymore (nopony here spoke it) and even the slang terms that had come to her as second nature seemed foreign in her mouth. She had, without realizing it, naturalized. It was indeed only natural, she told herself. After five years living here, it was inevitable that she’d change her methods of thinking and behavior. But the fact that she hadn’t even seen it was disconcerting. Bad habits and unseen trends weren’t for academics, she told herself.
“Fifteen hundred, actually,” said a familiar voice behind her, and they all glanced up to see Lieutenant Solar Ace standing over the trio. He didn’t appear cross, though both tone and expression were neutral. “I seem to have lost half my class.”
The two Meatheads chortled as they fumbled their weapons. Dusky was too preoccupied meticulously reassembling her trigger to look up and notice. The three guilty crew caught off on their own glanced to each other first before looking back up at Ace, who simply shook his head.
“Well, you all put your guns together again before you scarpered off. That’s something at least.” Ace trotted over to join them, tugging at his own uniform tunic. Normally, the pilot was the prime example of upper crust Equestrian stoicism. But this heat and humidity was getting to even the unflappable lieutenant. “I’m about to call it, anyway. I hear the mess has some Sparkle-Cola on ice. Be good to get some while this ghastly heat is on.”
“Go on El-Tee,” Static pressed, though her tongue had licked her lips at the mention of the most popular soft beverage in Equestria. “You’ve gotta know what we’re in for, right? Why in Tartarus are we all the way down in Tirek’s armpit?”
Ace seemed to have not heard her a moment, his eyes affixed on the Lancasters. Now Paige looked, several of the planes seemed to be receiving the attention of mechanical crews. Dolleys full of parts sat next to them, and sparks flew from several welders. She frowned. That wasn’t normal maintenance, and none of the crates had come in limping. Those were modifications…
Finally, Ace glanced back, a smirk on his muzzle. It looked extremely out of place on the stallion.
“I think I’ll leave that to Colonel Fancy Pants. Give it a few days. Believe me, when you find out what it is…you’re going to appreciate the time in the dark.”
Their pilot trotted on, and Paige was left with that sinking feeling in her gut, the one that told her that, no…she wasn’t going to like what Bomber Command had in store for them this time. This went beyond normal combat flights and bombing runs. This was a ethereal connection to the draconequus god of chaos and general bad luck, Discord (or so the myth went). No, the burning ulcer in her gut told her they were in for another time when an officer decided to start moving pins on a map.
Paige had another pang of appreciation for just how helpless Cyril often described himself as, as ponies above her paygrade made a run at trying to end her life in some grand experiment.
“When you get right down to it, the Griffonian Empire hasn’t changed much since its collapse. At its heart, it is largely ruled by its aristocrats. Given the past few Kaisers that have sat the throne, you could hardly call the crown in control. Ost-Griffonia is no different. Don’t let the Reformisten fool you, all the flashy parades and the military backed ‘equality’. The only difference, you see, is that their -officers- are their nobles. In the end, the Dual Monarchy is largely still the same; run by a select few who wield some of the worlds’ most powerful armies for their own gains. A few decades’ separation has changed nothing.” -General Bernard Hoofgonery
As the crew of the panzer Sabine race to the rescue of their comrades, the filthy bovine hordes of Asterion surge from the forest! These barbarian GLA minotaur hordes fire on the noble Imperial soldiers with abandon, though as Sabine crashes into their ranks they buckle and break in the face of such vicious firepower! From the top hatch, the honorable Feldwebel Hellseig calls “Another one, Duskwing!”
With his now legendary accuracy, our hero Vise-Korporal Cyril Duskwing fires the main gun, shredding a score of minotaurs with impunity! Singleclawedly, they have stopped the enemy charge and prepared to counter attack down the hill, no matter the cost! With Cyril Duskwing behind the gun, it was only a matter of time before Temsoar is-
August 8th, 1012 Romau, Griffonian Kaiserreich
“What in Tartarus is this?”
Sarika Basu looked up from her tea, a little surprised at the question.
“You don’t like it? I was going to submit it to the Kaiserliche Ministerium für Medienangelegenheiten. They’re talking about making a serial about you and your exploits.”
“My-” With a groan, Cyril ran a claw over his face, trying to contain the flaring temper he felt, low in his gut but steadily boiling up. “First of all, they’re not exploits. Soldiers died in these battles, Sarika. Second, that’s not even what happened. The kompanie was already withdrawing, we weren’t ‘rescuing’ anyone.”
“You -did- pull a counter charge all by yourselves, though,” Sarika pointed out, nibbling at her sandwich as she did so. "People eat up bravado like that, doesn't matter the race."
“Yes, but we didn’t break the charge like what this says. If anything, they attacked even harder when they realized we were all alone. Sarika, this happened two years ago. People already know the truth.”
“But they don’t,” she countered, a completely serious expression on her face. “Civilians don’t have access to military after action reports. Just what the Ministerium and the Reformisten have told them, and the interviews from your crew. You think Ferrous Adler would let a story like that go to waste? You think the Reichsarmee would?” She returned to her lunch, taking a casual bite and a sip of tea. “It’s not meant to be one for one, anyway. This is a propaganda serial, to drive up recruitment. The public wants to know about their hero, and where better to start than, say, you crushing a bunch of communists.”
“I’m not a hero,” Cyril grumbled back as he looked down at the typewritten sheet, a deep frown on his face. “And the GLA were starving and on the verge of infighting. Not a very satisfying victory; in my experience most of the hard fighting happened in the cities, I’ll tell you that…besides, the minotaurs weren’t socialists.”
"Actually, some of them were. A very strange coalition of Wingbardian style fascists and Stalliongrad inspired socialists."
Cyril glanced away, tossing the script down with a sigh as he decided to look anywhere but at the Hindian. She had promised nothing but honesty for her paper the Ostkranbi Post, and he’d seen that in the article she’d written. It was factual, mostly to the point with only a little embellishment, though he’d expected that. It had been rather transparent, and he liked it. Her other writing, however, was something else entirely.
This followup lunch wasn’t anything necessarily special. They’d had a few since she had finally convinced him to give in to her interview, though they were usually in the mess surrounded by other greasy, grimy soldiers in Illeagle. Here, however, was in none other than Romau, the so-called Eternal City, the Second Imperial City, and the Home of the Archons. While the Herzland War two years ago and bombing from this conflict had marred its beauty, the ancient burg had held on to her elegant appearance for all these centuries. It was just a shame, then, that the reason he was here was so dark and sinister.
Again, Sarika shrugged, seeming nonplussed by the exaggeration in her writing.
“It’s a good story. We’re trying to capture public imagination and attention. That means making you look as bold and dashing as possible and simplifying the details for the average audience. It’s no different to how Imperial reporters do it. I save the real details for my articles back home, where I’m not going to get threatened for each letter I print out of line.”
“Well, where’s the rest of the crew?” Cyril demanded, cutting her off before she could go onto another tangent and change the subject, like she was prone to do when she didn’t want to discuss something. “I notice Hellseig and his big sacrifice are there, but Spotsley, Eihol and Haul aren’t even named. That’s not right.”
Sarika shrugged, gently brushing crumbs from her suit.
“I can change it to mention them, but the public wants big, larger than life heroes. Hellseig’s last stand is famous in the correspondent world, I can’t leave him out of this. But a bunch of names muddy things a little. We want clarity in serials. And you’re the star of the show, Oberleutnant.”
She winked, and he felt his face color slightly before he caught himself. She did that sometimes to distract him, toss him a flirt or two despite knowing his situation with Paige. Another tool of distraction she had learned as a reporter. Or was that a female thing?
“Sarika, memorializing the dead is a huge deal in both halves of the Empire. The Reformisten do it all the time, and there’s plenty of streets, ships and towns named for dead warriors in the Herzland.” He leaned in, raising an eyebrow to punctuate his statement. “Are you going to let your own story be outdone by something the Black Knights pour out on a regular basis?”
She quirked her own eyebrow, seeing through his guise just as easily, though she said nothing. Cyril knew he made a terrible manipulator, his atrophied social skills giving him away as he tried to dip his toe in the water of a master. But her silence allowed him the opening to continue to make his point, as he knew so long as she wasn’t talking, he could.
“Sarika, a gunner can only fire as fast as his loader can feed him shells. Before I knew Haul was Vollstrecker, that stallion was the best loader I ever had. Five seconds between shells, in and out again and again. Part of the reason we came out as we did was because he was on top of his job.” Cyril’s eyes misted a little, as a small smile came to his beak. “That night, it was almost like I was behind a machine gun…well, maybe a flak cannon. If not for him, we might have been overwhelmed far earlier.”
He shook himself, realizing his mind had wandered a bit into nostalgia, remembering (slightly) better times before the mess that was his current life. But as he looked across the table, he realized she was studying him, that little half smile on her muzzle that she got when she was processing information she wanted to remember later, something for her article. It annoyed him. He was trying to set the story straight, and here she was collecting more for the propaganda nickelodeons.
“Sarika, I’m trying to be serious here.”
“Who says I’m not? Do you realize how often the story of the Battle of Temsoar has been passed around? I know they even published it widely in Ost-Griffonia, a little pamphlet for motivation about the so-called ‘Heroes of Temsoar’. You know, if you had just kept up on the papers-”
“I would have known this was happening years ago, yes I get it.” Cyril paused, realization dawning in his mind. “Is that why so many gri-...people were asking me about that night? Back at the Jungeschulen?”
Sarika shrugged.
“How should I know? Hero worship is a strange phenomenon.”
Cyril groaned again, glaring down at the serial once more.
“I’m not a damned hero…” he muttered.
Landsersplatz
With a city as large and glamorous as Romau, it needed a military command center to match. For generations, even before the time of the Empire itself, that had been the Legionärsplatz. With its grand columns out front and white marble exterior, it cut a sharp, severe figure standing high in the city skyline. With the University of Romau, the Great Temple and the old Senate building at near or the same level, they essentially made the four pillars of the Eternal City. Built in the time of the old Arantigan Empire, the architecture of these four great structures was of the strange, more exotic Karthinian southern style, and had been preserved all these centuries through the collapse of the old empire, the rise of the Grover Dynasty, the Revolution, following civil strife and the modern siege of the Herzland War in 1010. Now, with a new restoration plan to convert at least the interior, the Legionärsplatz was turned to a different purpose. After the disbanding of Romau’s autonomy following their betrayal, this structure was reenvisioned to be a brand new central Imperial military command center. Work would continue on this concept at least another decade, but progress had been good enough that, even when the Republique came close to assaulting the city directly, it had chambers and offices inside already in use by the Reichsarmee, with plans to centralize the Kaiserliche Marine and Luftstreitkräfte in the next few years.
Now, the renamed Landsersplatz -was- the Oberkommando, at least in some form and function.
August Duskwing gazed up at the massive statue of Arcturus standing against the back wall, stained glass around filtering light into the main chamber of this floor. The old granite flooring had been exchanged for new modern concrete covered in thick red rugs, and while much of the old marble walls and frescoes had been preserved, new wooden furniture such as desks and counters were bedecked by modern appliances such as electric lamps, telephones and typewriters, secretaries and military officers at work managing the first line of bureaucracy against the line of visitors attempting to gain visitation to the Landsersplatz. The front doors, a new modern facade set into the old front behind the columns, was protected by a squad of Feldjagers in full dress uniform, pistols at the ready on their belts, a pair of Vollstrecker standing nearby to watch the station, silent and still but extremely attentive in their vigil. They wore facemasks over their beaks, carefully scanning each creature who entered for signs of the Wet Plague, a trench disease that had settled for some months after killing a good number around Westkeep and then slipping back into a vicious epidemic just as quickly. Concerns were raised enough that even this far north there were cases turning up occasionally, and it was clearly getting out of claw. Aides and attendants rushed by in discussion, leading or following senior staff, flew above to get from one section to the other quickly or fumbled paperwork as they tried to reach the relevant desk or station. Many of them wore facemasks as well, trying to stay a fair distance from each other. Attempts to halt the Wet Plague had stretched from science to sorcery, but the fear ran deep as more and more cases were reported creeping north. Until it was completely gone, they were all at risk.
August took a deep breath, feeling the smile come to his beak. The Imperial military machine, in action.
“Everything alright, sir?” asked Oberstleutnant Dvorjak, his adjutant. Though, from tone and expression, he highly suspected Dvorjak wasn’t actually asking out of concern, more to remind him they had somewhere to be.
August cleared his throat to cover himself.
“Aye, Oberstleutnant. I was just taking a moment to admire the splendor.”
“Right,” Dvorjak replied, knowing August wasn’t one much to marvel for long. “Well, if you’re done with the architecture, mein herr, I believe we have a trial to oversee.”
“Do we now?” August shot back as he stepped forward again, Dvorjak falling in at his flank. “And I had almost made myself forget.”
The two proceeded onwards into the building, passing the security checkpoint that blocked further access and moving down one of the hallways. Portraits lined the walls of famous generals and commanders stretching back through the Empire’s three-hundred year history, all the way back to the time of Grover I. August could tell many of these were recent additions, likely either commissioned specifically for the Landsersplatz or released from noble estate collections. As an amateur art enthusiast, he was surprised to see several extremely valuable pieces decorating the walls of the new defense center, a sign that somegriff somewhere had either been overcome with patriotic fervor, was a sycophant seeking to increase their standing or had them pried from grubby claws.
Good, he thought. Get a little back from the peer. While he had ascended to joining their ranks militarily, his social status was no mystery to the griffons (and some pony nobles, as it happened) of the aristocracy; he was common born, low as mud in their eyes. Even worse, an upstart, like those elevated to the peer by Imperial decree. He had never lost the glee he felt at getting one over on them and exacting what petty payback he could on the upper class. This felt like the cherry on top.
Of course, they entered the conference room and that all deflated.
Vollstrecker-General Wolfheze was not unknown to August. Technically speaking, Vollstrecker did not have a strict hierarchy, as their position was political and outside the chain of command for their branches. But naturally, as happens in such environments, leaders and griffs of seniority emerged from the experiment. Though not officially in command of other Vollstrecker, Wolfheze was acknowledged as the equivalent of senior staff, and the stallion’s words carried much weight in relation to the black-clad enforcers. His loyalty, and therefore his word, were both ironclad and absolute. Nogriff would dare challenge him, which made his presence here a valuable tool in particularly sticky trials like these.
Wolfheze sat inside that conference room, accompanied by a rather ordinary, forgettable griffon female, with a pinkish plume that put him in mind of the Duchess Regent, though she had a noticeable gold tinge to some of the tips of her feathers and a stripe of black across her throat, both noticeable departures from such comparison. She wore the uniform of a Reicharmee Major, with few notable combat decorations but several service ribbons indicating excellence in her field, reflected by her service pin; the military law division.
“Gentlefolks, welcome,” Wolfheze greeted August and Dvorjak curtly. He gestured to the chairs at the table. “Sit. We have much to discuss before the trial.”
There wasn’t much in that statement to debate. With little pause, they both sat and Wolfheze indicated the officer next to him.
“This is Major Frühlingfeder, representative Judge Advocate. She will be observing the trial to make sure all is within accordance with military legal code. Major, this is Feldmarschall August Duskwing and Oberstleutnant Vasyl Dvorjak. Duskwing will be our Behörde, as kommandant of both accused and defendant.”
Frühlingfeder nodded to the two, and they returned the greeting as the table was too wide to shake claws. They certainly weren’t wasting time on this, and August understood the sentiment. To be honest, he wanted to be back out there, fighting the real war in Aquileia. After the Imperial defeat at Vanguardigo, the front had turned into a mass stalemate, particularly when one of those Levant Corvettes showed up and rained shells, supplies and winged reinforcements down on the battle below. The whole Imperial war effort was paralyzed in fear by these new weapons, and even a temporary halt like this could doom the campaign. So, he wanted to get this over with as quickly as possible.
“I hope we can get this court martial done and over with soon,” Wolfheze continued, as if reading August’s mind. “If you can believe it, I have my hooves full with eminently more important affairs than a spat like this.”
No, the Vollstrecker-General didn’t mince his words. His position gave him that freedom, for how could you police the troops if you feared their opinions?
“We’re going to have things a little different than standard protocol,” Frühlingfeder stated, her voice a bit on the quiet side. Not meek, perhaps, more on the like of cultured and educated and unaccustomed to screaming orders in combat. This August did not resent. She was not a field commander, and was not pretending to be one, just as he was not an expert on law and precedent, and was not fooling anyone into thinking he was. To each their own. “As the plaintiff and defendant come from a mixed unit, we have seen fit to split the Panel between Reichsarmee and Ostheer, to maintain a balanced and unbiased perspective.”
That was a new development, but August could see the reasoning. While closely related, the two military organizations still operated along different lines, regulations and standards. Changes were constantly made to adjust to each other on both sides, and the day they were merged into one united force was inevitable, if far in the future. For now, the mixed Panel would have to do as a compromise.
“Who do we have on the Panel?” August asked. It was his right to know before going in, but as tradition demanded he was not part of the selection process. He did know this whole affair had been pulled together at breakneck speed, as far as Imperial court procedures went. They would have had to grab officers they could easily ship to Romau, or those who could disengage from the front with little trouble.
“On the Reichsarmee side, General der Infanterie Eggbert Silverplume. I’m sure I don’t have to describe him.”
Wolfheze spoke correctly. As General der Infanterie, Silverplume was one of the highest ranking officers in the entire Reichsarmee, his rank reflective of the fact that he was at the head of strategic doctrine development. Though he did not command troops anymore, Silverplume’s name was whispered about in military planning halls from Vesalipolis to Rijekograd, and his genius could not be disputed. If he was on this panel, it was entirely by choice, and it sent a message just by sitting in on it. August suddenly felt the heat under his collar as he carefully considered the implications.
“With him is Generalmajor Teodor Fröhlich. Rather hardline for this Panel, I agree. But he has a solid reputation, and he’s known to be a logical and clearheaded drake. His reputation for courage under fire in both the Revolution, the Herzland War and this battle makes his word carry weight.”
Also unspoken was the fact that Fröhlich came from one of the oldest and purest noble families in the Empire, with an unbroken tradition of both military service and scandal free reputation. His blueblood background and pragmatic nature made him a good pick here.
“The third Reichsarmee officer will be Generalmajor Oskar Silverfeather,” Wolfheze himself stated. This got the attention of August and Dvorjak, and the Vollstrecker-General nodded in confirmation. “He was on rotation through Romau. Vilein is caught in a standstill, and the general took some time to try and petition for additional forces to affect a breakthrough.”
The Vollstrecker-General spoke true. Silverfeather had first been responsible for destroying the Rebels at Rottendedam the year previous, before priorities shifted and he was sent to the south. For some time, the city of Vilein had been caught in a vicious stalemate that mired both sides into a mutual killing zone. The terrain around the city consisted largely of reconstituted land reclaimed from the sea, much of it below sea level. As a result, when the rainfalls came in and burst the carefully maintained dikes and management system, the whole area surrounding the city was turned into a giant mud soup. This, in turn, had played merry hell with both sides’ ability to both maneuver quickly and deploy armor into the area. It had devolved into a months’ long infantry brawl with one side or the other emerging to charge into no drake’s Land, rushing headlong into machine gun and artillery fire and slam into the other sides’ lines with little armor support and a deadlock in the air. Casualties were immense and rising, and Silverfeather had governed over the entire disaster. Arguments could be made that this field meant he was a lesser commander, but he had held ground in the face of determined Aquileian counterassault, preserving the status quo in the unique quagmire that was Vilein. If anything, his troops' ability to stand and fight in that hellish mudpit meant he was likely one of the Reichsarmee’s best, on the defensive at least.
“Ostheer officers will take the other two seats. Generalmeister Conrad Silvertalon, whom I am sure you know of. An outside opinion of the current conflict will give a different perspective.”
By outside opinion, Wolfheze merely meant Silvertalon hadn’t been active in the current battlezone. It was an open secret Silvertalon was content with his role defending the Great March, and many put money on the idea of him happily accepting retirement after the Entente-Reikspakt War was over. But getting a drake that wasn’t so invested in either participant was invaluable to maintain the balance as well. Reputation alone spoke everything that needed to be said about Silvertalon, and thus saved time to anyone in the know about who he was and how much weight his word carried.
“And finally, Luftfeldmeister Leonid Beekyarov of the Ostluftwaffe. He is very invested in Heimclar’s fate. It will be good for his odds if he has at least one on the Panel that we know for a fact will cast his vote a particular way.”
Not so nonpartisan a board after all. Then again, Wolfeheze was correct. The odds were against the oberstmeister here, and the charges were quite serious; dereliction of duty, disobeying a direct order in a combat zone and slandering a superior officer. The fact that Yanek Van Zieks was a member of the peer and from the very powerful and influential Van Zieks family versus Heimclar von Lohr ‘only’ being a common born Knight made it even worse. While Silverplume and Fröhlich were both nobles themselves, they were also more likely to be at least a little unbiased, and perhaps give Heimclar the chance to explain and, possibly, carry out his defense.
There were, August mused quietly, a lot of 'silver' generals sitting in on this Panel.
Dvorjak spoke up at this moment, a frown on his face as he tapped a talon on the tabletop.
“I know Beekyarov. A boyar of high regard back in the Kosakenland. Begging your pardon, sir; isn’t Beeykyarov an air commander? How does he rank on a land forces Panel?”
But Wolfheze shook his head in return.
“The Ost-Luftwaffe is not like the Luftstreitkräfte, Oberstleutnant. Instead of a separate branch, the Ost-Luftwaffe is integrated to the Ostheer, to provide close air support and reconnaissance. Think of it like the Arisian Army Air Corps. In fact, we rely on the Luftstreitkräfte for much of our air superiority needs. Beekyarov may command air elements, but he is also in command of ground forces as well.”
That little detail out of the way, August turned to the next part of their pre-trial preparations.
“We are aware of the general details. Before we go in and get their testimonies, what does the official report state?”
To this, Frühlingfeder extracted a few paper packets stapled together and separated them into two stacks, one for each officer. August let out a low whistle. The reports were several pages thick. As they began reading, she began her summary.
“The official summary stands as thus: six days ago on August 2nd, Generalleutnant Yanek Van Zieks was dispatching a force under Generalmajor Reinhold Thundertail’s orders to assault the final defense lines outside the city of Vanguardigo. Behind that, ten kilometres of open ground to attack the city itself. Oberstmeister Heimclar von Lohr moved his formation ‘Kampfgruppe Lehr’ into attack position, ordering his three kompanies of heavy panzers to make breakthrough assaults for the units following behind. They did so, and three breakthroughs were achieved en masse across the Republique defense works to allow the rest of the assault force to penetrate and take the trenches. This was, I remind you, done so far with relatively low casualties. The assault elements were equipped for this task with an abundance of schrotflinte, maschinenpistole and flammenwerfer, backed by Knights of the Order of the Fiery Heart and possessed an overwhelming advantage in armor both number and mass wise, Reichsarmee, Ostheer and Knightly. With the assault broken through, word was passed by Van Zieks’ command to alert the rest of the divisional reserves to begin the move to sustain pressure and occupy territory all the way up to Vanguardigo.”
“Then, the flying ships,” August muttered, flipping through the typewritten report in his claws.
“Indeed,” the formel nodded before she continued. “Six Furieux-class Levant Corvettes arrived on the field. Two proceeded to engage the Luftstreitkrafte in the area while the other four engaged in rocket bombardment of the forward elements. Vanguardigo’s defenses also engaged with long range artillery and mobile armor reserves. Casualties begin to skyrocket.”
August’s beak clenched, tightly. Oh, he was certainly furious at the enemy for blunting this charge and turning back his entire Feldarmee from the field. He was livid about how much it had cost to come this far only to be turned back. General Thundertail’s report (packed with obscenities and curses aimed at the General Staff) about the debacle had been quite a shock, and after recovering enough he recalled Cyril’s unit had been out front on the assault. It took a few minutes, but he had indeed discovered his nephew alive and unharmed on the road back to Illeagle, part of the fighting withdrawal. Once again, both Republicaine -and- Imperial generals had conspired to almost kill his nephew. It was times like these he was actually glad he’d never had a clutch of chicks himself. The stress of wondering after their fates in this conflict would have crippled him. But at least he still hadn’t been made a liar. Yet.
“At this time,” Frühlingfeder continued, oblivious to the roiling sea of despair and simmering rage in August Dusking. “General Van Zieks makes the report that he ordered an immediate assault on the city of Vanguardigo proper, so as to use the urban terrain to shelter the force and still claim their target. Oberstmeister Heimclar objects, reporting several significant losses to the vanguard that will only exacerbate the casualties should the assault press into the city, which at this point has now mobilized all of its reserves onto the field. Van Zieks is unaware of the enemy mobilization, and goes on record to remind Heimclar that the 19th division’s own reserves are already on the move, and delaying the advance will only hold up the entire force and make them possibly even more vulnerable. Heimclar accedes, and passes down the order. Kampfgruppe Lehr begins the assault, followed by the rest of the vanguard from the 104th Panzergrenadier brigade and knights of the Order of the Fiery Heart.”
August flipped another page before glancing up at Frühlingfeder, who hadn’t touched her packet at all. Either she had already read it enough to memorize, or she was the one who had written the report. Whatever the case, her powers of information osmosis were incredible.
“Casualties again begin to rise, particularly in the light infantry following. Units from the 7th Kolonial Gewehr Abteilung follow in the assault as well. Casualties begin to rise. The collective vanguard engages the Aquileian reserves outside Vanguardigo as the Levants resume their bombardment. After roughly thirty minutes of battle, which fails to achieve a breakthrough, Oberstmeister Heimclar orders the retreat. General Van Zieks orders the withdrawal countermanded. Heimclar objects. The two proceed to have several minutes of radio exchange, which is transcribed there on the…next page. Pages.”
Indeed, as August flipped to the next page, he was startled to realize the voraciousness of the words, beginning professional and demanding from both before descending into a litany of back and forth that carried such scathing remarks, it was small wonder the radio sets hadn’t burst into flame.
Dvorjak let out a low whistle.
“Wow, they got this all typed out. That’s not good…”
Wolfheze glared at the adjutant, who blanched and went back to reading his briefing. Frühlingfeder once more picked up the narrative.
“Heimclar proceeds with the fighting withdrawal, and we do have it on record that he attempts to contact the reserves moving up behind them. He is, however, unsuccessful for unknown reasons. By the time Kampfgruppe Lehr and the rest of the vanguard reach the reserves, it is too late to warn them off in an organized fashion. The withdrawal turns into a chaotic mess. The pursuing Levants and mobile Republicaine assets catch up, and rearguard elements engage to cover the disorganized force. It still takes a grand total of three following days for the situation to sort itself out and all Imperial units on the field to withdraw to safety at Illeagle, where heavy anti-air batteries engage the Levants and the ships withdraw.”
August sighed, rubbing at his face. It was clear somegriff was tragically at fault here. This titanic disaster could only have occurred with the disorder heaped onto what was normally a well functioning and carefully organized battleplan. Reichsarmee doctrine stressed the planning of all elements down to the most minute detail. That was what the General Staff was for in peacetime, and why the war colleges were emptied out during conflict. But if there was one thing the Reichsarmee was poor at, it was quick improvisation. A multi-stage, massive battleplan was nigh unstoppable…until it ran into unforeseen factors. That was what had almost doomed Unternehmen Donnerkiel, and now the same thing was happening to Unternehmen Kaiserschlacht. Turned back from Vanguardigo, the General Staff would have to go back and redraw the strategy to figure out where to go from here. Months of planning and years of potential futures scrapped by this failure. This also explained the call for swift action, and the number of high ranking generals on the Panel. It was vital to figure out who was at fault, and assign the blame. Transparency, of a sort.
With this summary, and now the official report, August now knew what events had taken place. He couldn’t make a decision yet, not until he heard out both his subordinates and looked at the complete picture with the Panel. But already…
“It doesn’t look good,” August stated. “For either of them, though Heimclar has it worse. Van Zieks ordering the reserves in on top of proceeding to assault the city with incomplete intelligence. That’s poor, and wasteful. Look at the casualty list, it just keeps going…Vollstrecker Talonhoff, Rittermeister Schnaubel, Hauptmann Stahlbeak, Major De Griefs, Oberst Jurdeveist…more and more and -more-. I knew all of these. The officer losses are bad enough…this was a mauling even before the vanguard withdrew.”
“True enough,” Wolfheze retorted, nodding sagely. “This was a waste, and poor choices were made in the field. Honestly, I can’t see how this wouldn’t have resulted in a rout, one way or another. The decisions leading up to this…massacre speak of a mind I find extremely lacking. The good general is lucky he is not under Reformisten justice. Even in the Kaiser’s ranks, under other circumstances, Van Zieks might have found himself removed from command. We can’t sack him completely, his family is too influential. But that is a separate issue, whatever we may say. The core issue is that Heimclar defied direct orders, and when those were reaffirmed he showed gross insubordination and disrespect. From a certain angle, it could almost be called cowardice. But I don’t think that charge will hold. Regardless, this court martial is supposed to focus on that point; was Oberstmeister Heimclar justified in defying this order?”
There was a certain level of autonomy for Reichsarmee commanders in the field. While following the grand battleplan doctrine was important above all, it was widely acknowledged that tactical affairs changed constantly. Many generals were allowing their subordinate battalion and even divisional commanders the ability to attempt quick improvisation on the fly, without radioing back to their superiors for permission as long as battlefield goals were still met. But the Reichsarmee was a traditional entity, and many more generals were holding fast to their control at all levels routine. It was an interesting school of thought, and examples on both sides were being collected quite a lot. But this trial was not to discuss the value of what the Ostheer referred to as “Auftragstaktik” a method long since applied by the Grenzwalders and what Reichsarmee generals were calling “Sturmtruppenlehre” due to its resemblance to Stormtrooper infiltration tactics.
“I don’t know,” August admitted, looking over the summary once more. “It’s obvious Van Zieks has gone too far. And if we’re only now recognizing it, perhaps Heimclar might have as well? That did not give him the absolute authority to make a call like this, especially in light of the results.”
“Could the failure of Kaiserschlact all be pinned on him?” Dvorjak questioned, and the conference room remained quiet. None of them had an answer for that one either.
“Let’s look at it another way,” August said, flipping back to the casualty counts and tearing the rearmost sheet off. Frühlingfeder winced at that, but she didn’t say anything.
“These are the casualties sustained -before- Heimclar ordered the withdrawal. All of these occurred in the course of following orders.” He laid down the last sheet next to the packet. “And these are what we can directly connect as a result of the vanguard withdrawing and getting snagged up with the reserves. The question is; judging from the evidence we have before us, can we say they would be higher or lower had Heimclar continued the assault? Could they have taken Vanguardigo?”
“I think we can rule that one out,” Wolfheze replied, to August’s surprise. “Vanguardigo had just mobilized all their reserves. -All- of them. This is probably the largest army the Republique have in the field, and now it was backed by these new flying ships. In a straight offensive like what we had expected, it could have been possible. But with those…wunderwaffe flying overhead, untouchable by anything available to the vanguard, it would have only gotten worse. Then the mobilized Imperial reserves would be brought up into the same positions. No, I think we lost this one regardless of Heimclar’s decision.”
“Then you think he was within his rights to make that call?” Dvorjak asked, some of his courage returning.
Wolfheze sighed, the wind making a strange noise much like an engine as the air escaped his lips, a curious sound that griffons couldn’t make with their beaks.
“I think Heimclar was responding by the school of Auftragstaktik. ‘When faced with unwinnable or pyrrhic circumstances, withdraw to a position of strength.’ He had the more complete tactical picture on the field. He could see for himself what the Levants were capable of. I don’t know what Van Zieks would have done if he had more complete intelligence, but given his track record I am unsure if it would have changed. If, say, he was aware of a kompanie of Fantomes backed by motorized infantry and supported by flying warships capable of laying down immense firepower being between him and his goal, I wonder if perhaps he might have ordered the charge regardless.”
“There is the issue of the radio exchange,” August pointed out, holding up the sheet in question. “This could almost be read as slander. Van Zieks is a member of the peer, and a superior officer. The highest legal protection we can grant Heimclar is a member of a Knightly Order, and that doesn’t change the circumstance. The order was reiterated and Heimclar defied it again before the argument. Gross insubordination and slander are very serious offenses.” He looked to Frühlingfeder. “Out of curiosity, what is the standing sentence as of now?”
“For all charges if found guilty, Oberstmeister Heimclar would be facing dishonorable discharge, forty lashes at the stake and at least a years’ imprisonment.” Once more, the fact she was able to rattle it all off from memory was astounding to the feldmarschall. “If Van Zieks presses the charge of slander to a superior and cowardice in the face of the enemy and wins, then according to military code it all comes down to summary execution by hanging or firing squad. Heimclar’s choice. Though if the Ostheer insists on sentencing him based on Reformisten law, there would be no prison time at all. Just hanging by the neck until dead.”
“Swell options,” Dvorjak muttered before he began flipping through the packet once more, grumbling under his breath.
They continued to converse and debate over the circumstances presented by the official report for the next two hours or so, trying to work out everything they could about both the events in question and the legality of what both parties had done. If this were a civilian court, this kind of thing would be turned over to lawyers. But in the Reichsarmee, it was all handled in house. True, it was unusual for so many high ranking officers to be in attendance for this trial, but given the fact that one of the parties involved was an aristocratic Generalleutnant and the cross-service nature of the case, not to mention all the political and doctrinal implications that would come of this, August was starting to wonder if they could make a clear call on this. Several packs of cigarettes and a pause for sandwiches later and the hour finally arrived.
It was time for the trial to commence.
*****
The Landsersplatz had one courtroom to handle high level trials like these. It was, after all, not a courthouse, and such high level court martials did not occur often. Lower level affairs were often handled at a local level, where the officers overseeing the proceedings and Panel were obersts, majors and hauptmanns. But Cyril was looking at the Panel in question, and there was enough brass on those five chests to make a regimental band. The spectating audience was also relatively small, tightly controlled by two Vollstrecker and a squad of dress-uniformed Feldjagers attending the entrance. If you didn’t have a direct claw, hoof or paw in the proceedings, you were turned away or threatened with confinement for twenty-four hours. Sarika Basu, for example, had been forced to leave Cyril to it, though she clearly hadn’t tried very hard to get in.
Like much of the building, white marble made up the walls with a huge emphasis on columns, while gray marble with carpeting made up the floor. This room looked to have always been used for trials, but the furniture was dark wood that he couldn’t tell if it was original and just well kept or new and replacing older pieces. The seating area behind the barrier was full of military uniforms, some Reichsarmee green-gray, others Ostheer black and even a few dressed in the tabards of Knights or the unique crisp braiding of the Luftstreitkrafte. Cyril was placed into the seating where victims normally went, if he had read the book correctly. As witnesses to the occurrence, technically that made him a victim, in a strange way. He knew few of those around him, however. Perhaps they were from other units in the division? That would make sense, getting as complete a picture of events as possible. He spotted Leutnant Grimfeather a row or two away, but other than her he knew few others except by sight.
It didn’t take long before the doors to the courtroom swung closed, and a Vollstrecker and two Feldjagers stood on the inside as well. The room, Cyril assumed, was now sealed and secure. At the front, separated by the barrier, a small file of uniformed figures emerged from the rear doors, coming from different chambers. He recognized Oberstmeister Heimclar, now redressed in clean Reformisten blacks, though he still wore his broken monocle for some reason. Perhaps he hadn’t the chance to replace it? Next to him, at last, was a personally familiar face, and Cyril felt himself choke up a little as he saw the figure. Long Haul had recovered well, hardly looking like he had been hospitalized for weeks. Unicorn healing, griffon medicine and zebra alchemy had done wonders for him, though the scars on his face and throat were still denuded of hair. Cyril hissed in sympathy at his old friend. While Reformisten prided themselves on their scars, Cyril personally knew of the bad memories they would carry for a long time after.
The other group that walked in…well, stumbled in. While Generalleutnant Yanek Van Zieks’ adjutant was perfectly normal for a Bronze dog, the general himself seemed to stagger a little, his crip and perfectly decorated uniform already a bit askew and rumpled. It took Cyril only a moment to realize the general had been drinking, and more than just a sip to steady the nerves. He felt the anger already simmering in his guts as he looked upon the drake that had sent him and his crews into the maws of death time and again. The bastard couldn’t even take this seriously.
Behind the two, Generalfeldmarschall August Duskwing, his adjutant that Cyril knew of but never met, a judge advocate who immediately stepped off to the side and none other than Vollstrecker General Wolfheze took the presiding place in the middle of the floor, stern and straight backed as he looked over the spectators, witnesses and agents.
“All rise!” Wolfheze called out, and everyone in the chamber rose from their seats at attention. “The honorable Generalfeldmarschall August Duskwing, presiding over this courtroom! Mutter Johlena, will you please step forward?”
A griffon priestess (by her robes and pins, one of Eyr) moved out of the stands, coming to the middle of the floor and spreading both wings and claws out as she stood up and called “Let us pray.”
All bowed their heads, without hesitation or question.
“Mighty Arcturius, Gracious Eyr, Grand Boreas; we beseech you to bless these proceedings. May all who step forward speak truthfully with a clear mind, and let justice be done swiftly in your names. Gotten mitt uns.”
“Gotten mitt uns,” the room quietly rumbled. The priestess returned to her seat as August took his own on the stand, gesturing to the courtroom.
“You may all please be seated.”
There was the general rumble as the spectators, Panel and both prosecution and defense took their seats. One by one, each member was called out for the record, and so the spectators could understand what was happening as each member engaged in their cross examination. A lot of high-ranking brass were here today, though given the prosecution was a general himself he supposed it made sense. Though, Cyril had to question as he glanced over at the drake named Beekyarov, he did wonder what exactly in Ost-Griffonia made so many of these griffs grow to such massive size. The Ost-Luftwaffe commander could put Machinki to shame, a drake who towered over Cyril.
“We are called here to discuss the Court Martial of one Oberstmeister Heimclar von Lohr, of the 3rd Armee, 19th Panzer-Division, 205th Schwere Panzerabteilung. Charged by Generalleutnant Yanek Van Zieks of the 3rd Armee, 19th Panzer-Division, 205th Schwere Panzerabteilung, commanding. Charges at present are dereliction of duty, cowardice on the field of battle, refusal to follow a direct order and the concurrent responsibility for the loss of the battle of Vanguardigo.”
At this, General Van Zieks began to raise a claw as he tried to stand, evidently about to make some point, but his adjutant quickly brought the drake back down, whispering something in his ear. After a moment, Van Zieks went still, though as he glanced back over his shoulder Cyril could swear he saw the ghost of a smile plastered on the general’s face. That didn’t make any sense…what was he planning?
“I’m going to make a statement, right now,” August said, setting the sheet of paper in front of him down. “I do not want these proceedings dragged out. There is a war on, and the urgent need to go fight it. We will decide the charges and sentencing right here, today. No delaying tactics. No filibustering, no character witnesses, no legal loopholes. Expert testimony and first-claw witnesses only. With that said, the defense may give their opening statement.”
A wave of murmuring cut through the assembled crowd. Expedited trials like this weren’t unknown especially in wartime, but typically in affairs involving the peer the court preferred to take its time, to avoid upsetting the aristocracy. However, nobody, either noble or commoner, rose to voice an objection, and Haul stood from his seat to address the defense.
“Your Honor, at present the defense wishes to forego any statement, in the interest of also expediting this trial. It is our belief that the witnesses and expert testimony will prove valid enough to clear us, and we are eager to begin.”
With that, Haul sat down, and that was that. August bowed his head, acknowledging Heimclar’s decision before turning towards Van Zieks' table.
“In that case, the prosecution may give their opening statement.”
Clearly, Van Zieks didn’t care enough to get the message of what had been unspoken, and his adjutant rose to begin extolling the virtues and values of both the nobility in general and the Van Zieks dynasty specifically. It wasn’t long before Cyril found himself bored and distracted, eyes sliding around to the corner before, abruptly, a gavel smacked down and interrupted Van Zieks’ adjutant, who was in the middle of going over several examples of how superior aristocratic upbringing had produced superior reasoning.
“Can the prosecution…get on with it?” August growled, half leaning forward out of his chair, heterochromatic eyes narrowed in barely contained irritation. Even sitting as far back as he was, Cyril saw the same expression that had terrified him as a chick, a number two intimidation glare as August had jokingly called it one time. It didn’t seem like a joke right now. The adjutant fumbled in his response, glanced to Van Zieks, seemingly uninterested in August’s reaction and quickly wrapped up his statements in a few sentences before hurriedly sitting down. The general leaned over, whispering in the dog’s ear. Clearly, judging from his body language, Van Zieks was extremely unhappy that his mouthpiece had folded so quickly.
“We have now heard the opening statements of both parties, and the charges have been listed. This court martial is now officially in session. I hereby order the courtroom sealed. No one else may enter who is not already here.”
Given how the entrance still had the Vollstrecker and Feldjagers standing there, Cyril doubted that would be a problem. August banged the gavel once.
“May it please the court, we already have the official statement delivered to us, and those who are present are first-claw witnesses or expert witnesses to the events in question. Therefore, we will skip past the summary and move straight to calling up the defendant. Oberstmeister Heimclar, will you come take the stand?”
Heimclar did so, moving to the witness’ stand immediately. He seemed a lot more put together than the last time Cyril had seen him, back in Illeagle. Crisp Ost-Griffonian blacks, a clean cap. That monocle though. There were optometrists here in Romau, glassmakers who could have made him another relatively easily. Had the battalion commander been forbidden from going out in town?
Upon taking his seat, August nodded to Heimclar and gestured.
“Would the Panel like to ask anything of the defendant?”
Heimclar only turned his head slightly, glancing to the row of generals that would, in all likelihood, decide his fate. As it happened, neither pair seemed like they wanted to ask anything. Perhaps they were concerned he would only dig himself in deeper?
Luckily, Frölich came to Heimclar’s rescue. The blue drake leaned forward, steepling his claws together as his wings shuffled, feathers settling as the wings did.
“Oberst, why…er, Oberstmeister I mean, excuse me. For the record, you did indeed receive the generalleutnant’s orders to proceed with the assault?”
“Of course I did, mein herr,” Heimclar replied calmly. “When the Levant vessels were sighted, I reported their anomalous nature. Casualties were rising quickly. The enemy was clearly more prepared for us than planning had suggested.”
“Then you proceeded with those orders when they were given?”
“Ja. At the time, the full extent of how…disastrous the situation was did not seem apparent. Bad, yes. But perhaps not unsalvageable. I ordered the charge in an attempt to take the city.”
“Then, in your opinion, when was the situation unsalvageable?”
“Likely when Hauptmann Stahlbeak was killed in action.”
“For the sake of the record, could you describe his significance?”
“I am only proud to. Hauptmann Ernard Stahlbeak was one of my most promising kompanie commanders. A veteran panzertruppen, a meticulous worrier of detail. With him in command, Brutus Kompanie was my most well organized and best led. Several panzer aces were born there, under his tutelage. But when I ordered the charge, Stahlbeak was the first to go in. I am…uncertain what killed him. I only found out when his second in command took over in his place. And then her second in command after that. And then -her- second in command after that. Three leading officers and their expert crews killed in minutes, mounted in some of the most advanced machines in the Empire’s armory. My vanguard was being destroyed. I knew we would not last much longer. I gave the order.”
“And when Generalleutnant Van Zieks reiterated his wishes?” Frölich gently pressed, his talons quietly tapping on the desktop. Heimclar seemed to tense up slightly, a motion that anygriff but one who had been around him for some time would have missed. But Cyril had for just enough that he saw it. And then it was gone.
“When the Generalleutnant ordered the assault to resume, I informed him of our turn in fortune. ‘There are ships in the sky’ I told him. ‘We have lost Stahlbeak and several Grytas’. The general insisted regardless. He did not believe the information was accurate. He believed the city would provide shelter from what he thought were bombing craft. By that time, the bombardment resumed.”
“And, if I read this correctly, you proceeded to get into a verbal exchange with the General?” Frölich raised and eyebrow, eyes nodded in suspicion and hostility. “You proceeded to insult and threaten him several times, did you not?”
“I lost my temper,” Heimclar acknowledged in a level tone, nodding exactly once. “It was a bad situation getting worse. At that point, even the midranks where I was were being bombarded as well. My radio became…overwhelmed with calls for orders. Panic. The screams of the wounded. I needed to get them out. But Van Zieks refused to give an inch.”
This time, Silverplume picked up the questioning.
“Did the Generalleutnant agree to an alternate plan? Surely there was one to discuss?”
“There was not quite time to form a new one, Herr General,” Heimclar replied. “I did not possess the space and concentration needed to pull out my topographical map and attempt to find a better secondary place in Vanguardigo. On reflection, if we had only withdrawn a short way from the city and dug in, that might have protected us from the artillery. But not the Levants. There seemed no defense against them. I requested smokescreen and bombardment support to at least give the assault a chance. The good General granted the latter, but denied the former. If I recall, his reasoning was to charge and shock the enemy without concealment as “honorable” knights should. And so, I gave the order to withdraw again. And I shut Van Zieks out.”
“By ‘shut out’, you mean?” asked Silvertalon, and Heimclar paused before nodding, his mind made up.
“I switched off his channel, and did not engage it again. A mistake, as it turned out. On the secondary channels, my warnings to the reserve commanders moving up to secure ground behind us went unheard. They continued to advance as we fell back in disarray. By the time we met them, it became a…mess would be the simplest way to describe it. By that point, lucky for us, we had retreated from Vanguardigo’s defenses. Only the Levants were a true threat.”
“Then,” Beekyarov took up the torch dropped by Silvertalon just a little too readily, Cyril thought. Had they practiced some kind of reactive response? “You believe losses should have been lighter by that point, with the smokescreen.”
“Had I been able to reach the reserve commanders and been allowed to withdraw earlier, I can guarantee they would have been. As it stood-”
“As it stood, your actions -did- have an impact,” General Silverfeather interjected, his tone even. His scarred gaze held Heimclar’s evenly, though if one looked close enough they might see the contempt he seemed to hold. “And quite a severe one. Because the reserve commanders did not receive the news of your withdrawal, their columns ran into yours in transit.”
“And thus, the following disorder, and casualties as a result, could well be laid at your feet,” Frölich finished, though Silverfeather turned to his comrade and narrowed his eyes at the interruption. “Do you deny your withdrawal caused unnecessary confusion, and thus additional losses as a result?”
“I believe they were much lighter than they would have been had the reserves entered the battlefield in full, Herr General,” Heimclar responded coolly, managing to sidestep the verbal trap with only a brief pause. “That they happened at all is regrettable. But I believe they would have been much worse if we, that is to say the Kampfgruppe, were to follow the general’s order to such a ludicrous degree.”
“Then you are declaring General Van Zieks' direct order to be unlawful?” Silverplume cut in, his aged gaze locked on Heimclar, not wavering an inch. No other griffon on the panel even glanced his way. Reichsarmee or Reformisten, the General de Infanterie commanded too much respect.
Heimclar took a longer pause there, as if weighing his options and words. There was little doubt what his answer would be. But with a typist nearby hammering away on a typewriter (to Cyril’s surprise none other than Vise-Korporal Köhler), taking down every word and action spoken at lightning speed, what he said next would have to be worded correctly, and carefully.
“I believe,” the oberstmeister finally resumed. “That had we followed General Van Zieks order, lacking the support we needed and facing the amount of opposition on the field, not only would the Kampfgruppe and the vanguard have been critically damaged, the losses we would sustain when the reserves committed would have shattered the korps. And we would still be forced back to Illeagle, minus several thousand more than we managed to save. And so yes, I believed, and still believe, that the order was misguided, wasteful and ill-supported. He had to believe what was happening there. If one was in amongst it, there would have been no doubt. Small wonder, when he usually never was.”
Haul abruptly stood, making a swift hoof gesture across his muzzle, but the damage had been done, and August glared the stallion back into his seat. The courtroom was silent, absorbing the gravitas of the statement. It was a heavy declaration to call out a superior for their mistake, especially a member of the aristocracy. But Cyril found he was not as outraged as a loyal commoner should be. He had been fed into the grinder too often to hold much sympathy with the good general.
Just as it seemed the Panel was beginning to wind down, one of the figures on the stand raised a claw to be noticed before putting it down once he realized he’d been seen. General Oskar Silverfeather straightened and, looking Heimclar dead in the eye, asked him “Oberstmeister. Would you like to clarify that statement?”
Ice chills would have been too little to describe the atmosphere in the courtroom. All eyes were slapped back on Heimclar’s face, watching him for the slightest motion. If the good kampfgruppe kommandant took this opportunity afforded him to speak at length of Van Zieks’ failings, he could air some serious grievances, and maybe catch a sympathetic ear in the Panel. However, if he pushed it too hard or far, he could also wind up dooming his chances. Silverfeather had handed him a knife’s edge scenario.
After a moment, Heimclar cleared his throat.
“Herr General, do you mean the statement about him not being present at the front?”
But all the old Silverfeather replied with was a slow nod, eyes affixed to Heimclar’s own.
“Then, if I will be brief, I must say that I found the general’s command style to regularly be very reminiscent of, say, an armchair.”
A few stifled sniggers broke out, quickly suppressed as heads snapped around. Cyril almost swore that Haul, under his dark coat, would have turned pale if he possibly could. But Cyril could certainly agree with Heimclar. While it was indeed too dangerous for a general to be present on the frontlines during the fighting, for all their elite reputation Kampfgruppe Lehr had never once hosted Van Zieks behind the lines aside from his command bunker, at the recovery places or when they billeted to prepare to deploy. Heimclar had hit the problem right on the nose, and declared Yanek Van Zieks as little more than a political animal, a social general who used his family’s name to take rank (hardly unheard of in the Empire) and a hypocrite by using his own claims of honorable commands contrasting his own actions, then proceeding to only use it to make himself look more prestigious (also not unheard of but supposedly being weeded out). A quiet murmur erupted across the crowd, only broken up by the banging of the gavel in August’s claw.
“Order,” he called out, glaring down at the crowd. Silence fell immediately on the spectators, and the Feldmarschall turned to affix his glare down at Heimclar. Commanding stare met commanding stare, and for once Heimclar might have finally met his match in optical ordnance. “Oberstmeister, I recommend you measure your words carefully. This is a trial, not a circus.”
“Are you calling the general a coward in return, Oberstmeister?”
That came from Beekyarov, somehow able to look as casual and disaffected as one in a black uniform covered in totenkopfs possibly could. Eyes swung first over to him, then back onto Heimclar’s face, some onto Van Zieks. This court martial was certainly not going in the direction many expected. Unlike a civilian court, the importance was not placed on the prosecution and defense, but the Panel, the equivalent of the jury. It was, after all, they would asked the important questions, leaving it to legal counsel to begin digging deeper.
Without hesitation, Heimclar declared "I suppose what I say is that one would expect the leader of the Empire's most prestigious armored unit to lead it from as close to the front as he could, as is the honorable thing to be done."
“Objection!” Van Zieks’ attendant and defense rose and called out, his yell more like a bark. “Slander! And the Panel is clearly leading the defendant!”
“Overruled,” August shot back cleanly. “Though I must warn you, Luftkommandant; that was especially blatant.”
The damage, however, was already done. With Beekyarov’s blunt words out, this had clearly turned from a trial to decide Heimclar’s own fault in defying a direct order and more about which neck the axe would fall on; the Oberstmeister, who had supposedly caused the disaster with his defiance or the noble General who had possibly set the conditions for the disaster in the first place. The air in the courtroom had quickly chilled, many of the spectators glancing at each other as the grand drama played out. This no longer felt like what they had come here for.
“Does the Panel have anything -else- to ask the defendant at this time?” August reiterated, looking down at each of the generals in turn. As Feldmarschall, it was his duty to keep the trial moving along, and Cyril noticed the Judge Advocate shifted in her seat each time someone spoke, her eyes flickering around the room. She was clearly only moments away from intervening, and it was in her claws that ultimate authority technically rested. With but a word, she could declare the whole proceedings out of line from military law, and the entire court martial would have to be rescheduled, or expedited. Cyril felt the latter option would play in on this particular occasion.
After a moment of shifting, and some quiet muttering amongst the four, General Frölich raised a claw and declared “At present, the Panel has nothing more to ask of the defendant.”
Heimclar nodded, and at the gesture of August moved from the stand to take his seat. Immediately, Long Haul leaned over and the two began conversing. Cyril couldn’t see their faces, but their postures didn’t look too assured.
“Will the plaintiff, Generalleutnant Yanek Van Zieks, please come to the stand?”
"Experience on the western front has shown that a military force only relying on one or two arms of combat may meet success, but at high cost. A more diverse group made of infantry, armor, artillery and integrated specialists has seen greater success for fewer lives and material traded. Combined with close cooperation and support from the Luftstreitkrafte and Kaiserliche Marine, we can infer Unternehmen Donnerkiel was not a failure in terms of doctrinal thought but execution and interpretation. Comparing our experiments with those discoveries of our Ost-Griffonian allies, whose army is nothing -but- specialists, we can infer that a full scale implementation of combined arms shock warfare will net us more gains on the battlefield compared to the bite and hold momentum and attrition based strategy of previous generations. My colleagues will argue that this worked in the Herzland War. I argue that it only worked because the Holy League was smaller, less organized, less well equipped and poorly led. Of course a professional army crushed a half-baked rebellion. But we face no such incompetence against Aquileia. It is time for a change." -Generalmajor Savros Vigilus, after the Battle of Westkeep
Standing with all the self-assured confidence of a noble born and experienced with affairs of court and intrigue, General Van Zieks strode forward with zero hesitation. Cyril had to admit, the General cut a good image. With a breast clattering with decorations, a cleanly pressed Reichsarmee dress uniform with lots of gold brocade and filigree and his own air of superiority, it was hard not to take the drake seriously. A coat of tawny gold with little deviance gave one the mental image to compare to the Kaiser’s own line, and while it was obvious there was no relation, the mental first impression was hard to dismiss completely. General Van Zieks took the stand, holding himself with a regal, comfortable air that oozed arrogance and control at the same time. In contrast to Heimclar, it was obvious Van Zieks had taken all the time and idols to make himself presentable down to the smallest detail, and for that Cyril felt another twang of irritation strike him. Hadn’t he staggered in here so drunk he needed to be held up by his adjutant? Where had that gone? An experienced drinker and having seen plenty of drunks in his day, Cyril could no longer detect any sloppiness that could be attributed to inebriation. The effect was quite startling.
“Would the Panel like to ask anything of the plaintiff?” asked August, granting the same courtesy to Van Zieks as was asked of Heimclar.
There was no hesitation this time. General Silverplume was the first one to speak, and as he did so the obvious jockeying of the other four on the Panel quickly fell silent to give the more senior commander his time.
“General, if you would please describe to us the situation at Vanguardigo as it was before the incident took place?”
Van Zieks curled an eyebrow, his smirk still affixed even if slightly diminished.
“Mein Herr, you must excuse my impertinence, but if the Feldmarschall said we were not going to be relating summaries, I do not wish to retread over ground denied.”
“Objection,” Haul declared. “Plaintiff is avoiding the question and stalling.”
“Sustained,” August nodded back, looking down to Van Zieks with an annoyed expression. “Would the plaintiff please answer the question without attempting legal loopholes?”
Van Zieks made a gesture that was half placating claws in the air, half a shrug, smug look of superiority reaffixed before he cleared his throat and began.
“My orders were clear; the city of Vanguardigo had to be placed under direct assault before nightfall, if not taken. I had no doubt my division could breach the defense lines, as we had spent the previous sixteen days wearing at the Republique’s capabilities to resist. When the time for the assault began, I preferred the method of en masse offensive; crush the enemy beneath a wall of firepower and motivated formations. We had the firepower, to be certain. There was nothing in my reconnaissance reports or from what the Luftstreitkrafte could report that told me we could not at least get a foothold in the city. Indeed, even at this juncture I still wish to commend Oberstmeister Heimclar for his exemplary performance in piercing the enemy’s defense in both a decisive yet conservative manner. Truly, his skill in command is something to behold.”
He nodded to Heimclar, to which the purple drake nodded back stiffly, his own face blank and stern.
“Though for the record, I must also counter myself by mentioning that despite his skill, the Obestmeister and I did not see eye to eye on battle implementation. Our first great clash was at Westkeep, and it was a pattern that continued ever since.”
“You and the Oberstmeister did not agree on strategy? Such as what?” Beekyarov had swooped in, immediately puncturing the tale with a direct lance of a question before any other on the Panel could stop him. Van Zieks shrugged as if the query were no big quandary before he replied.
“Force disposition, logistics priority, plans of attack, plans of withdrawal, leadership promotions, the list honestly went on. I can honestly not think of a single topic where we agreed. While the Oberstmeister was a fine tactician and I can personally vouch for his own personal skill in combat, he was far too hesitant with his assets. He was unwilling to send forth his griffs to take the decisive and bold risks he would need to take the grand victories we needed. His skill was not in question; his inaction was. Entschlossenheit does not advise wariness unless the way forward is clearly too costly. And unfortunately, we always disagreed on that.”
“Point of order,” Silvertalon spoke up, his tone quiet. “It may seem a small thing, but your force does include dogs and ponies, does it not? It might be prudent to include them in the victories they fought and died for.”
“My apologies Herr Generalmeister,” Van Zieks assured him without missing a beat. “I am afraid I tend to lapse back into old terminology at times. The Reichsarmee has changed much in the last few years. Sometimes it is a lot to keep in mind.”
Silvertalon nodded silently, but by his glare it was clear he was less than pleased. But the general pressed on with his statement.
“I must also reiterate that the forward elements had already breached the final defense line before the drive towards the city. Ten kilometers of open ground before Vanguardigo. And with Kampfgruppe Lehr in the vanguard, I had no doubt that we would take that too. As has been noted, Grytas excel when they have flat, open sightlines to engage with their superior armament. But I digress. Until the Levants showed up, I had no objection to how the leading regiments were carrying on with the assault. Afterwards was quite a different story.”
Here, the general made a solemn gesture, placing a claw over his breast as he lowered his head, wings slightly flared.
“I will readily admit to the failing on my part; the intelligence I was receiving on the appearance of strange, flying ships was so odd, so out of the ordinary that at first I assumed it to be mistaken. As I am certain my counterparts on the Panel and even yourself Your Honor can correlate, at that level of command there is an overwhelming amount of data being presented to you. Quite a lot of it can be in error. And, if I may speak in my defense, the Oberstmeister’s initial reports were not clear on the threat we were facing. From what he was sending us, if I may simplify for times’ sake, all he was telling us was that he was receiving reports of contact with unknown aerial foes. Now, from what the Luftstreitkrafte were reporting I knew -something- new was in the area. But the reports were not quite so descriptive. An Imperial general cannot allow himself to remain confused or indecisive for long, so I merely took the best assumption I could and assumed them to be a new type of close support craft, perhaps a tactical bomber with extra defensive turrets capable of accurate bombardment.”
Van Zieks shrugged once more, with a placating ‘what can you do’ kind of look.
“I was unable to ascertain the true nature of the enemy, not from the scattered reports I had available to me. So misinformed, I decided the urban center would provide the best cover from aerial bombardment. It was with this goal in mind that I ordered the assault. In my mind, following the tents of Entschlossenheit would see us through to at least attaining control of the city outskirts.”
Entschlossenheit was a concept Cyril had heard before, principally back in the Jungeschule of Zeldstadt. In Reichsarmee command philosophy, the idea was that perseverance, determination and willpower were the defining elements of victory on the field. Equipment, training, support and strategy were all vital elements, yes. But to the Reichsarmee, it all came down to making sure your soldiers were willing to carry out their orders and keep carrying them out in the face of hard circumstances. The lessons back east gave the impression to Cyril that the Reformisten not only agreed to its precepts, they basically worshiped it given how much it was proselytized at the academy. Thanks to that intense focus, he knew Enschlossenheit all too well considering how drilled it was into his head. But Van Zieks kept using it seemingly to justify his attempts to sustatin the assault, despite the odds getting worse and worse. That…didn’t sound right. Cyril shook his head to himself as he listened, thinking back to his lectures. Entschlossenheit said nothing about staying resolute and unwavering. That didn’t allow for the kind of lateral thinking the Reichsarmee had always unofficially looked away from, pretending it didn’t happen so field commanders could sometimes think for themselves.
“Unfortunately, this is where my good words for Heimclar come to an end. When I issued the order, I noted there was certainly some hesitation. He did not want to press the assault. But, to his credit, he did follow through the first time. It did not take long before that changed, however. To begin with, he first requested our fire support to lay down a smoke screen. This is, of course, not out of turn to request. However, I had already begun a careful conservation of munitions for the pivotal assault, and so we did not have the extra smoke shells available for the gun pits. Admittedly, I had rescinded Heimclar’s earlier orders to disperse his ordnance. That I will readily accede to. Unfortunately, whatever the oberstmeister’s dedication to field command and personal combat prowess, he was negligent in keeping up to date on my standing orders as they were issued.”
Cyril glanced over towards the defense bench, where even from behind he spotted Heimclar, half risen from his seat, wings partially flared as if to issue an objection. Before Haul could even reach up a hoof to stop him (though the stallion was also glaring knives at the general), the kommandant reasserted himself, pausing on the rise before slowly lowering himself back down, claws clenched into fists.
Van Zieks continued as if he hadn’t even noticed, but the slight pause before he kept speaking was evidence enough that he had.
“Whatever the point, it meant there were -no- ready on claw smoke shells for the oberstmeister. Short this, I attempted to inspire him and his troops and assure them support would be available at the crucial time. I appealed to their knightly prowess and the skill at arms of their line kompanies, to be brave and bold in the face of danger. But when reports of casualties began to mount, Heimclar requested a withdrawal from the assault. To be plain, this thought had entered my head previously. But I knew I had my orders: when in doubt, advance.”
Van Zieks paused again, his face contemplative as he seemed to recede into his own mind, reliving the events he had been speaking of. For several moments, the courtroom fell silent as everyone inside waited, watching with baited breath. Silvertalon narrowed his eyes, raising a talon to speak but before he could Van Zieks continued again.
“All throughout the offensive, General Thundertail kept insisting; when in doubt, advance. If you keep assaulting forward, you will either find friendly forces or the enemy. We had an unknown situation, and hesitating would certainly have lost us the chance to take Vanguardigo. Assaulting at this crucial moment was our best chance to seize even the city outskirts, and by doing so grant us our toehold to bring up the reserve regiments and then, finally, push the enemy out. We had no time to hesitate, to reconsider our options. As Heimclar’s decision showed, withdrawing in this state led only to dismal failure, and giving up all the valuable land between our staging point and our goal.”
Van Zieks affixed a glare straight at Heimclar, though his words seemed to address the entire room. His eyes were narrowed, unblinking and direct as lances, as if piercing the purple drake’s own orbits with their intensity.
“Instead of losing a few hundred, perhaps a thousand or two to bludgeon our way through this ambush, we lost thousands instead to surrender all that was gained with the blood of even more Imperial soldiers in the weeks before.”
There was only a moment’s hesitation before August’s gavel came banging down, startling half of the courtroom, spectators and panel both.
“General, you were asked to provide a summary of the situation leading up to the Oberstmeister’s alleged refusal of orders. You were -not- asked to provide opinion or judgment on said drake’s character.”
Van Zieks nodded slowly, sagely, as if he was contemplative and carefully picking his words. For a moment or two, Cyril had to admit he was very convincing. For those who hadn’t been ordered to their deaths by the good general personally, he could understand how a manipulator of this caliber hadn’t been thrown to the wolves yet.
“Of course, Your Honor. I meant no disrespect. More that recalling the incident recalled some rather…strong emotions I had. Have. I will endeavor to stay more professional from here on out.”
August grunted before he glanced down, looking over to the generals on the Panel to allow them to resume their cross-examination.
Abruptly, Cyril’s ears perked up as a distant noise came to his hearing. Voices, muffled by the barrier provided by the doors into the courtroom. They sounded terse, angry even. And Cyril wasn’t the only one to take notice of the commotion, more and more of the spectators turning their heads as they realized something dramatic was occurring just outside. For a moment, the courtroom paused, as if holding its breath. The two Feldjagers inside the door glanced to each other, and the Vollstrecker stepped away, gesturing them to draw their sidearms. Before anyone could move further, however, the doors were viciously shoved open, one of the Feldjagers from outside stumbling back in a flurry of cloth and feathers.
Standing there, wings briefly flared in a display of assertive if controlled fury, was an orange drake in Reformisten black. As his wings were folded again and the drake fell back to all fours, Cyril finally got a good look at him. Dark, reflective glasses, a messy moustache, some kind of prosthetic strapped across his beak and, surprisingly, while he wore a veritable fruit salad and what had to be a mineshaft’s worth of silver and brass on his breast, the normally crisp and clean dress blacks were spattered with mud, caked in dust and presented a few smears of grease at the sleeves, accompanied by a sheathed sword typical of Black Knight kommandants. Judging from the rank pins, he was some kind of feldmarschall, a high enough ranking commander that this kind of filth was certainly unusual for a drake who was meant to command. Behind him, the hallway beyond back towards the main chamber presented the other Feldjager sprawled out next to the door, the Vollstrecker shouting as they turned down the hall to yell for reinforcements, notably absent a pistol that the strange newcomer quietly dropped into the confused claws of one of the interior Feldjagers. Silently, the orange drake in black paced past the stunned interior Vollstrecker, who seemed caught between drawing her own sidearm and attempting to audibly say something, looking to August in stunned apoplexy. With no one to stop him, the feldmarschall proceeded down the aisle between benches, many of the spectators standing to get a better look. Upon realizing who they were looking at, the Ost-Griffonian personnel in the crowd snapped to attention, hasty salutes raising as the drake passed each row. All of this in silence, and without the griffon even casting his attention elsewhere, before passing the barrier with little hesitation.
To everyone’s stunned surprise (except a key few) the newcomer immediately moved to Heimclar’s table, tugging on the empty chair next to Long Haul and taking the seat as rigid and formal as if he had walked into a grand strategy meeting, reverently placing his peaked cap on the table’s surface, regardless of the mess left behind. Wolfheze grunted as he trotted past, heading towards the doors as he waved towards the Vollstreckers, collecting the confiscated sidearm on his way.
August’s face was an expression of exasperation and surprise, not anger or outrage.
“You’re late,” was all he said, before he turned away.
“Err…Herr Generalfeldmarschall?” asked Van Zieks, clearly not coping well with his own spiel being so blatantly interrupted. “I don’t understand…the courtroom is…was sealed. Is this allowed?”
“By the grace of this court, Feldzeugmeister Féher Zugravescu was already supposed to be present with the defense. Two hours ago.”
Another glare lanced over at this Zugravescu, which Cyril realized with a start explained the reverence he had received upon entering. This was -the- Feldzeugmeister, father of Unternehmen Tartarus, the so-called Quartermaster himself? Well, that meant all those decorations were valid, at least. The stranger did not speak, but merely held his claws up wide in an expression approaching a shrug as if to say ‘what did you expect?’ before laying his arms back down.
Van Zieks blearily glanced back up at August again, the question unspoken. As it happened, it appeared the elder Duskwing refused to answer it, as he glared back at the general in question.
“You were saying, Herr General?”
As it happened, Van Zieks had been in the middle of responding to a question from Silvertalon to clarify the word about some of the troops under his command that had taken part in the attack. While the general listed off the force composition from his memory, Cyril’s own wandered for a time, unfortunately already a bit bored and sidetracked by the proceedings. Much as he was invested in what was happening, the simple fact was that he’d already been sitting here for two hours, listening to aging griffons sit around and debate who was at fault for thousands of dead at Vanguardigo.
But to him, it was a lot more personal. With Stahlbeak dead and rotting in the field and Ruria only just taking up the command position, writing the families of Brutus kompanie’s dead fell to him. And he knew each and every one of them personally. Leutnant Rorscha, Oberfeldwebel Steiner, Gefreiter Mistbeak, on and on and on. He had spent an entire day and night quietly typing letters to send back, telling parents, wives, husbands and even children how brave and essential these deaths all were. In essence, he had spent a day and a night telling good stories wrapped in lies.
"Dear Fraulein Muller, it is with deep and personal regret I must write to you regarding the death of your husband, Tomas."
“Dear Herr Hapschamfell, it is with deep and personal regret I must write to you regarding the death of your daughter, Ingrid.”
“-fallen in the line of duty-”
“-honor of the Kaiser and the Kaiserreich-”
“-will be remembered-”
Gods, he was so sick of this war already. Maybe that was a good sign. He had heard someone say that one who no longer lost sleep over war needed to immediately leave it behind. Cyril didn’t know. All he knew was he was tired…and he was more than happy to watch a general hang.
Abruptly, Cyril recalled that he was supposed to be paying at least nominal attention to these proceedings, managing to snap out of his fugue in time to hear the general respond to some question (which he hadn’t heard, of course) in a rather dismissive and placating tone, as if explaining a point to a particularly slow individual.
“Herr General, while I appreciate the Ost-Griffonian style of leading from the front, I must remind you that frontline officer casualty numbers have spiked since Unternehmen Donnerkiel. Quite frankly, we might be witnessing the death of generals or obersts leading from the front. And Reichsarmee strategic doctrine advises the initiative and importance of the officer first and foremost. The simple fact, as bloody minded as it sounds, is that the value of the commander is far greater than that of the individual landser. An oberst or general who is able to coordinate his division from his command bunker will change the battle more than a hundred troops on the ground. It is simple mathematics. Let’s not forget, Grover II led from the front. And we all know what happened to him, and to the Empire after his death. We must think of the whole, instead of the individual. ‘In a war won by inches, miles save more lives than trenches.’”
Van Zieks glances up at August, who looked just as surprised as Cyril felt. They both recognized the quote, after all, as did many others in the room who shifted uncomfortably. Up at the defense table, Zugravescu raised his metal prosthetic claw and coughed, loudly. It was the kind of cough that was forced and used to cover up or constrain a sentence that might not be a good idea for one to utter out loud.
“Infantry Attacks in the Modern War, Chapter Fifteen. Your words. The idea that modern warfare must always seek to exploit the breakthrough even with minimal preparation and planning and accept that there will be a cost for such victory. Initiative, not hesitation, is the mark of a good commander.”
Despite his words carrying self-assurance, Van Zieks’ confidence appeared to have deflated. His tone was no longer as decisive, his shoulders a bit more rigid instead of boldly swept back, and he kept glancing over at the defendant table. The pause allowed Cyril to glance up toward his uncle who, incidentally, was glancing into the crowd to lock eyes with his nephew. Even from here, Cyril could see the light twitch in August’s eye, the tightness of the clenched beak, the wings that half rose to flaring before just as quickly sweeping back down. Cyril had, admittedly, only skimmed his uncle’s book. He knew his uncle had been called to give lectures based on the doctrinal theories set down in those pages. He knew officers were constantly quoting and misquoting elements of the text. But he had never heard of his uncle having this kind of response to even the most blatant misquote. As it happened, Cyril did remember chapter fifteen, and the words that came before and after it.
Zugravescu coughed again, and a few more heads swiveled around before swinging back.
“I do not mean to sound condescending,” Van Zieks continued, though his tone said anything but. “I merely wish to reiterate once more that I was following standing orders and doctrinal theory, as closely as the situation allowed.”
Once more, Zugravescu coughed, loud and hoarsely. This time it wasn’t a single noise but carried for a few seconds, prompting a few concerned and annoyed whispers in the crowd.
“When the Oberstmeister refused the order,” Beekyarov suddenly began, startling several including a few odd expressions from the other old generals. “Did he persist in attempting to convince you otherwise? Did he try to propose another plan of action?”
Van Zieks snorted, a sound he apparently suppressed in a moment though the noise had already slipped out. The arrogance in such a gesture, reflexive or not, was clear to all.
“By his own words, Heimclar admitted there was no time for such discussion. I agreed with him on this point, there was action that needed to be taken before the Republique pushed us from the field.”
“And the Oberstmeister was in the field, commanding?”
“He was. He insisted on taking his command Gryta forward to follow the vanguard. For an officer of his rank, it was quite bold. Though, as I stated, he did leave himself vulnerable.”
“Then would you perhaps admit that, being the forward most senior officer, he was in the best position to make the kind of judgment that might overturn your order?”
“Objection!” Van Zieks’ adjutant called, though he seemed to falter a moment as August swung his gaze over towards him, eyes like a pair of searchlights sweeping through the gloom to lock on the outline of an intruder while an unseen gunner readied a machine gun.
“On what grounds?” August ground out, his voice as sharp as shattered glass.
The adjutant tried, gulped for air a few seconds, and the Bronze Dog sat down.
“Er…withdrawn, Your Honor. Apologies.”
Van Zieks did not look happy. His glare appeared to switch between the dog, Heimclar, the Panel and off into the corner, the edge of his beak twitching as his claws tapped on solid wood, clearly attempting to think through this unseen stumble.
“Would the defendant please answer the Luftfeldzeugmeister’s question?” August asked, his tone only slightly dulled compared to a moment ago. He looked down at the general, an eyebrow raised on his coal-black feathered face, clearly waiting and expecting an answer.
Van Zieks, now visibly aggravated, let out a short huff that wasn’t well disguised.
“I believe it is irrelevant.”
Abruptly, Zugravescu fell into a coughing fit, though to Cyril this one sounded much more genuine. The voices of concern rose again, and at the door one of the Feldjagers stepped forward, glancing to his partner. The Wet Plague was a serious concern, and Zugravescu had indeed only just returned from the field. Who was to say he was not already carrying the lethal trench illness?
“Feldzeugmeister,” August called, his face a marble facade of professional concern. If he needed to order Féher Zugravescu wrestled to the ground and hauled off to isolation, he was clearly prepared to make that order. “You do not sound well. Will you be able to continue this trial?”
Haul jumped in at this point, rubbing the old drake’s shoulders as he reached into Zugravescu’s jacket pocket and extracting a small glass bottle of pills which he held up briefly to confirm it was not a weapon.
“My apologies, Your Honor. I told the Feldzeugmeister not to come after all, but I believe his condition and the rigors of travel from the field have taken their toll on him.” He briefly exchanged hushed words with the griffon as he poured out two pills, then a third and offered them and a glass of water to the orange griff, who greedily swallowed it all down in a moment. “He says he will be ready and suitable in but a moment. He also apologizes for the interruption.”
As the last of the water poured down Zugravescu’s throat, a curious thing happened. It wasn’t large, and those who weren’t paying attention would have missed it, but Cyril could have swore a faint puff of some colored smoke or mist emerged from the Feldzeugmeister’s beak, something thin and perhaps purple? It came from his beak, from his nostrils and, disturbingly, from his eyes before dissipating in a moment. Cyril blinked. Had he only imagined it?
Haul gestured, taking his seat again as Van Zieks let out an annoyed grunt and then continued.
“Yes, Heimclar was on the ground, in the action. But the command post possesses a more complete picture of the battle at a strategic level, a complete map and a radio set. In this case, I had command of the 19th, and I was coordinating multiple regiments on the offense -and- calling up several reserve brigades to come and secure ground seized, monitoring the Luftstreitkrafte and calling for fire support from our attached artillery. Being in a place of safety allows an officer to see the bigger picture, to think more clearly.”
“I am familiar with strategic level thinking, General,” Beekyarov cut in, not quite interrupting Van Zieks but certainly not observing decorum with his tone and timing. “And I am aware that Reichsarmee strategy does not always coincide with Reformisten. But I asked you if Heimclar’s position in the action gave him the expert opinion to overturn your order based on the evidence he had in front of him. And you still have not answered that question.”
“You cannot believe field commanders should have the ability to overturn divisional orders at the drop of a coin!” Van Zieks snapped, the frustration rising in his voice. Perhaps Cyril had been wrong, perhaps the general -had- gotten at least partially liquored up, but only hid it well. “The order was given at a higher level, from a place of superior information! If every officer took such liberties, many successful attacks would have been canceled the second a soldier fell on the field. Such anarchy on the field would disrupt any and all offensives the moment they run into opposition!”
“Then what you are saying, perhaps, is that these orders should not be given to begin with? When, in your opinion, is an officer in the field allowed to legally exercise the autonomy and authority of his rank to change the battle plan?”
“When he’s not that…that…horse rider over there!”
The courtroom fell quiet a split second. In that moment, the amount of time it took for a bolt of lightning to strike the ground, illuminate its surroundings and then dissipate and leave onlookers gawking in amazement, everyone present attempted to process what the general had just said, including the general himself.
And then, after the slur set in, half the courtroom launched into an uproar of whispers and hushed words while the other half merely gawked in stupefied amazement. Before he had even gotten to the stage where expert witness account could protect or save him, Van Zieks had just thrown out a pretty nasty statement about a griffon having certain intimate relations with some kind of equine (be they pony, horse or zebra, the specific race usually didn’t matter) and probably lost him at least a few sympathizers in the crowd.
Apparently it hit far too close to home.
“You son of a bitch!” Heimclar snapped, rising to his feet as he slammed a clenched fist on the table, his broken monocle falling from his face. “You arrogant, robber baron bastard! How dare you!”
Astoundingly, Heimclar’s claw was flying to his sheath. As a knight, Heimclar was allowed to wear his enchanted blade into the courtroom, when none other than the guards at the entrances were armed. It was only supposed to be a ceremonial privilege, respecting the code of chivalry and never separating a knight from his blade. In a severely uncharacteristic show of savage fury, the purple oberstmeister drew the sword, enchanted runes glowing like hot fire up and down the enchanted steel. The reaction was immediate. Haul seemed to roll to the side like he was dodging enemy fire, Van Ziek’s adjutant leapt away like he was fleeing a bed of hot coals and several of the front ranks of spectators swiftly ducked as, from the rear of the courtroom, a shout rang out followed by the clattering steel of cycling weapon actions. Van Zieks himself, in an odd twist, seemed some strange combination of outraged satisfaction, leaned forward and staring as if he was about to take awing and with the wide eyes that he couldn’t believe someone would stumble so stupidly. Zugravescu, oddly, seemed unfazed, merely with a sigh leaning back in his seat and watching the chaos unfold. Cyril, honestly, was too stunned to really think. He’d never seen Heimclar act like this before, his fury apparently focused and directed into disciplining his troops and expounding vitriol on the foe. But now, here, Heimclar stood on the defense table, literally stood on it, wings flared and sword raised in a classic guard stance (which Cyril now recognized because of Machinki’s lessons), panting hard in anger and exertion.
“I will not have you spouting such poison! You sat there and trampled over me and all those you spat on that died under your command, and then you seek to besmirch my wife? No! No, ‘good’ general! Honor has been stained, and yours long ago called into question! I’ll have your blade locked with mine, or your pistol if you prefer that route!”
Before Van Zieks could answer, or before the charging Feldjagers and Vollstrecker could restrain him, a metal claw reached out, clamping around Heimclar’s ankle. The drake had just enough time to glance downward before the claw jerked the leg back abruptly, causing Heimclar to stagger and go down on one knee, or risk falling off the table. Once brought down to size, an arm seemed to chop out of nowhere, the flesh and blood one this time, taking Heimclar by the throat and, with but a swift two motion move, sweeping the oberstmeister from the table and dashing him to the courtroom floor in a vicious chokeslam.
“Simmer down," Zugravescu declared, in a voice that was loud and clear enough Cyril could hear it from his seat. Many spectators were rising to try and get a better look, energetic murmuring amongst them as the Feldjagers swept forward, a bit surprised to see the situation already in claw. Not sure what to do, they aimed their weapons vaguely in Zugravescu's direction.
Up at his seat, August banged the gavel again and again.
"Order! There shall be order in these proceedings, or I shall restore order!"
The threat was certainly not an idle one, not when he could call on machine pistol wielding personnel to reassert control. Despite the threat, it was clear Zugravescu was not letting Heimclar up, and the spectators were still muttering to each other in unease.
"We will reassert the authority of this court martial!" August called out, banging the gavel once more. "Before these proceedings are turned into a mockery!"
"With all due respect, Your Honor, it's already too late for that," replied Zugravescu as he finally rose, sliding Heimclar's sword onto the defense table with a clatter. "These proceedings were already a mockery from the very start." Now recovered, the aghast Oberstmeister slowly rose to his feet, but wisely did not try for his blade again.
"Feldzeugmeister, you will retain your seat or be held in contempt of court and ordered to leave."
"Why, Your honor?" Zugravescu snorted, and Cyril could see several other officers gesturing animatedly and hurriedly exchanging hushed words. Sure, this was a breach of court etiquette, but the drake was so far not -too- disrespectful, no more than had already been shown and if anything had prevented an even bigger scene by securing the sword toting Heimclar. Cyril assumed therefore that it must just be that the orange griff didn't speak at his appearances all that much.
"Your Honor, you have my greatest respect, but this was never a court martial about defying orders. It's not even about who the blame for Vanguardigo will fall on, though that's clearly where much of the Panel is going. No, at its core this sham of a trial was about your aristocracy protecting their vaunted power in the Reichsarmee, the good and the bad both sheltering their coveted position behind their wealth and influence. The corruption amongst your ranks is staggering, and all because some of you were born in certain better circumstances than others. There are good commanders that come from the peer, certainly. But they are so staggeringly offset by the incompetent ones it erases that which the skilled ones fight and work and -die- for. Let's not forget, everyone; there is a war on. A two-front one. It's a war we are, for now, winning, or we were before we stalemated in the north on Cloudbury, and in the south on Vilein and Vanguardigo. We should be out there, breaking the deadlock again, like you have for the past few months. And instead we are here squabbling about a field kommandant who chose the priceless lives of his troops over pressing an assault he knew would fail with little reason to continue committing to it."
Zugravescu shook his head, apparently paused in his rant a moment as he cleared his throat. Speaking this loudly must not be something he was used to.
"You want to sit there and argue losses and conditions and responsibility all day, let us first establish the fact that the one giving the orders was -not- suited for the job!"
"Excuse you," Van Zieks snarled, suddenly finding courage and voice again. "Who do you think you are?"
"Who do I think I am?"
Zugravescu's tone was booming, his attitude tight and clearly unhappy, as he now swung his full attention on to the suddenly nervous general, approaching Van Zieks on the stand at a leisurely pace.
“Who do -you- think I am?”
The general’s liquid courage offered him one last gust of defiance, seemingly gathering his previously lost nerve back into his golden-feathered cheeks as he responded “A walking corpse if I had to guess.”
The courtroom once again fell silent, the audacity of the general shocking to the onlookers, but the Feldzeugmeister’s reaction was all the more curiously casual, chuckling dismissively as if addressing a lowly servant.
“You feeble minded pedestrian maggot, you really have no idea, do you?”
The Ost Kommandant let go of his dusty overcoat, straightening his uniform and readjusting his collar as he prepared himself to deliver a barrage. The entire action took only a moment, but a second later Zugravescu was on hind legs, wings flared as he towered over Van Zieks on the stand.
"I am the -DUKE- of Sydia, recognized by both the noble families of Ost-Griffonia and your Herzland peers, while -you- are but a miserable lowly viscount! So I suggest you measure your tone when addressing your betters you insolent vermin! I am THE Right Claw of the Reformisten Black King, THE Feldzeumeister of the First Death Korps of Ost Griffonia, DER Stahlgewittern, THE Quartermeister of the Order of the Black Knights, bearer of the Knight's Cross with golden oak leaves, swords and diamonds and the Trinity of the Gods. I am -NOT- some vain, insipid, vacuous, pretentious, self righteous milksop who inherited almost all of the tin on his chest! I know the Van Zieks dynasty, worm! Your father and your grandfather won those awards, -not- you, heroes whose medals you -stole-. Yet you go around throwing your troops at your problems in droves, parading yourself all high and mighty with the achievements of your ancestors on your uniform like chest candy, bastardizing the meaning behind those awards and quoting orders and doctrinal theory like holy words in a Temple. Speaking of which, the book you oh so cleverly deigned to pull your excuses from, Generalfeldmarschall Duskwing's own tome, was referring to the kommandants freeing their minds from indecision and accepting grim reality. It goes on to state that under certain circumstances, the spending of lives for victory may be excused, accepted and even striven for, but inexcusable is the wasting of those same priceless lives! Yes, that too is from Duskwing's own words. Accept it, General; you missed the entire concept."
The mustachioed drake gave a dry cackle as he continued his verbal assault.
“And to think you actually believed you could be a general, lead a division...you could not even lead a parade. I'm excusing a lot because I recognize the trauma and the loss you have suffered. But my patience isn't limitless...unlike my authority. I have war scars older than you, you pest! How dare you take the name of Grover II in vain in a court martial!”
Zugravescu’s tone had taken on an acid edge, as if he was on the verge of spitting in Van Zieks’ face in abject fury.
“Back then Emperors, kings, nobles and all led their troops from the front to maintain cohesion, it was the norm. And nowadays we have the Black King leading from the very front, you dare say a single soul cannot accomplish much on its own on the battlefield? And yet the king who is nothing but a single griffon was able to take a panzer on his own in Katerin. The damned king can be in the thick of combat, leading by showing exemplary bearing before his troops in the moment of danger and be willing if necessary to die for them. If the very king is always on the frontline, what makes YOU so special? What is your excuse Viscount; was it because of some battlefield injury? How many times have you been shot, Van Zieks?”
“Feldzeugmeister!” August called out from above. “You did not receive clearance to cross-examine the subject, and your speech and filibustering are out of order!”
“No!” Zugravescu snarled back, whirling back to Van Zieks with an accusing iron talon pointed. “I appreciate your desire to be impartial, Your Honor! But -he- is the one out of order! He and his ilk, who stand on the graves of those who came before and built them their legacy and they spit over them! Answer the question Viscount. How many times have you been injured in battle?”
The general seemed paralyzed in panic at the inquisitive Zugravescu. He mutely spluttered for a moment, barely whispering the answer.
“What was that? Sorry I could not hear you properly, it is the tinnitus. Maybe you have heard of it? LOUDER! WHERE IS YOUR HIGH AND MIGHTY ATTITUDE NOW?”
“I have never been injured in battle!” spurted the trembling mess that was the drake who previously had been overflowing with cocky confidence.
“How fantastic, how lucky of the legacy of the Van Zieks dynasty… how noble,” said the scarred kommandant with audible disdain in his voice. He seemed to focus on Van Zieks a moment longer before he swung around, limping towards the spectators stands. “Then let us ask your victims then.”
The ost-kommandant pointed at Cyril as he walked towards the recently promoted oberleutnant.
“You, Soldat, how many times have you been shot before?”
The question threw Cyril somewhat. Out of a dozen witnesses waiting in the spectator stands, he just happened to have been picked out, despite sitting two rows back. He didn’t want this kind of attention, but he no longer had the choice to remain unnoticed until he was called up to give testimony. Instead, taken aback by such a direct inquiry, he stood and saluted before answering sharply.
“Three times, mein Meister.” He barely remembered the Reformisten honorific, instead of the instinctual Reichsarmee one.
The pacing kommandant approached the young drake on edge, carefully examining him with his eyes under those black spectacles. His movement was no longer aggressive and predatory, and he stepped past the gate into the spectator stands, coming to stand before Cyril directly, his examination never faltering. Cyril stared back, deferential yet refusing to be cowed by this stranger.
To his surprise, the mustachioed orange griffon reached up and placed his genuine claw on the younger drake’s shoulder and softly asked “You have been through Hell haven’t you son?”
Cyril, dumbfounded, struggled to answer that second question slowly nodding instead. The dynamic of the conversation had abruptly shifted left in an eyeblink, and he no longer felt he was being stared down. In such circumstances, he was left floundering. He could be hardly blamed, being addressed by a griffon of such intimidating high standing and scarred visage after such a mood shift.
The Feldzeugmeister continued with the same first question onto the other witnesses, many of whom bore similar wounds to Cyril, some worse, some clearly not long out of hospital.
“You, Trooper?”
“Five times, mein Meister” said the dog soldier behind Cyril, his hind legs now mere stumps. He had clearly been through the mill just as thoroughly as Cyril, if not more so.
“You, Landser?”
“Two times mein Meister” said the formel with a broken arm, still in its cast. He tone was thin and deadpan, and her eyes kept shooting down towards the floor.
Zugravescu kept up this method, moving amongst the junior officers and enlisted present, up until all had answered the questionnaire. His interrogation finished, he slowly turned back to the silent courtroom, pointing an accusing iron talon at the general on the stand.
“Did you earn this, Yanek?”
In a sudden stride completely at odds with the limp he’d shown, Zugravescu was back across the courtroom, swift and directed. With a vicious motion, Zugravescu snatched the gleaming Order of the Golden Griffon from Van Zieks’ breast, snapping the pin with a single motion. He held it up so the onlookers could see.
“Tell the court! Tell the Panel! What act of bravery did you commit to be awarded this? Or how about this?”
Another medal, the Golden Wound Badge, removed in a heartbeat.
“I have seen soldiers mauled for this same award, Yanek! Crippled and sent home broken wrecks with an honorable discharge to earn this! Curious that a drake that has never once been shot is bearing such an award?”
Another flick, and more awards joined the first two in Zugravescu’s iron grip, the clinking sound of metal on metal.
“Campaign ribbons? The Medallion Crimson? Honor pins and decorations for excellence? How many of these were actually yours, and how many were you allowed to wear in your forbearer’s name? Look! I know they stopped awarding the Hussar’s Cross decades ago, yet here it is instead of being buried with your grandfather, where it BELONGS! And yet, you spineless rat of a drake, you dare to send out those braver than you to die on the wire and pin the blame for your failures on the ones who struggle to save their lives and the battles! Tell me scum, you just wanted the glory of conquering Vanguardigo. Was it not? ADMIT IT, you are under oath, you good for nothing reprobate, you were willing to sacrifice all of your troops just for the sake of gaining more renown for your namesake, which are surely clawing themselves further into the ground just so they can distance themselves from such a shameful imbecile, ADMIT IT. ”
“YES!”
The sudden, shouted agreement, snapped out from a beak that had, to that point been either haughty and argumentative or mollified into silence drew the court to a low murmur once again. Once filled with arrogant control, General Van Zieks now appeared to be on the verge of tears (whether sadness or frustration) as he slowly fought the expression down. Even from his seat, Cyril could notice how utterly pathetic the general looked. Truly the spirits were finally taking the better of Yanek, the drink reasserting its control over the emotionally compromised griffon. Though satisfaction was written across the Feldzeugmeister’s face, he refused to relent in his assault.
“And you presumed to call the sacrifice of your own troops for your personal gain “Honor.” There is no honorable way to kill, no gentle way to destroy. Stand amongst the ashes of a million dead soldiers and ask the ghosts if ‘honor’ matters.” Zugravescu’s tone became, if possible, even harder, grating like scraping steel on a whetstone. “There is no honor left. Survival was the expectation but because of you it has been made the exception. A unit comprised of the elite, the brightest; you -wasted- the veterans of Tartarus and Westkeep for your own pathetic attempt at a show of force, spent soldiers needlessly to aggrandize yourself on a suicidal assault on Vanguardigo.”
Zugravescu did spit now, though it was off to the side. Furious murmuring lit through the courtroom, though as he returned the orange drake tilted his beak up in disgust and contempt.
“You betrayed them. Your soldiers! You led them there to die. There should be no forgiveness for that. Because of you, the -corpses- have won. Mountains of them grew, and YOU should have joined them as your ancestors DID.”
Zugravescu glanced over his shoulder at the murmuring courtroom, as if daring anyone to interrupt him. Indeed, one of the Feldjagers had inched a little closer, though froze in place as the Ost-Griffonian kommandant snapped his stare over. After another moment, he turned back to continue audibly flaying Van Zieks alive.
“I would -never- give out an order I could not carry out myself, and because you did Heroes have become Martyrs. I have seen the casualty figures…the professionals and the veterans stayed alive through sheer luck and willpower. You have set one of the most prestigious units in the empire into a death spiral. There are talks of dissolving them and sending the remnants to other schwere-panzer battalions.”
Cyril started, glancing up at his uncle. He’d heard, and suspected, similar things to the same sound. Certainly they had lost enough crews and Grytas that there would have to be Griefkonig replacements for some time. But dissolving the Kampfgruppe?
“Now answer me one last question boy; put yourself in the shoes of your soldiers. Would you want to be under the command of an officer like yourself?”
Van Zieks had been completely drained by the relentless verbal assault thrown his way by the Quartermaster, timidly answering gazing down.
“No…when you put it all that way, I suppose I wouldn’t.”
The black clad officer seemingly satisfied began turning to his seat, when suddenly he stopped, almost as if detecting something he had not noticed before.
“Yanek… are you intoxicated?”
The viscount looked up to the reformisten officer and with his defenses down answered slowly
“Yes…?”
Abruptly, Zugravescu balled all of the medals he had snatched from Van Zieks’ breast into a fist and, adding their weight to his prosthetics’ own mass, snapped a fast sucker punch into the drake’s gut. Cyril, an expert on bareknuckle brawling, knew it would leave a painful if nonlethal bruise behind. In but a moment, several members of the court were abruptly on their feet, wings flared and voices beginning to raise. Noble or no, the physical assault of one on the stand was generally a serious faux pas, but even as the guards surged forth once again, Zugravescu had released Van Zieks, turning away almost as if nothing had happened, a bored expression on what was visible of his mustachioed face. Once that distance had been established, and it was clear no one was stupid enough to raise a riot in the face of armed Feldjagers and Vollstrecker, the buzz began to leach back out of the crowd and seats began to be retaken.
Cyril remained seated. He wasn’t sure if Zugravescu’s impromptu interrogation and verbal barrage onto Van Zieks was going to work. He wasn’t sure if the bastard would get off with anything more severe than a slap on the wrist and being banned from a few estate clubs for a few years, no matter what his uncle wanted. But if anything, the brazen act Zugravescu had just hauled off left him with a faint smile. If the general managed to dodge the consequences of his actions, the younger Duskwing could at least walk away with the sense that some justice had been done, whatever the cost to get it. For there would be a cost for all of this, for all involved.
“Seize him!” hollered Silverplume, though unlike anywhere else he might have given the command his order here was not immediately followed. Frölich looked the same shade of stunned, but he appeared to be alternating between about to shout in protest as well and about to look for a physical exit from the room, back and forth in his indecision. Silverfeather had risen as well, leaning forward against the tabletop as his claws dug into its surface, not shouting but studying the courtroom. Beekyarov and Silvertalon remained seated, conversing with one another over the noise, but Cyril could see the self-satisfied smirks on their beaks. If he didn’t know any better, the two Reformisten officers looked quite smug at the outburst. Off to the side, Vollstrecker-General Wolfheze appeared to be halfway between siding with his brethren in satisfaction and remaining the stoic he always held himself up as, though still seemingly ready to step in to restore the court should it be necessary.
“ORDER!” August hollered again, banging the gavel so hard the head snapped off, and he tossed the haft to the side in disgust. “I WILL have order in this courtroom! Feldzeugmeister, you have shown disrespect, spoken out of turn, filibustered in defiance of the court and now physically assaulted the drake on the stand!”
“Actually,” the Judge Advocate, whom Cyril did not remember the name of, finally spoke up. “While you have ultimate authority over the trial, the law is very clear about aristocracy having their right to interject when disrespected so blatantly like the duke just had been.”
“You cannot be serious,” August snarled, slamming a fist down so hard it almost doubled for the broken gavel. “He just whalloped the plaintiff on the stand! After dismantling him verbally for several minutes!”
The Advocate shrugged, her pink crest rippling as she did so. Out of the courtroom, she seemed one of the few that seemed unruffled by the events.
“The law is very clear about upholding the right to defend against slander while in trial. Especially for nobility, a punch is frankly rather a small punishment for such a heinous infraction towards a duke.”
“What a waste of time,” August groused, shaking his head. “Can you tell me what power I -do- have here then?”
“Addressing the Point of Order and in the interest of time, I will summarize; normally, the judge chosen for a military tribunal or court martial is one that is directly involved in the chain of command of either plaintiff or defendant, of higher or equal rank to most everyone else in the courtroom and possess the noble title to demand respect. You, unfortunately, lack the third point. From a legal standpoint, you cannot tell off the Feldzeugmeister as you are not a superior member of the peer. It’s…an old law.” Of all things, the Advocate had the temerity to look awkward about the issue, clearing her throat. “I believe you’re one of the highest ranking commoners in Reichsarmee service. And these proceedings were put together at haste, so…I believe a mistake was made here.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?” August asked, in a tone that was still civil and professional but to the trained ear was on the lower edge before descending into being an angry hiss of frustration.
“There is no need, Your Honor,” Zugravescu stated, his voice still clear but audibly more tired. It was as if the tirade had taken more out of him than he liked, and the drake voice seemingly sounded scratchier for but a moment before coming back again. “I appreciate your attempts to follow the law and remain impartial. But this -farce- has nothing more for me. I will depart…if I could make a final statement?”
“What are you doing?!”
On the stand, Van Zieks had finally sucked down enough oxygen to speak, flailing off his adjutant as he managed to haul himself up on the rail to be seen.
“Arrest that drake! He just assaulted *wheeze* a general officer in a court of law! Are you going to let him get awa-” Another wheeze, coughing as the amount of air the general was expelling had exceeded the amount he could take in, before the general tried again. “Get away with that! I demand you place him under arrest, you good for nothing -commoner!-”
“You demand, General?” August questioned like an authority from above, leering down at Van Zieks as he did so, his tone so icy it would likely make a polar bear feel comfortable. “I believe, in this room, we are subject to not just military law but also the one that recognizes aristocratic station. The Feldzeugmeister is of a higher station than you, and a higher rank than you. And as we’ve just been informed by our Advocate, you also attacked him with slander and have been challenged with all permissible physical force short of challenging you to a duel. Noble station held above all, just like it’s been since the Kaisers of old. You’re in no position to make demands of this court. In fact, I believe I shall hold you in contempt of court, for your attitude and behavior both towards the selected judge and a member of the nobility. Speak out of turn again, and I’ll have you removed. You can learn the results of this trial from your quarters.”
For just a moment, Cyril honestly thought he heard a kind of ironic satisfaction in August’s voice. That his uncle had taken a small pleasure in turning the protections and privileges afforded to the aristocracy and turned it on what had to have been the biggest pain in his tail feathers. Then he blinked, and saw that August Duskwing was all business again, Heterochromatic eyes blazing down at Van Zieks. The younger general panted quietly, having finally recovered enough to draw full breaths, but said no more. Sighing, the elder Duskwing cleared his throat before he addressed the courtroom again.
“Feldzeugmeister Féher Zugravescu has a final statement to make before we resume the trial. Let the record show he is departing willingly of his own volition. Herr Feldzeugmeister.”
Zugravescu bowed. An odd gesture, given that he had so thoroughly demolished Van Zieks on the nature of his rank in society, to bow to a judge of commoner blood. Cyril wasn’t sure what to make of that, and was only too glad he was outside comprehension of aristocratic etiquette. From what he had seen here today, the nobility could take their world and shove it.
“Danke, Your Honor. I will be brief, as I feel my medication wearing off and I know I have already overturned polite society enough today. A great wrong was committed on the fields of Vanguardigo. It has exposed, for all to see, the corruption and ineptitude of much of the Reichsarmee’s system that endures despite reform after reform and the lessons of the conflict. But it is a lesson we can learn from. Much, most if I am honest, of Imperial command is still competent, still salvageable. We would not be as far into Aquileia as we are if they were not. But no ship can sail with an anchor dragging it down. The vocal minority creates a terrible image for an entire group.”
The Feldzeugmeister paused, considering something as if contemplating before he cleared his throat again. When next he spoke, his words were noticeably strained, a bit reedy. He didn’t have long.
“Just ask the Reinigers.” He held up his fist, still full of many of the honors he had plucked from Van Zieks’ breast. “If you will excuse me I must take these honors where they belong; back to the Van Zieks estate. Should you need me, I will be at the front.”
And, at that, Zugravescu came to attention smartly, a claw snapped to the brim of his cap as he saluted August. They were of the same military rank, so such was not essential. But it looked, and felt, right. Then, he turned and left with no further ceremony, no further word. He had said what he had come to say, and it had been quite a lot. As he departed, several soldiers, both Reformisten and Reichsarmee stood and saluted, though the Feldzeugmeister appeared not to notice, his stoic gaze affixed on the exit. A brief applause followed him to the door, though it quickly petered out. But August said nothing of it, and immediately acted like nothing awry had happened at all, calling the next witness to the stand.
It wasn’t the first time Cyril had met good nobles. He had, plenty of them. Knights and decent officers. But he had seen far more of the same cut as Van Zieks. Aristocracy who saw their military career as padding for a dossier, something to add as a gem in their crown. In this most dire moment, seeing a knight of peer blood who actually used his influence for noble purpose and intent, reminded him again that they did exist. This was what true nobility was about, like knights charging a raging dragon off the pages of one of his children’s storybooks, except it was here in front of him. Maybe he was overthinking it. It wouldn’t be the first time.
The trial went on as it had intended after that dramatic departure. Cyril, like the other witnesses, gave his testimony and went on the record. But after the spectacle and the scene, it was clear writing on the wall; there was no saving Van Zieks in this court room. With the new evidence and the general’s own defeated statement (confession, some were quietly muttering), each new witness, evidence and cross-examination seemed to keep digging the hole deeper. Van Zieks’ bluster and will to fight were gone, and with it had fled his charisma and ability to quickly turn each situation to his advantage.
Every action at Vanguardigo was examined with a fine toothed comb. Heimclar didn’t get off completely on Zugravescu’s theatrics, of course. But as the trial continued, and the events at Westkeep were suddenly brought into the line of questioning, from the orders given in the battle down to even logistics. The results of Haul’s investigation, when provided through a logistics feldwebel, showed that Van Zieks had personally ordered reserve stocks of lesser quality pulled for several items, not just chemical protection. Expediency had been the word. Though not illegal on its own, by now it was kindling for an already burning flame.
The final verdict saw Van Zieks demoted. He lost his general’s commission, was returned to regimental command and was stripped of any decorations he had not personally earned. Such censure would essentially sink his career, and he might even have been drummed out of service completely had the need for experienced officers not been so high. The fact he was still in a frontline, highly-rated unit instead of some supply depot in the Whitetails was likely due to whatever small influence his name and record carried with them. Word floated that he may have even faced prison time, were it not for the same desperate need for high ranking officers, as well as the influence of the Van Zieks family. But it wasn’t exactly a favor done for him.
None of them knew it, but this incident sank the cooperative command style division concept. It was clear that strategy and law between the two armies did not mesh. New regulations would come down, removing officers and soldiers as need be. In the end, aside from a few select battalions that had proved to be the exception, almost all merged command was ended. Reichsarmee and Ostheer units would still fight with and support each other, but there would no longer be the attempt to use such a merge to test reunification of units at this time.
Kampfgruppe Lehr was retained under Ostheer command, as while it was a split battalion-sized formation it had been primarily trained in Zeldstadt. And now, its highest ranking commander was a very much Reformisten Oberstmeister Heimclar von Lohr. Kampfgruppe Lehr was one of those few exceptions, as when it came to panzerkrieg tactics the two forces had come to merge theories by this point anyway. For something considered a high level asset like a heavy panzer formation, Oberkommando made the choice that separating them would do more harm in the end. Reichsarmee, Ostheer, it didn’t matter. In Kampfgruppe Lehr, you were Kampfgruppe Lehr. And that was that.
The monstrous sky demons coiled around each other, hissing and spitting as fire rained from their bodies, scarring the land below. Where the fire struck, volcanoes erupted from down below, spewing molten earth across the crater ridden wreck that was no drakes’ land, which already stretched as far as the eye could see. The two armies battling barely even noticed as they were melted away, Imperial and Aquileian soldiers continuing to gun each other down senselessly even as they were rent into charred skeletons, panzers and halftracks turned to slag, trenchlines wiped from existence as they were flooded by fire and magma. As the armies fell, seas of poisonous gas rolled up into the sky, the clouds taking on the shape of griffon and pony skulls, red eye sockets glowing in demonic fury. Then the dead rose again from their fiery graves, continuing to fight even as their weapons, uniforms and flesh was rent to nothing. Far away, something dark laughed in sadistic ecstasy.
Cyril spun away from the battlefield. Paige, his mother and his sister stood there, all looking at him blankly, as if waiting for him to do something. The second he tried to reach for them, however, they moved. An ocean sprang up between him and Paige as she was whisked away across the horizon beyond sight. A massive chasm swallowed up Sophie, though her face didn’t movie an iota as she plunged into the earth. His mother remained, staring him dead in the eye.
“Mutter…” he said, helplessly, unsure of what to do.
“Your father would be so proud…” was her only response.
Then one of those fireballs descended from on high, smashing into her position and throwing him back. He fell for a time before he rolled over, suddenly blind and trapped in a tight space. Cyril coughed, crying out in alarm as he realized he was stuck inside of a metal corridor full of smoke, pipes and debris jabbing in at him from everywhere. A red light was flashing, the only illumination he had, and he desperately tried to crawl through the corridor, barely able to push through the wreckage.
“Cyril!” cried a voice up ahead. He had no idea who it was.
“I’m coming!” he hollered back, glancing up to check his clearance. “Just stay right there!”
“CYRIL!” came the panicked voice again. No, not one voice. It was many, he could tell now. An amalgamation of voices of people he knew. He heard Hellseig, Eihol, Eisenwing, Stahlbeak, his father, Paige, Machinki.
“I’m moving as fast as I can!” he shouted, coughing as he practically screamed it out. “Please!”
He looked back over his shoulder again. Both of his wings were gone. All that was left was bloody, torn flesh and stumps. He hadn’t even realized he was leaving a river of blood behind him as he clawed forward, coughing as he tried again and again to break free.
“CYRIL! HELP!”
“Dammit, just stay there!” Tears streamed down his face now. The voices sounded like everyone he had ever met in his life. “I promise, I’ll save you!”
Will you though? a dark voice questioned, booming down the corridor and shaking Cyril’s very bones. Can you save -anyone-?
“YES! I! CAN!”
With a final effort, leaving a trail of blood behind him, his medal-covered uniform torn beyond recovery, he finally pushed out of the smoke-filled corridor.
Before him was row after row after row of headstones and grave markers, some of them as simple as helmets on rifles speared into the ground, as far as the eye could see. Some of the headstones looked like they had come from the local graveyard, and had chains of flowers hanging around them. In the distance, a tattered Imperial banner flying overhead, he could see the outline of an Imperial Gryta, sitting on a hill. Behind it was a massive newspaper article.
‘CYRIL DUSKWING’ the headline proclaimed. ‘HERO OF THE KAISERREICH’.
August 11th, 1012 2 km northeast of Imperial Occupied Illeagle, Aquileia 3rd Armee, 19th Panzer-Division ‘Landgraf von Aiwlen’, 205th Schwere Panzerabteilung ‘Kampfgruppe Lehr’, Brutus Kompanie
This time, when he snapped awake and reached for his pistol, a paw snagged his wrist. In a confused few seconds, he lashed out. He was a very good brawler, and his veterancy and time in the illegal fighting rings had given him a reaction time second to none. He snapped a jab up at his unseen attacker with his left claw. He connected, and though the stranger grunted in pain the paw refused to let up on him.
“Cyril, gottenverdammt! Calm the hell down!”
A response blow smashed into his own cheek, and in his barely awake, panicked state he didn’t register it coming. The pain he felt as the punch landed and his head rebounded off the frame of the cot, however, snapped him back to his senses. He blinked in confusion, no longer struggling as he lay there, stunned and disoriented. The pressure finally lifted from his wrist as Spotsley’s face swam into his view, her one-eyed visage staring down at him in the grim light.
“You good?” she asked quietly. In more control of his senses, Cyril nodded dazedly.
*****
They sat on his cot for a time after he collected himself, quietly passing a bottle back and forth. It wasn’t anything special. Some kind of cheap gin from Katerin. Unless it was some of the moonshine made from one of the dozen or so illegal stills that could be easily dismantled and hidden away at a moment’s notice in a truck or halftrack. He couldn’t tell. He didn’t care.
The light of extremely early morning filtered into the tent. Outside, they could hear the movements of predawn military activity. According to the clock, it was four in the morning, just before they were expected to awake anyway. Kampfgruppe Lehr, their kompanie at least, was on the outskirts of Illeagle at a staging ground. From here, Rittermeister Ruria would lead them towards wherever they were needed. With the risk of the Levant corvettes showing up at any time, they needed to remain dispersed and ready to react. Bombardments of logistics behind the lines, manufacturing centers, staging areas and command posts had already taken place. It was only a matter of time before it happened again.
His tent was sparse. Even as an oberleutnant, he didn’t carry much with him. A duty bag, a cot, a simple camp table covered in paperwork and a foldable chair. At the other end, he had taken the time last night to hang up his panzerwaffen blacks for today, up next to the small portrait of Kaiser Grover VI that every officer’s tent hung these days. The new fatigues issued were not so different from the old ones. The Reichsarmee had fallen on blacks for their panzertruppen, and the new Ostheer ones were much the same. Hardly surprising given that the east had learned their armored doctrine from the west. The style and buttons were identical, as was the unit patch and pins, but where the Reichsarmee insignia had been before were now small totenkopfs, the tiny deathshead pins shiny against the black cloth. As well as this was a white armband that he wore on the right, with black lettering loudly proclaiming ‘TARTARUS’. So they did remember, after all.
Spotsley was the first to break the silence.
“Sounded like a bad one this time,” she muttered, keeping her voice low to avoid prying ears.
Cyril nodded in response, not saying anything. It wasn’t the first time she had come rushing in to find him in this state. By necessity he quartered alone, though he tended to skirt the edge of regulation by staying as close to his crew as possible. Spotsley and Schneider quartered together, and Brightclaw stayed with Axum. Parked between the two tents, Cyril was as close to his crew as regulation allowed. Stahlbeak had overlooked it. Ruria did as well.
“Wanna talk about it?”
Spotsley and Cyril knew rumors about the two of them sticking so close were spreading. Add into that the fact that she could be seen spiriting into his tent in the middle of the night, and word was the two were illicit lovers. This was, of course, untrue. Often, Spotsley would toss Cyril’s spare bedroll on the floor after checking to make sure his latest nightmare wasn’t especially unhinged. They were about as platonic as fellow crewmates could get. He was still holding a torch for Paige, waiting on that distant day that only seemed possible with the stream of letters coming in, and she still wasn’t over Eihol. Anything else was unfounded gossip. He glanced over at her, his mind immediately recalling how she too looked in her new panzerwaffen blacks. How strange, his mind had thought. A somber affair, as if she was dressed for a funeral. The totenkopfs did not help.
He shook his head at her question.
“It’s just a blur now,” he replied. That wasn’t just an excuse, it honestly was. Just a series of horrific images in his mind now that he was awake, like terrifying smoke that dispersed more as he tried to hold onto it. “Something about fire…and helping people.”
“And the headline again?” she asked. He nodded slowly, but didn’t look at her. He had told her about the last one. That had been a recurring theme. The newspaper declaring him a hero had popped up again and again and again. Neither of them knew if it meant anything significant, but they both knew it couldn’t be anything good.
“Don’t know why you talk to that damned reporter,” Spotsley muttered, taking another slug of gin. “Ever since she came around, it’s been nothing but a bad joke. All those questions…should send her packing.”
“Too late for that, don’t you think?” he asked quietly in response. “Even if I send her away, the story’s out. My name is in newspapers in two…three…who knows how many countries.”
She paused a moment before handing the bottle back to him. He took a small slug.
“Don’t get too sloshed,” she said quietly. “If you show up on duty inebriated, it’s not going to look good.”
“I know,” Cyril replied, accentuating his point by taking up the cork and pushing it back in. He felt a little tipsy, but that would fade once he got some food in him. He wouldn’t be staggering around or tilting over in formation.
Spotsley stood, giving Cyril a squeeze on the shoulder and a small, honest smile. Under her tunic, Cyril heard the clinking of ID tags. She had quietly snuck Eihol’s off his corpse after Graves Registration had taken command of his body, cleaning the metal and wearing the broken half disc next to her own. The medics had written it off as poor handling during the battle of Westkeep. Good thing they had already written his particulars down.
“Another day,” she said before letting his shoulder go, stepping out the flap.
He waited until she left before he tugged the cork out, taking just one more pull at the bottle. Everything was upside down again. He didn’t know how many more times he could watch his world be flipped on its head. They were losing, again. Or, at least, no longer winning. Stahlbeak was dead. Paige was still a world away. According to the news, Griffenheim was getting bombed again, so his mother was in harm’s way once more. Nobles were no longer invincible, apparently. And now, though his paperwork said Reichsarmee, for the purpose of organization he wore the uniform of an order he had once hated with his deepest passion. In an oversimplified way, the word ironic still didn’t come close to covering the situation.
Another day, he told himself while inspecting those small skulls on his jacket’s chest once more.
”I expect the Battle of Canterlot is about to begin in earnest. This is the battle that will decide the future of our land, our culture, our lives. We have fought to hold them off, and now as the enemy approaches the gates, we have the chance to stop the Swarm in its tracks. They are deep inside our land now, and we are secure in our factories and our cities on the coast. If ever there was a time to turn them back, it is now. This is not the end, tragic as the road was to get here. This is the beginning. For in 1012 we possess more than what we did in 1011. Experience, understanding, strategy, material. And now motivation. I have heard the rumors…the suspicions that Equestria cannot win this fight. But to give in now would be to render everything our brothers and sisters gave to buy us this chance meaningless. We have the weapons, now. We have the knowledge, now. We have the allies, now. And soon, when our enemy is over-committed and stuck fast on our battlements, we will have the chance to strike Her a mortal blow and keep striking! Equestria will stand as the enemy approaches Canterlot! As they come towards Manehatten! And if, though I do not believe it, Canterlot should fall, our friends across the sea, armed and guarded by the Royal Fleet, will carry on the struggle! Until the Harmonic World, with all its power and noble intent, comes to our inevitable liberation! But today, as we face the greatest threat to our way of life in a thousand years, we will stand against the onslaught! And if Equestria lives for a thousand -more- years, they will look back on this day and say ‘this was their finest hour!’ Chrysalis made a crucial error in giving us a reason to fight! For now we have that reason, we will stand! And we will NEVER surrender!” -Princess Luna, delivering a speech on the steps of the Canterlot Palace, June 17th, 1012
August 10th, 1012 Somewhere Over the North Lunar Ocean No. 2 (Bombing) Group, Number 99 “Bloody Nightmares” Squadron Operation Black Harvest 12 hours, 48 minutes since launch
Paige knew it when they gave out the awards.
It wasn’t unusual, she knew, for a military force to put a halt on award ceremonies. What point in decorations when the fighting was so desperate and close? The RAF hadn’t given out an abundant amount of medals and awards since the war had started. Some had been granted behind closed doors, others merely appeared on a soldier’s lapels one day. But two days ago, the entire Squadron had been stood up on a stage, pilots and crewmares and ground personnel alike. And Colonel Pants had gone down the line as a sour faced captain read off the line of awards and decorations, some of them clusters of three or four at a time. Paige herself had earned her own little fruit salad now, which otherwise would have made her immensely pleased to have such at last, especially after reading Cyril briefly describe what he had been given over the course of their correspondence. She had to admit she had had small flashes of jealousy at this, especially with how bare her jacket had been for so long.
Now, however, she wished it had stayed so empty.
She already had her General Service Star and Crystal Star, both awarded to her for serving during the Crystal War. Those had been wrapped up in her dress uniform while she had been flying and fighting during this war (the fact she of all ponies had to distinguish between wars was quite unsettling), but on the stand Colonel Pants had pinned on her four more decorations. A Reservist Service Star, awarded only to those of the Royal Air Reserve or National Guard who had fought during active combat, which had certainly become a rarity with how badly the defenses had been thrashed while the Royal Army got its act together. Alongside that was the Canterlot Star, a specially made campaign medal, earned for ‘valorous fighting against Hegemony air forces in the defense of Canterlot.” So far as she knew, it was turning into a rapidly growing club as the lines were pushed further back. The Silver Bombardier Star was a point of actual pride for her, as it designated a total of at least forty air combat missions as the member of a ground attack craft. True, she should have long been rotated to the rear, but such was the situation that she probably would be sent back out again with the next commissioned wing anyway. And finally, shaped like the purple star emblem of Luna Nova, the Lunar Star was an actual rarity on a living aviator, for it meant she had flown a combat mission at night. The number of those daredevils who did so and lived was a small, select few. Despite Equestrian night-fighting technology, the changelings still held the dark as an advantage, though thestral pilots in new experimental planes and cutting edge radar equipment meant the tide was slowly turning.
And the ‘promotions’. Thanks to a new memorandum and organization to better fit with the air service arms of other countries, most aircrew were commissioned officers now. On her uniform was the twin white stripes and single blue-gray insignia of a Flight Lieutenant, with pips designating her years in service. She, Static and Ace were all now the same rank, actual officers as part of Colonel Fancy Pants’ big effort working with Canterlot to get the RAF on the same page. It was an awful lot to take in at once.
With her jacket now almost as decorated as Cyril’s own according to the few times he actually spoke of his own medals, she knew she should feel proud of herself. She knew she should hold their meaning in high regard. But on the one hoof it finally dawned on her just what Cyril meant when he called his decorations ‘cheap pieces of bloodstained tin’. She still remembered watching fighters and bombers drop by the score over Tall Tale, Vanhoover, Marechester and many, many other places. The sight of torn, agonized planes rent apart by cannon fire, often aflame, sometimes spewing forms with wings or parachutes, sometimes not, all of it danced behind her eyes at unexpected times. The sudden spike of fear as an Sv.109 zoomed in front of her countless times hid in her veins, and sometimes a backfiring engine gave her pause as her brain first associated it with the sound of bullet holes punching through aluminum.
On the other hoof, she realized she’d just been treated to a dead mare’s last show, the term used to refer to the snap award ceremony to hand out medals to those who were about to go on a mission that not only was high risk, but carried a very real chance of no return. Now, she was suspended over open water, a day and a half into the flight of an extremely risky mission. If the Kriegsmarine pulled a patrol in a different space, they were dead. If the Luftwaffe had installed radar sites in places not accounted for by the intel reports, they were dead. If the target had stiffer AA defenses than the Olenian resistance fighters reported, they would likely survive but be left vulnerable for CAP fighters lurking in wait for them. Then they’d be dead. Tartarus below, if the planners had miscalculated just how much fuel it would take to make the trip, or how much these modified Lancasters could now carry, they’d be dead.
Paige had a thing for equations and patterns, and a multi-factor formula with the same solution if one element was changed meant any variation at all meant certain doom for a good portion of the force. But still, what a force it was.
Paige peered out the window of the bomber. With so far to go until they were to reach their destination, and no hostile craft in sight, she’d been allowed to pull back inside to stretch and get out of the bubble. As such, she’d been helping Eventide in her calculations. But looking out at just what she could see was an awe-inspiring sight. It wasn’t the largest wing Equestria or the Allies had ever put together, she knew. But one-hundred seventy-seven heavy bombers flying with escorts was still enough to cover what part of the sky she could see. Through the glass porthole, as far as her limited view could show, all she saw was tan and green aircraft and sunburst roundels.
The mission, as they had been told, was straightforward. A key factor in enemy logistics had been identified, far behind Hegemony lines in what they surely thought was safely in their heartland. With the Lunar Fleet destroyed and so much of the RAF concentrated in the east, it certainly seemed like the north was perfectly safe. But changelings didn’t appear to understand heavy bombers all that well. They didn’t use strategic craft themselves much, and instead seemed to prefer support craft like dive bombers and tactical medium vehicles, which was likely how they could produce such swarms in the air so easily. Regardless, this meant their defenses in areas they absolutely felt certain were secure were…less so. Olenian resistance fighters in the area around Vaverfront had identified the first of these critical semi-secure targets of opportunity, a way to cut a crucial lynchpin. When the Queendom had absorbed Olenia and turned it into a Protectorate, a lot of the land they absorbed had been mountainous and hilly. As a result, a lot of the logistics and rail lines had to remain in place from simple geography. And one of those necessities was the distribution of fuel and other oil supplies. At Vaverfront, a massive refinery and depot processed much of the black crude pitch pumped out of Olenia’s fields to the west before it was dispersed to the fleet in port or sent south to the invasion forces. Here, at last, was an artery where before the RAF had merely been cutting veins. Slicing this one would actually hurt the Hegemony, and in multiple important areas too. Coordinating with the RAF’s bombing strike, elements of the Jurva Kompani resistance fighters would be taking the fight to the changelings on the ground, both to disrupt the local triple-A and take advantage of the confusion the raid would cause. Coordination with the Olenian rebels would be vital for a complete success, as well as reducing losses in the air.
The tradeoff, of course, was quite possibly the longest ranging bombing mission in history. A flight from the Rainy Lowlands to the San Palomino Desert to now cast out like a stone over the Lunar Ocean, and they needed all the fuel they had to run the gauntlet and make it back. If it wasn’t the furthest in history, it had to be damn close.
Paige grunted as she turned away from the porthole, stepping to Eventide’s curtain and moving inside. As No. 83’s former navigator as well as bombardier, her experience allowed her to assist the thestral in keeping track of their flight. And they needed to really be on the money here.
The plane shuddered, and Flying Officer Eventide glanced up, both to keep track of the plane and glancing over to see Paige stepping up. The Lancaster wasn’t exactly a spacious craft to begin with, so the tiny curtained area got crowded with the two of them. Nodding, Eventide’s wings fluttered only a moment as her obvious anxiety wanted her to instinctively flare, but she got the urge under control and laid the bat-like appendages flat against her back once more. Paige merely settled in next to her, double checking their reported coordinates and the map. As expected, they were over the open ocean. Endless miles of deep blue sea.
“What if a destroyer sees us?” Eventide finally asked, quiet and muffled behind her mask. “Or a cruiser? Or even a battleship?”
“Battleships?” Paige did her best to scoff in dismissal, though the confidence she felt was only a fraction of what she faked. “All the bug battlewagons are down south, trying to break out into the Celestial.”
It was still a valid concern. While destroyers and light cruisers were a fleet’s eyes and ears, battleships in the modern day were encrusted with anti-air guns to keep aircraft at bay. It was quickly becoming evident that land-based bombers and carrier craft were becoming effective tools in fighting battleships, but for the time being there were far more battleships than carriers in the world. Who knew where that arms race would go?
“And anyway, White Castle can climb to 21,000 feet. We can essentially outrange any anti-air guns, or carrier planes.”
What Paige didn’t want to admit was that, if they were forced that high their bombs were rendered useless. Nothing could fall from that height with any degree of accuracy, and if they were discovered this early, Luftwaffe patrols would force them to remain that high, or else descend to expose themselves. If they were found out this early, Operation Black Harvest might well be scrubbed before they even lay eyes on the target.
“It’ll be okay. We just set a few buildings on fire, give the bugs a black bloody eye and fly away laughing. We get surprise on them, it’s all said and done,” Paige finished her pep talk, patting Eventide on the back. The impact was dulled severely by their insulated jackets and covered hooves, but the younger thestral knew what the pegasus was trying to do, and nodded in return. “The Colonel himself came up with this plan, and he hasn’t set us wrong yet.”
“Thanks Sarge…er, Ma’am,” Eventide replied. Paige didn’t think much of the slip. Her promotion was extremely recent, after all. They’d all have to get used to the concept. Eventide looked like she was about to turn back to her maps and calculations when she turned back. “You’ve been doing this a while, huh?”
A little taken aback, Paige shrugged.
“Eh? I dunno, pretpostavljam? This war and the Crystal War. Why?”
“It’s just…” Eventide shifted, and Paige was struck by how awkward and timid the thestral mare (closer to a filly, really) was acting now. “You’re always so calm. So in control. You focus down on that bombsight and…you and Ace always have things handled. Static lets it all wash off her back. I just…kinda wish I could be like that.”
A little warm spot grew under Paige’s heart, and she smiled under her mask, despite knowing Dusky Eventide couldn’t see it. She reached over and tapped the rank badge of Flying Officer on Eventide’s sleeve.
“Look at this; the fact you’re wearing this, here, up in this plane right now Dragi, means you already have courage leaps and bounds above a lot of ponies. Don’t sell yourself short.”
Eventide paused, as if considering her words before tilting her head to one side in curiosity.
“What does that mean? Dragi? I hear you use it from time to time.”
“Dragi. It’s uh…darling, or sweetheart. You and Static, you’re like sisters to me, y’know? Obitelj; family.” She paused before sighing a little. “I’ve been far from home for years now. My family is scattered. My parents forced to become refugees, my brother out on the other side of the world. My…Cyril is in the middle of that Other War.”
That’s what it had become to most Equestrians. If it wasn’t the Griffin War, it was the Other War. Just as big and violent and destructive as this apocalyptic fight many were already calling the Great War. She wondered if history books would link the two together, despite starting on separate continents.
“You okay, Ma’am?” asked Eventide, and Paige snapped out of her reverie again to nod once more in reassurance.
“Don’t worry about it, Kid. I’m supposed to be the one here for you. Now…let’s get a bearing check, shall we?”
Four hours Later…
”All callsigns, this is Hammer Actual. Swift Flight reports coastal sighting. I repeat, Swift Flight reports the coast!”
Paige’s head snapped up. She wasn’t sure when she’d dozed off (she hadn’t fallen asleep, not really), but with that call over the radio she was right back into activity. In but a heartbeat, she had slipped back up into the bombardier station, giving her instruments a swift check, tapping the air bottle attached via hose to her mask. Below her, of course, one could only see slate-gray sea as far as the eye could witness. Even this far north, ice floes weren’t common this time of year. Not until you ventured into the areas of the north that seemed locked into perpetual winter regardless of season. It looked little different to the ocean she’d seen in Fillydelphia or Manehatten. Perhaps the Celestial had more blue, now she thought of it.
“Dear Cyril,” she muttered as her mind began calculating distance and bearing. “I have now officially traveled to the edge of the world.”
Not technically true, as she’d yet to visit Zebrica. But to the north was Changelingia, to the west Olenia and beyond that nothing but the endless tracts of the Panthalassic, the World Ocean. She had certainly gone further than anyone else she knew, Cyril and her parents included. To a filly from Rijekograd, this was the place where one began sketching in warning pictures and ‘HERE BE DRAGONS’. Perhaps she was being a little dramatic in her own thoughts.
It wasn’t long after before she finally saw the coastline. The wings weren’t going in a straight line of course. Following the shore for as short as possible was the best way to coordinate towards Vaverfront, but it was also the most dangerous. All it took now was a single fisherstag or townsperson with a telephone to spread the word; big fuckoff attack wave of Equestrian aircraft, coming towards the most likely target in the area.
Paige gulped as the thought entered her mind. From the ground, she had the most exposed position to ground fire. All it would take was one flak shell on course to gut the plane’s belly and turn her into paste. She didn’t know why it bothered her so much now. On other flights, she was just as scared and apprehensive in her position as this one. Others, she hardly felt a thing as she narrowed in on her focus. On a whim, she glanced over her shoulder at the small canvas bag, tucked away behind her. Her station had precious little in the way of available space, but there the bag always rested. Her lucky charm, as it were. As much a way to stay calm as touching Cyril’s medal inside her pocket or reciting formulae in her head. A way to stay sane, really.
“Standby, we’re ascending,” came Ace’s voice on the intercom, and as he said it she felt White Castle’s nose tip back, the thrum of the engine turning to a throaty roar as the frame rattled all about the crew. Gravity and momentum threatened to pull them out of their restraints, and she felt the belts cut into her padded jacket as she grit her teeth, wings twitching as they instinctively tried to flare out to catch the wind. For several long seconds, her view was obscured by the clouds they tipped up into, as this region had been a bit overcast and was plagued by fogbanks. Then the bomber broke through, and it was like they had emerged into a different world of bright uplands, the sun playing off the clouds below to make it all appear to shine even more vibrantly. Paige always loved this part of the flight, that calm moment where the Lancaster broke through to heights that no creature could reach unaided by machine or magic. Even geese and other birds shied away from these heights. But more practically, it also meant that flak emplacements and regular fighters couldn’t reach them here, or at least were so impotent as to be made useless. Perhaps the powerful engines of the newer Sv.410 heavy fighters could find them here, but they were still rolling out, and all intelligence said they were being focused in Central Equestria. If any were here, they were few and far between.
So Paige relaxed as the White Castle leveled out, enjoying the brief spectacle while the peace lasted. Her sisters broke the cloud layer around them, appearing like flying fish leaping from the surf. Many of them trailed lingering bits of cloud and moisture, almost appearing to carve their path through the sky. A dozen, two, four, then a hundred at least. From where she sat, she knew she couldn’t see the entire air fleet, but what she could was an awe inspiring sight. Stretched out in all directions she could see, the Royal Air Force proved Equestria wasn’t near ready to bow out of the fight. It was enough to spark a surge of pride in her. If only she possessed Cyril’s skill as an artist. This was a sight worth capturing for the future.
Inevitably, however, they began to dip again. The fleet began their descent back into the clouds, back towards the ground and their targets. White Castle eventually joined them, skimming the cloud layer before being swallowed up. The effect didn’t last long, as while Ace leveled out the bomber still broke from the cloud bank. Harsh winds, stronger and less constrained than lower altitudes, buffeted the plane and reminded them all of just where they were. All in all, they were still much higher than where they’d cruised across the Lunar Sea, and as the clouds peeled away she could see their target so far down below.
Vaverfront sat deep in the body of water known as Luna Bay. With the coastline on their right to the southeast and the inlet of the harborfront ahead, it struck her that the city almost seemed hemmed in as they came at it overland. Caught against the water like a big beast about to get skewered by hunters. Spidery nets of roads and dark tendrils of steel railroads threaded the hills around her, and the smoke and steam of industry curled skywards from a thousand stacks. On the far side, the harbor tended to ships that from this height looked like nothing more than the pieces one might move on a gameboard, dozens of them moving in and out of the port. Curiously, Vaverfront looked like it shared a lot of architecture with Equestrian cities, though she was too high to make out fine detail. She had seen what changeling inspired buildings looked like in Vanhoover and Acornage, and there was very little to be spotted from here. Then again, a lot of buildings looked the same from several thousand feet above.
The radio clicked and squealed with white noise and static.
”All callsigns, this is Hammer Actual. You all know who I am. And I know who you all are. The time is now. We’re ready, and I know you have what it takes. Equestria’s been on the backfoot for too long in this war. High time to give Chrissy a bloody nose. And a bloody nightmare to go with it, I say! Stick to your training, trust your instruments, trust your crews. Treat this just like any other flight we’ve done, and you’ll come out the other side towards home! Now, onwards ponies! To the attack! For Princesses and Country!”
Even as the cheers rang out across the plane, Paige knew at least a bit of those words were false. Even if things went perfectly here, even if the defenses were light and reduced further by the resistance, even if the Luftwaffe couldn’t catch them, not all of them were going home.
But all in all, it -did- feel damn good to be on the attack for once.
“Okay, we’re going in,” said Ace as he gently tilted the stick, bringing them in on their attack vector towards the city. From Paige’s position, she watched the dozens of forms in front of them do the same, listened as White Castle’s engines began droning. As predicted, puffs of black smoke began popping, but they were sporadic, almost random. It wasn’t the thickest barrage she’d ever seen, and many of the shells exploded too far below. This air raid wasn’t a coincidence. Olenian resistance fighters had timed several strikes at this time to take out the more lethal guns and crews, leaving behind little that might actually threaten the air fleet. The gun crews left below were likely panicking, ill-coordinated and not possessing the range to harm the Lancs at this altitude. For accuracy’s sake they would have to willingly enter that danger zone, but only on the final approach. For the majority of this flight, Equestrian engineering genius made a mockery of defensive guns. Even the famed 88mm cannon would have trouble catching them up here. She paused, observing the horizon and contemplating if she would need to climb into the nose gun position. If she waited too long, they might get caught at a bad time. So far, no quick reaction fighters rose to challenge them. Could they have actually caught the window at the right time?
Dots rained from the bellies of the bombers ahead, descending towards the ground. The frontrunners had let go of their payloads, plastering targets down below. Once more, she ran through the list of targets in her head. Priority was to be laid on the refinery itself, the military fuel storage facilities, the rail center and if possible any warships in the harbor or port oil reserves. After that, it was fair game on major roads, military storage centers and government centers. While the main goal was robbing the changelings of their precious fuel, the RAF was looking to make Vaverfront as useless to the ‘lings as possible for as long as possible. That meant they were here not just as a surgical tool, but as a smashing instrument of blunt destruction, the ruin of careful logistics. Across the ground, fire billowed and bloomed. She bit her lip under the mask. Plenty of those hit the refinery or the rail center as intended. But quite a few were off target, their sticks dropped too far from any viable military goal. Due to their varied targets, some bombers held the typical “Cookie” blast bomb, a 4,000 pound drum coupled with a dozen incendiary bomb containers, each of those which held 236 bomblets. Others held what had come to simply be known as the “Abnormal” load, a brace of 14 medium bombs, each of which weighed half a ton. Paired off each other, these differing payloads were supposed to amplify the destruction of the other and cover all bases when it came to destroying the buildings below. But dropping a full Cookie load onto a block of worker houses did nobody any good. Wasteful, both of lives and ordnance.
The second wave fared much as the first. Several bombers veered to cover targets that didn’t quite look as messed up as they should be, while others tracked off to cover other targets. Already, the refinery was a blazing mess, black smoke billowing into the sky like blood gushing from an open wound. The same could be said for the fuel storage depots, and the rail station had certainly been roughed up. But some off target loads aside, they had only hit the primary targets. And despite what she saw, Paige knew it took more than that to cripple a structure for good, especially well-built bombproofs. As she watched, one of the Lancs dipped to move to attack position, only to suffer an unlucky shot as a flak round tore through their number two engine, setting the wing alight. With the force currently placed on the craft, all it took was another shot striking the wing again to completely shear it away. In morbid fascination and horror, she watched as the bomber seemed to crumple and fold in on itself in slow motion, pinwheeling around before her payload began going off in midair. When the flaming craft finally met earth below, it was in a hundred pieces that immediately began spreading the fire to surrounding buildings.
“Okay, we’re up! Get your sights on, Turner!”
With a start but sliding back into the practiced smoothness of a veteran bombardier, Paige eased herself behind the bombsights. Truth be told, the Mk. 9 Course-Setting Bombsight or CSBS was a basic thing. A design twenty years old, it consisted of a series of wires she needed to adjust herself on the fly. One wrong twitch, and she’d miss entirely. She was used to using the sight by now, but the rumors she’d heard of the Zeiss optics the changelings used or those of what the hippogriffs were testing across the sea had made her painfully aware of how comparatively primitive this thing was. Regardless, her hooves moved with practiced familiarity, making adjustments where she could. The release button sat nearby, so tempting and inviting that she had to restrain herself from simply reaching over and slapping it as soon as she was sure they were over hostile buildings.
White Castle tilted a bit more. It wasn’t a proper dive per se, not like what the changeling Stukas pulled off with their hair-raising stunts blaring away with horns attached to their engines. But going on a much shallower track gave the bomber much needed speed to reach the target and helped compensate once the payload was away. They’d played this out dozens of times before, her and Ace. It was as natural to them as breathing.
Her bombsight found the black, billowing clouds pouring out of the trainyard. Ace had bit the bullet, and decided their primary needed some extra assurance towards its destruction, rather than go haring off to a secondary and potentially leave their mission unfulfilled. If trains couldn’t run, whatever reserves the deer had hidden away for their masters couldn’t move either. She only waited until the sights settled over the main switch house before she smacked a hoof down on the release.
“Bombs away! Say again, bombs away!”
The White Castle lurched, as they all knew it would, the dozen bomb canisters and Cookie bomb falling like a sinister kind of rain. She abruptly began climbing, irregardless of her previous direction, and as always Paige tried to watch as long as possible. And, as always, she never did see if the payload she dropped hit the target or did any good at all.
Ace recovered well, as he always did. The bomber’s nose was drawn down steadily again to level out before the ascent began once more, heading for the cloud cover again eastwards towards the rally point. Now they were seven tons lighter, the Lancasters were much more fuel efficient, and thus at less risk at lower altitudes. Their job now was to hightail it towards a set of grid coordinates, meet back up with their wing and get ready for the long flight home, praying with hooves crossed that the mission planners had gotten the estimates for their modifications right and they all didn’t start plummeting out of the sky before the Beaufighters covered them back towards their airbase.
As Paige clambered up into the nose turret, she could hear Static on the intercom.
“Flight Lead, this is Hammer 3-6, payload delivered, heading home now.”
She didn’t dare rattle off their coordinates or bearing. This deep in enemy territory, the Luftwaffe had to be awake now and they’d be scanning the radio waves like mad. If there was one place VOPS appeared lacking, it was their radio decryption efforts. It was a small victory but Equestria needed something to seek refuge in, after all. As the air fleet pulled out from the attack, practically jetting east with their much lighter frames, they formed up on a path to go over Seaddle and loop around past the occupied city of Vanhoover. With no escort and dwindling fuel reserves it was still extremely hazardous to get even this close to such a concentration of Luftwaffe fighters, but the Colonel believed the best way to survive was to take refuge in audacity. Planes returning and empty, closer to friendly territory, generally grabbed less attention from enemy interceptors, though this rule was not only not constant, it was violently broken regularly. The first two waves were already ahead of them, clustered up closer now. Behind them, framed by the setting sun, more and more Lancs were rejoining the fleet, trailing out like a strand of clouds themselves.
“Best settle in,” Ace warned them all on the intercom. “Just as long to get back as it was to get here.”
“Seventeen bloody hours’ flight for a half hour of action? Damn, sir. That’s not a fair trade at all,” Static quipped from the radio seat, scribbling down the regular signals traffic as she kept an ear pressed to her headset.
“You want a fair trade, go join the army. Five minute walk from Canterlot and its days of ‘action’ after that,” Maverick shot back. Paige chuckled shortly with the others at the grim humor. Not quite factual, but accurate in spirit. Something had certainly lit a fire under the bugs, and they were pressing Canterlot pretty hard again. Luna Nova was little more than a charred ruin, Bitterberry was on the verge of falling and Bales hadn’t stopped handing out ass kicking for weeks. Which left Cloudsdale and Ponyville to keep the capital from being surrounded and about as encircled as an army could get against a city edged up against the mountains.
“Alright, cut the chatter. We had a good one today, make no mistake. Chrissy won’t forget this, no doubt. Time to settle in for a long ride.”
Seventeen minutes later
Paige had been moving from the bomb-aiming station to the nose turret, now that her job of dropping the payload was done. As she was mid-transit, however, the plane gave an odd shudder. She paused, listening carefully as she considered it, and that almost certainly saved her life. In the middle of Ace making a statement, a line of holes suddenly appeared in the nose of the plane just a hoofswidth from her head, an almighty clatter and the roar of engines deafening her ears. Instinctively she ducked back, then found herself dumped unceremoniously back into her station as White Castle nosed down hard, machinery screaming in torture. Paige herself dropped onto the instruments, shrieking in pain as hard angles and shafts of metal stabbed into her back and wings, only saved from major injury by the padding of her jacket. Gasping in agony, she managed to roll off before fumbling for a hoofhold. She needed to get out and secure, immediately.
The scene she emerged into wasn’t much better. As she flopped out of the bomb-aimer’s station to the main compartment, her first impression was of shrieking wind, screaming engines and red everywhere. As she managed to struggle her goggles down over her eyes, Paige finally stood witness to the tragedy unfolding before her.
“Sveto sranje…”
Holes the size of a hoof pockmarked the cabin, rending apart layered aluminum and interior paneling. The whistling of the wind was no longer important, as the windshield itself had a massive chunk of its glass missing, through which the air was instead roaring. Explained why she could hear the engines holler so. As for the red, that likely had something to do with the fact that Maverick, father and husband, jokingly referring to them all as his foals, carefully tending to White Castle with the ground crew, was missing his head. Slumped over in his restraints, the blood streaming from his shredded neck in a thin ribbon, the carnage plastered across the cabin had to be him.
“Holy shit…” Paige mumbled in Equish this time, trying not to slip in blood and brain matter as she fumbled forward, eyes switching between the jagged metal of the glass and metal and the ragged, bloody flapping flesh that constituted what was left of Maverick’s neck. As she stepped around through the confined space, she spotted Ace on the cabin deck, hissing as she spotted the red pumping out of his own neck. Surprisingly, Eventide was crouched next to the pilot, fumbling out a bandage as she tried to keep pressure on Ace’s wounded.
In an instant, Paige skittered over to join her, grabbing the bandage and quickly tugging the dressing out. Eventide glanced up in relief before she put both hooves on Ace’s neck.
“Bloody bug,” the stallion spat, and his voice sounded wet and thick. “Came up from below, couldn’t have stung us from more than fifty yards. Stupid mistake, stupid!”
“Well, sir. All runs of good luck have to end eventually,” Paige said, laughing shakily even as she applied the gauze and turned the wrapping, her hoof padding stained red with her friend’s blood. “We’ve gone this whole war without getting shot down, and you wait until we’re deep in the ass end of enemy territory before you let us get hit?”
Ace actually chuckled at that point, grunting and grimacing in pain before he managed to bite out a response.
“You know me…gotta make sure it's all done right.”
White Castle shuddered again, and Paige heard the hammering of more rounds smacking into her sides as another Luftwaffe fighter, perhaps even the same one, strafed the helpless bomber. Chattering came from the rear of the craft, signifying at least one of the Meat Heads was still alive. Abruptly, she became aware of Static’s voice on the line, brisk but firm, steady if not completely calm.
”Mayday, mayday, mayday! This is Hammer 2-6, we’ve been stung by fast-movers! Enemy fighters have killed our engineer and our pilot is down, how copy over?”
Paige didn’t hear the response. The intercom and radio must have been damaged, but at least the red unicorn had the shortwave, for she was still speaking to whoever had radioed back. Paige shut the noise out for the time being, peering out the massive hole rent in the glass that had protected them all until this very moment, when a cannon shell had not so gracefully rent the cockpit into a charnel house. They were falling. Not very quickly, but still in a shallow dive. As she watched the streaking ground growing larger in her vision, a flash of silver soared by below her, the glow of weapons flaring. Changeling fighters were still prowling, like sharks attacking a pod of whales. And the raiding group was still outside the range where escorts could take them up again.
A bit of Maverick’s blood spattered onto her goggles from a bit of errant wind and she absently tried to wipe it from the lenses, only succeeding in smearing the offending drop. Maverick's death was a nasty turn. He’d been a good engineer, and had taken up the mantle of ‘team dad’. He liked working with the ground crew, and had also helped Paige put together the paper she had sent in. She was going to miss him, and she kept glancing over at the rent space where his head used to be, red flesh and white bone protruding in a shattered, gory spectacle that had reduced a feeling, sentient creature into little more than a pile of meat. She’d seen corpses before, but most crew that died on the plane did so away from her, where she didn’t have to keep staring at the aftermath and caught in her thoughts. They usually weren’t plastered against her goggles or smeared over her hooves.
Why couldn’t she look away? She felt a shudder rock her frame that had nothing to do with the airframe's distress, and suddenly felt sick.
“PAIGE!”
Abruptly, a weight collided with her face at high speed and force, almost knocking her mask off. Paige stumbled into the paneling behind her, hooves raised as she prepared to fight off whoever or whatever had just struck her without warning. But there was Static, risen from her station and glaring at Paige furiously from behind her own goggles. Eventide, still kneeling by Ace, gawped on in astonishment, glancing back and forth between the two crewmares.
“Snap out of it!” Static snapped, gesturing at Maverick’s body right next to her. “He’s gone! Nothing more you can do for him, but we’re all gonna die if you don’t get us out of here! You’re the only one with Pilot Fam, you’re the only one who knows what to do!”
It was true, Paige realized. Anticipating just such an occasion as this, Ace had insisted Paige get familiarized with the basics of aircraft operation, though it was a long way from pilot training. She wasn’t ready for flight school yet, but with him wounded and Maverick dead, she was the only one who could keep them from dying in this moment.
’From VOPS agents and our own aerial recon, we predict that the Royal Air Force possesses around 500 fighters, 200 heavy fighters, 280 tactical bombers, 165 heavy bombers and 90 transport aircraft, for an estimated total strength of 1,235 combat aircraft. Our own Luftwaffe has, after considerable increases in production quotas and incentives to corporate factories, an estimated strength of around 600 fighter craft, 260 heavy fighters, 300 tactical bombers, 900 dive bombers, 88 heavy bombers and 200 transport aircraft for an estimated total strength of around 2,260 combat aircraft. Despite initial hopes, the material and pilots absorbed from our Protectorates have both been poor, meaning Changelingia will have to carry the air war for the majority of Alicorn Sunset. Much of our air fleet is newer, while Equestrian aircraft are typically outdated. However, the initial numbers cannot be taken at face value, as most of our inventory is flying in active service, while the Royal Air Force has considerable stocks of aircraft in reserve, decommissioned after the end of the Crystal War in 1008. Like much of the Equestrian arsenal, we hold our initial overwhelming advantage, but must keep in mind the potential we face if the ponies were allowed to get their industry on a true war footing, or receive help from outside nations. Furthermore, our insufficient fleet of heavy bombers and outdated nature of what we do have raises many concerns. Heavy bombers are vital for destroying hardened centers of military resistance and industry and without them the Luftwaffe cannot guarantee lasting damage to said targets. Recommend we refresh and renew contracts with Fagus Vraksis Aeronautics, as they are the highest rated heavy lift aircraft manufacturing firm in Changelingia. If sufficient time and funding cannot be given to update and expand the strategic bomber fleet, recommend we purchase heavy bomber craft from the Griffonian Empire, such as the B-07 Elster. The heavy bomber fleet aside, we can assure Her Highness that our current arsenal of aircraft are all superior to all known models of Equestrian contemporaries in almost every conceivable field. While this report will list tests run and more specific areas of comparison, to take an example our primary mainline fighter the Sv. 109 is faster, climbs higher, is better protected than, turns tighter and is more heavily armed than the Equestrian mainliner the Hurricane. Even against their vaunted Spitfires which are coming to main service in greater (though still small) numbers our 109s are still superior and the delay gives us more time to widen that gap. Additional, though sparse, intel reports that colonial contributions from a holding as small as New Mareland state that their limited population and industry as well as distance will prove little direct threat. I have full confidence that the U-boat campaign will rob them of what little contributions they will make.
In conclusion, this report will inform Her Highness on all aspects of the Royal Luftwaffe and our recommendations for strategy in the air war in relation to Alicorn Sunset going forward on the proposed timetable.
I am forever at Her Service,
Luftgeneral-Major Mantis, Luftwaffe Ministry of Acquisitions August 9th, 1010’
Excerpt recovered from report archives, noted to be discarded and never read by Queen Chrysalis
August 10th, 1012 44km northeast of Hegemony Occupied Vanhoover No. 2 (Bombing) Group, Number 99 “Bloody Nightmares” Squadron Operation Black Harvest 17 hours, 5 minutes since launch
All in all, he had many reasons to be proud. The plan had worked, after all. Vaverfront’s industrial center was in ruins, the Jurvi Kompani running amok in the streets. One Lancaster even managed to drop its payload on a destroyer attempting to escape the harbor. They’d have to wait on S.M.I.L.E. agents and RAF aerial reconnaissance flying out of Yakyakistan to get a fuller picture on the full damage they’d done here, but from what the rear elements had reported it was looking positive. Well done, mission successful. Now, all Group Captain Fancy Pants, RAF Reservist and current leader of Hammer Lead Flight had to do was get them all back home.
In that, he felt his planning had not gone as well as it could have. Much of the assumption of the Luftwaffe garrison at Vanhoover had hinged on it being far behind the lines, in territory the Hegemony had largely secured. Given their lack of heavy craft, Vanhoover was a poor choice to position large numbers of craft. Intel had long pointed to Marechester and Las Pegasus being the Luftwaffe’s primary airfields of focus for the push towards Canterlot and for securing the southern flank, respectively. The idea that Vanhoover would be weakly guarded from the air had been, he was willing to admit, an assumption based more on needing it to be true than anything else.
It was clear that he had been wrong in that respect.
The ball turrets hammered away, sending streams of tracers in all directions. Even over the drone of the engines and the gunfire, he could hear the hundreds if not thousands of brass shell casings collecting up and clattering off the aluminum plating. His custom Command Lancaster had never been fitted with bombs, its payload replaced instead by far more powerful radio equipment so as to remain in command and control, and another surprise; a retro-fitted Airborne Interception Mk. IV radar set. The set itself wasn’t so uncommon. Beaufighters and Blenheims were being fitted with the sets in ever greater numbers to assist in the air fight over Cloudsdale, Canterlot, Fillydelphia, Bales and the Crystal City. Paired with groundside radar, they were helping to compensate the RAF for many of their technological shortcomings, especially when fighting at night. If there was one place Equestria retained parity with the changelings on, it was certainly the air war.
As the Fleur du Ciel rocked again, his radio operator called out from the ad hoc station rigged in the belly.
“They’re all over us, Colonel,” said his second in command, Wing Commander Cirrus Strider. While Pants’ official rank was ‘Group Captain’ it's similar role and the constancy with which the RAF had to interact with the Royal Army led to most referring to him as ‘colonel’. He didn’t mind it, as the title certainly sounded like it had far more weight to it than ‘group captain’. “I don’t think the old girl’s going to stay together.”
To emphasize the pegasus mare’s words, the craft shuddered once more, a rain of shell impacts lacing her sides. A scream came from one of the ball turrets, and the guns fell silent. The clattering of hoofbeats and resumption of fire told that the navigator had abandoned their station to keep firing. From the shuddering in the airframe and clatter from the engines, Pants was certain they wouldn’t need a map fairly soon.
“It’s alright, Strider. We all knew there was a risk.”
Risk, certainly. But it sounded like the enemy had found and singled out his command craft and were now bearing down on him like a Diamond dog on a deposit of gold. The Fleur du Ciel was only so armored and only had so many crew aboard. Already, the flight engineer had stated they’d taken too much damage to the engines to make it back. They’d have to evacuate the craft any second now. Parachutes were being passed around, though the crew would hold their stations until the last second. Pants wanted to make sure he had everything possible to not only disrupt the enemy but potentially save all aboard. TheFleur du Ciel had ascended as much as she could to allow them to reach nearby craft when they bailed out, and the pegasi aboard would help those without wings or powerful magic. Though that task was getting less complicated by the moment. It was a tough decision, for the moment they stepped out there was no second chance. Dangerous as it was inside the crippled bomber, they were at least protected here.
Another turret gunner died, her cry low and short on the intercom. And that’s when Pants decided now was the time. He turned to Strider, giving a single, sharp nod.
“There seems to be something wrong with our bloody plane. Time to bail out.”
In a moment, Strider was howling orders over the intercom, crewponies rising from their stations and disconnecting from the seats, the air hoses, the intercom. With parachutes already given out, they lined up by the side door, preparing to abandon their faithful craft. The last one to leave her station was the pilot, coaxing every spare yard of altitude out of the bomber before she gave up on them. They had to get higher, for none of their sister planes could take all of the crew, there simply wasn’t enough room. Instead, they’d have to split between three other Lancasters and hope for the best.
Colonel Pants went last, waiting for the pilot who had put her life on the line for them. She was his pegasus ride, and when they flung themselves out he used as much of his magic as he could to assist her. It was madness and chaos as they became victims of the slipstream. Lancasters peeled past, some smoking, some tilting down towards the ground, some twisting out of formation as they tried to both evade and avoid hitting their comrades at the same time. Almost all of them had their turrets lit up, machine gun and autocannon tracers filling the world around them with light, noise and lethal projectiles. An Sv.109 shot past, engines screaming. A Lancaster shifted out of formation, roaring by like a freight train.
Finally, they angled towards one of the bombers. There was no capability to talk in all the chaos as the air fleet fought for its life around them, sprinting as far from Vanhoover as they could. But Pants could see one that, while smoking from damage with a ruptured cockpit, was still going strong, angling towards the center of the formation. They would be in a perfect position to board her. The pilot nodded, her wings flapping furiously as they descended towards the bomber. They couldn’t grab her, but Fancy Pants’ unicorn magic would give them the time to cling on and get in through the hatch.
It was still a close thing. At the last minute, even though he had a magic field prepared and their target would damn near collide with them, an errant gust twisted the pair around, nearly blasting them off course. The magic he threw out almost didn’t reach, but he luckily managed to grip the bomber’s paneling. Given that the plane was too heavy for him to move and going too fast, the magic reacted in the next logical way; it pulled them in. The two slammed against the aluminum hide, and Pants got a last look at the artwork painted just under the ruptured cockpit; the Princess’ Castle in Canterlot, surrounded by a pink circle to represent the magical shield it always bore, the words White Castle in elaborate letters below the picture. The clean white was stained and smeared with black grease and debris, but it had clearly been lovingly applied. He felt a pang of regret strike his soul that he forced himself to banish away.
Later, he told himself. There would be time later, when the lost are counted and measured against what they gained here. He’d have time to hate himself later.
Then, without realizing it, the two were hauled into the aircraft.
Inside, he realized it wasn’t much better than out. Two corpses had been dragged into the main passage, the closest the bomber had to open space as possible. One stallion was missing his head, blood smeared across the paneling. The other looked asleep if not for the massive hole in his torso. Blood puddled the other way, leading back towards the tail.
The mare who had pulled them in was also a unicorn, her red face obscured by her mask. She leaned in as close as possible to them both, and still had to yell to be heard.
“Welcome aboard White Castle, sir! Flight Lieutenant Sweet Static! We’d love to have you, and we’ll be certain to have the snacks and drinks wheeled in, though as you can see we’ve a slight bug problem, sir!”
Pants nodded as the aircraft shuddered again. Under the circumstances, military courtesy and formality was as distant a second as the ground below them.
“What can we do to help, Leftenant?”
Static paused before gesturing towards the tail of their craft.
“One of our Meat Heads bought it, so the rear 20s are dead right now!”
She then pointed to the nose.
“And our pilot is injured, so we’ve got the nose gunner behind the stick. Be real nice if you could go help her out!”
Without a word, Pants pushed his former pilot towards the tail, clambering towards the cockpit. He had been part of the project to design these planes, and if he didn’t know her by every rivet and panel he at least knew her functions, operations and capabilities. He’d been the one to order the modifications for this aerial fleet, moving up his “Black Cat” project to recommend beefing up some of the defensive armaments (hence why these Lancs had twin 20mm autocannons in the tail and dorsal turrets instead of the .303 Nickers guns the rest did) and if there was one thing he could help with, it was flying the plane.
The sight of the cockpit gave him pause. A good portion of the paneling was drenched in dried blood, bullet holes the size of a hoof in all directions. The ruptured windshield screamed in front of him, the inside view of the devastation he’d spotted from the exterior. Seated in the engineer’s station was another body, a stallion he’d taken to be dead before the head lolled back, allowing him to see the barely conscious, heavily bandaged and bloodied face. A hoof was shakily raised, not quite meeting the brow.
“G-group Captain. Welcome ab-board, sir.”
Then the hoof went slack, and the head lolled forward.
In the pilot’s seat next to him, the mare behind the stick cursed and corrected her course jerkily, trying her best to keep in formation and level.
“Ace? Ace, c’mon I need you in the game! Kvragu, wake up you useless blueblood prick!”
She turned, thumping the stallion across the chest to no response. Catching sight of Fancy Pants there, a visible frown creased her face.
“Yes, what is it? Who are you? Where did you come from?”
“Group Captain Pants, at your service Leftenant. I’m here to help.”
If she was surprised by his rank and who he was, she hid it very well. The only visible sign of her shock was a slight widening of the eyes behind her goggles.
“Well, sir. Think you can work a nose gun?”
Pants shrugged, as if he was pondering the different kind of drink to serve at a formal function.
“I suppose I can manage well enough.”
The mare jerked her head without another word, and he pushed onwards, clambering into the nose segment to take up the twin Nickers guns.
Zerstörergeschwader 1 “Fliegender Zirkus”, Gruppen 1
The Sv. 410 Hornisse was an extremely capable aircraft. Compared to the 110 and 210 variants it was based on, it seemed very similar indeed. A heavy two-ling heavy fighter designed primarily to hunt heavy craft and act as fighter bomber on occasion. But Svarm engineers had put their all into the new engines, which were far more powerful than what the 110 (and the far less successful 210) mounted. Faster, with a higher climb, cruising speed and service ceiling. Paired with these engines was a greater bomb capacity thanks to its new lift, allowing the 410 to comfortably slide into the role. There weren’t many of these craft around yet, basically combat prototypes produced to batch size to address the needs of the war. But if the next year of testing proved successful, there was every chance that this lethal model of craft could replace the older 110 and disappointing successors models.
Oberstleutnant “Luftrauser” Kalart loved his plane, the so-called Rot Falke. So-called because he had flaunted Luftwaffe regulations and painted the entire thing red. Not because he wanted to intimidate or proclaim killing intent. It seemed almost every other Queendom ace in the sky thought that way. Pilots like Argostrosi, Hartling, Verkut, all of them adopted dark colors or imitated predators or drew teeth and fearsome eyes on their noses, but Kalart didn’t do that. The exact opposite, in fact. Kalart had always been fascinated by the tales of griffon knights, of the code of chivalry they followed and the amazing feats they performed through history. To him, the bright red was a heraldry, a calling card that the enemy could use to realize he was in the area. It was a challenge to bring them in, not something to scare them away. Of the twenty-four kills he had scored so far, half of them had been fighters who had spotted him and come after him and his squadron. Well, he had put paid to them one after another in a fair fight and showed off his skill, as was his intent. Life was too short, especially for a changeling, and he sought to make the most of it.
The magitek engines blazed away on either side of his craft’s fuselage, occasionally belching blue tinged exhaust from the vent ports. Equestria and Aquileia weren’t the only ones experimenting with such technology. The disconnect from petrol and tapping into the unexpected windfall of crystals that control of the Polarlands and occupying part of the Crystal Empire gave them had encouraged changeling artificers to develop a new solution. They handled smoothly, climbed sharply and accelerated swiftly, things every combat pilot would kill for. His entire squadron was equipped with the Hexe-Hornisse as they had come to refer to the planes, and they had been hoof-picked specifically to test these craft. He had to admit, magitek engines were not only faster and smoother in flight, but also quieter. He wasn’t used to such a lack of sound, and for a time it had been rather disconcerting. He’d gotten used to it, but a part of his mind told the changeling ace that an airplane going this fast shouldn’t be this quiet.
Case in point, he mused as he spotted the bombing fleet in his view, diving down on the Equestrian planes from above. The Rot Falke should have been bellowing its head off in a dive as the engines pulled it down. But instead they merely rose slightly in pitch and that was it. That was another thing. With magitek engines, their aircraft were capable of achieving astounding heights, chasing down heavy bombers that would normally have been protected thanks to altitude. Of course, these bombers were clearly relying more on speed than height, having already dropped their payload and turned for home. He whistled behind his mask. What a sight below. There must have been a hundred, maybe two hundred in this aerial fleet. Not even the Empire with its endless legions could summon such a group in one place out of nowhere. He had to give it to the ponies, they had pulled off quite the coup this time.
He sighed as his gunsights settled over one aircraft. It was such a shame he had to mar such a wondrous achievement. Brave aviators, all of them.
“This is Zirkus Lead,” he radioed to his squadron. “Split up and take them as you see fit. Hunting groups of three, no more. The 109s are already among them, so no friendly fire. Pick your shots carefully. We’re just whale hunting here, nothing more. They’re already empty, so take your time. On my mark; mark!”
At his word Gruppe 1 split, twenty heavy fighters dispersing to begin hunting for their targets. While a good portion of an elite geschwader might seem overkill for bomber interdiction, the orders had apparently come down from Hivesmarschall Synovial himself from his occupation headquarters in Vanhoover. This particular bombing fleet had snuck in a fast one and bombed a good portion of the vital oil processing in Vaverfront. Damage reports were still being put together while the fires were being fought, but the initial word said it was very bad. This talented bombing force needed to be put down, and fast. If not the Hivesmarschall, High Queen Chrysalis would have insisted on it anyway. Kalart had been ready on the strip with his personal Gruppe, so they had gone up to assist the Combat Air Patrol Sv.109s that had taken off from Vanhoover’s airstrip the moment the bombs dropped further north. It was all hooves on deck for this one, though by the time the rest of the geschwader was gathered up and launched this raid would already be back under the umbrella of friendly escort.
No matter, thought Kalart as he made his approach. Like he’d said, these planes were empty. It was little more than spite on the Luftwaffe’s part. And fear of one’s head ending up on a pike, of course.
His weapons were cutting edge as well. While crystal rifles had begun to be adopted by the major world powers at roughly the same time (confusing the issue to the point that no one was sure which design had come first), their understanding was still incomplete. Unreliable, slow-firing, complicated and expensive to produce, crystal powered weaponry was an evolving science as it was hurriedly pushed into the field. Mostly it was only used by elite troops such as Imperial Knights and Stormtroopers, Queen’s Guard, the Equestrian Royal and Coltstream Guard and so forth. But strangely, it had a scale cap. Crystal powered weapons for tanks (known as Spellfire cannons) were disappointing in their lack of performance compared to conventional guns. Anything bigger than an autocannon equivalent simply didn’t work, or at least no one had figured out how to make something that big actually effective and worth the cost. When magitek cannons were scaled up that large it simply took too much arcane energy for too little results. Just like that, dreams of battleships with crystal cannons were put in the garbage bin.
But Spellfire cannons, as it turned out, could be mounted on aircraft. Especially aircraft already powered by magitek.
The biggest issue with arcane guns, Kalart thought as he reached for the trigger, was that all his career he had been trained to fire ballistic weapons. Rate of travel, lead time, bullet drop, all of that. The beam that issued forth from his gunmount followed none of those rules. As he pressed the trigger, the twin Spellfire cannons blasted several rapid fire beams of coherent blue light. These, like infantry sized crystal rifles, instantly crossed the distance between him and his target, raking the bomber with near perfect accuracy. He placed the plane’s engine in his gunsight, he pulled the trigger, the beam shot right where he aimed. It was so simple, it almost took the sport out of the entire delight behind flying. Kalart sighed as he blasted off both the engines on each wing, making sure to only pot the roaring components. As the Lancaster plummeted towards the ground, wings crumpling and on fire, he winced. He’d take it easy on the next one, try to let the crew escape. Brave bold bastards. He couldn’t rob the aerial ring of such grand competitors. But in all honesty the Spellfire cannons made it too easy to destroy his targets. Ironic, really. He suffered from success and hated it.
A detached analysis in his mind told him he had noticed a fair bit more armor plating come off the exterior engines than the interior ones. He keyed the radio, specifically tapping into the CAP’s frequency only.
“Zirkus Lead to Vanhoover Flieger Kommando; I’ve noticed the enemy bombers appear to have thinner plating on their interior engines. We might be looking at craft stripped down to save on weight. Advise your pilots, over and out.”
The Sv. 109s could use the help, he mused. But let his Gruppe learn on their own. They needed to sharpen their observation skills somehow.
A trio of multi-colored Hex-Hornisse craft flew by him in the opposite direction, their own Spellfire cannons blistering as they chased another Lancaster. Unlike his shooting, theirs was still conditioned around ballistic cannons, and the beams went wide. The bomber turned, lumberingly slow, defensive turrets hammering. He smirked behind his mask. A bit more fair, that. Not all of his pilots had gotten their heads around the new guns, and they were really at little risk when the bullets being fired back at them were anemic .303 rounds. Spectacular as infantry ammunition, not so effective against armored aircraft. A bit more fair and a bit more fun.
He lined up on another Lancaster, this one tucking in towards two more of its fellows so their turrets could combine their defensive fire into a rather effective crossfire. As he watched, an Sv.109 reeled away, engine smoking and wings full of holes as the canopy popped. A moment later and the pilot’s parachute unfolded like a daisy. Changelings, being winged creatures, didn’t really -need- parachutes. However, ejecting from a flaming aircraft after just being shot out of the sky was a rather overwhelming experience. It was only natural for even flying creatures to be incapable of keeping the complicated operation of working their wings in mind. Hence, the parachute. Just in case.
Kalart grinned, feeling the exhilaration of the prospect flood through him as Rot Falke trembled, the vibration of its engines rattling through the airframe. The heavy fighter was strangely responsive to his moods, almost like the crystals powering the guns and propellers were able to sense his thoughts. He could almost feel the magitek craft chomping at the bit like he was, Spellfire cannons hot and ready to slash death across the sky. He often flew alone when the geschwader was on the hunt. No copilot, no wingmate. With his red paint job, it made him very noticeable to both friends and enemies. He was less likely to be splashed by friendly fire, and far more likely to draw overconfident enemies down on him. Though, in this instance he was squaring up on the three bombers instead. He’d taken notice of the tracers in the sky, especially when a few of the Sv.109s that were scattered around had taken a few shots and spiraled out of the sky. A few of these Lancasters had upgraded their defensive armaments, perhaps a few guns on all of them.
“Three on one,” he chuckled, feeling the adrenaline spike in his carapace. “And how many of you are packing those lovely 20s?...yes. I think that’s fair.”
And with that, he went in.
The answer to his question, as it turned out, was all of them. As he was approaching from the rear, their tail guns lit up to meet him. All three had twin 20mm autocannons as their chase armaments, lancing the sky with a blizzard of tracers as he bobbed and weaved around, twisting and turning and spinning to avoid the incoming fire. Glorious was the word that came to mind. This was what it meant to fly into battle. The ultimate expression of skill at arms. Leave ground warfare to the poor bloody infantry in their muddy trenches, THIS was possibly the last shred of nobility in the modern age. And now he had found an enemy with a lance to match his own. He reveled in the glory of it all, eyes practically squinted shut as his carapace plates quivered beneath his flight jacket. He flew almost by instinct alone, twisting the Rot Falke where he needed it to go as he saw the shots coming in. The airframe screeched at him, pushed to its limit but the engines, those glorious magical engines practically responded to his intentions the second he had the thought.
He’d been in range since before he’d started this little aerial duel, but he personally made sure to only reach for the trigger when he was within half of Spellfire cannon range, nose practically against the tail gunners’ weapon muzzles, and yet despite the flurry of punchy autocannon fire streaming around him none had harmed him. Scratched his paint yes. Come close to dealing critical damage, sure. But nothing unavoidable. He depressed the trigger. The cannons whined, blasted. A tail turret exploded, showering glass and debris out the rear of the Lancaster. The bomber listed, and he realized his shots must have lanced the craft from aft to fore, killing the crew members at their stations. It fell away, and he felt a stab of regret. Oh well, one down, two to go.
He twisted around to line up on the next one, the defensive fire hammering away and chasing him through the air, and this time he made sure to only put one beam into each engine. Abruptly, a light flickered on his dashboard, warning of weapon overheat. He hummed in surprise. Well, things just became interesting. He dropped again, twisting over until he was inverted. The second bomber was beginning to peel away, one wing rendered useless. Now he was forced to place his shots carefully, he decided to put another qualifier on the third bomber. Narrowing his gaze, twitching occasionally to avoid the incoming shots, he carefully lined up on the sunburst roundel on the wing. A single shot there was superfluous and showy, as a wing could withstand a surprising amount of punishment and still function so long as the plane’s engines were still running.
But for him, it was the perfect bullseye. The equivalent to lining up a shot on the pistol range.
He squeezed a single shot.
The beam lanced out and struck off-center.
He blinked in astonishment. The pilot had juked at the last second, and was now twisting the heavy craft around, trying to shake him. He grinned, not sour at all for the spoiled shot. It was what he was due for showboating, after all.
“Hats off to you, my friend,” he said as he leveled his craft out, ascending to come above the bomber as it attempted to pull away. “I’ll be taking you more seriously now.”
He noticed, now he looked closer, that the bomber below had already taken quite a beating. Shell holes laced her aluminum skin, and the cockpit had clearly already been blown out once today. The defensive turret in the tail looked like it had also soaked up some fire too. A desperate survivor, then. He should have taken them seriously to begin with.
“How disrespectful of me,” he said aloud as he dug at the trigger. “I’ll not toy with you any longer, then.”
Just as he was about to touch the button, the bomber split and multiplied right before his eyes. He blinked furiously, reaching up hurriedly to push the goggles out of the way. No, he hadn’t imagined it. Where once there had been one Lancaster there for him to slaughter now there were six of them, spreading out in all directions and carefully pulling a coordinated formation. How had that happened? Had other bombers flown in to screen the last one? How had they all coordinated so quickly? How were they holding this formation so well now?
Tracers suddenly blasted away at Kalart, filling the sky in a blizzard of fire. He cursed and yanked back on the stick, jamming down the throttle. The nose jerked up as the speed cut down, and he tumbled away to evade, twisting and rolling as he did so.
Paige had no idea what she was doing.
Alright, that wasn’t accurate. Ace had given her a bit of stick time and run through the instruments, panels and gauges in order to take over in case he and Maverick were ever disabled. An avid learner, Paige had done her best to absorb the lessons he had imparted on her during Pilot Fam. Out of a whole two lessons and about an hour where he let her take over bringing the White Castle towards the airfield before he took over again to land.
In her moment of controlled panic, all of that flew out of her brain. It wasn’t ingrained, not set into habit or automatic reaction. And in her moment of panic, she immediately flew back to instinct. As the bolts blasted first one, then two of their formation out of the sky, she ducked, cursing herself too late. Whoever this flier was, if he was good enough to clean their clocks when they had tucked into a protective triangle regardless and kept raking their craft with whatever destructive guns were creating this lightshow (her mind told her they had to be crystal weapons, but could they get that large, mounted on an airplane?), ducking behind the panel only kept her from flying straight.
What to do, she thought. What to do, what to do…she needed an edge. She needed something to help her cheat death. White Castle would not survive another complicated series of evasives, she was practically shearing apart. Aluminum screeched up at her, and she wouldn’t be surprised if rivets started popping. The whole fuselage was covered in cannon holes and while they’d been unexpectedly reinforced from another plane (not the first time it had happened, but hard enough in combat for obvious reasons). She needed something else to help her survive.
“What would you do, Cyril?” she muttered, eyes flickering desperately over the instruments. Dammit, she wasn’t trained for this! She pushed buttons to erase city blocks and shot at moving targets. He’d think of something to get them out of this, she knew he would. Was this the uncertainty he faced that she just didn’t? Her fate in combat was usually largely out of her hooves, in control of others. For the past year, it had been Ace. Before that, the pilot of her Halifax in the Crystal War. But Cyril had always had something to do. He’d been a gunner before they gave him a commission, and after that he had commanded an entire tank platoon. He likely had to make a dozen decisions a minute. But while she thought herself the intellectual, after she pushed that button she could largely turn her brain off, become detached from the situation even when they were in mortal peril.
She couldn’t detach from this, not now. And so, her brain rationalized, she needed to think instead of just act; what would she do? If usual evasion tactics were insufficient, perhaps it was time to do something else. But what other option was there? Just letting the tail gunner take down the Hornisse wasn’t a choice, he was hunting them for sport here. Bailing out over enemy territory was absolutely an option of last resort. The stories of Hegemony POW camps were told all throughout watering holes in Equestria, and apparently the bugs saved their worst for pilots above all else. So what option did she have left?
Her mind locked suddenly on the one thing she possibly had left. She couldn’t grab it from here, so she let go of the stick, popped her harness and scrambled into her former station. Group Captain Pants was distracted with the guns, firing off tight and controlled bursts into the sky around them at buzzing 109s. She grabbed the bag that held her lucky charm, scrambling back as she yanked it open. Inside sat the crystal, her crystal. The culmination of years’ worth of work.
“Static!” she hollered, shouldering back up into her seat, seizing the stick once more. “Static! Dammit Static, get up here!”
Clearly annoyed beyond relief and aggravated by the situation, Static stumbled towards the cockpit, just as Paige twisted the stick in an attempt to avoid another shot. She didn’t, and a beam sliced into the left wing, causing the Castle to shudder.
The red unicorn fell over, barely clinging to Ace and the engineer’s seat. Her eyes widened as Paige thrust the crystal towards her, glowing with stored energy and charged mana.
“Illusion! Now!”
“What? Are you-”
“ILLUSION! NOW! Or we die!”
Seizing the crystal, Static blinked consternation at Paige’s tone. This wasn’t the first time the Rijekan mare had lost her temper, but it certainly was the first time it sounded so laced with desperation and savage aggression. Focusing her energy, Static’s horn glowed red, piling her magic aura together and channeling it into the crystal, reaching for the incantation. But the stone kept compiling energy, even as she tried to make the spell happen, like that long distance message spell all those years ago. It was a very different task to simply send words and an image, however. This was specifically meant to cast a magic double, a dummy, a decoy. Not a masterwork spell, but certainly a bit more complicated. She cast the spell a third time, trying to figure out what was going on.
And then she realized what was happening. The crystal was emanating red arcane energy, pouring off it like smoke and utterly unaffected by the gale force winds blasting into the craft. It pulsed in her hooves, the dozens if not hundreds of times she had contributed to charging the crystal stored in the carefully carved and enchanted matrix of crystal planes. This thing could store enough magic energy to function as a bomb, and the spell she’d just fed into it wasn’t releasing, it was amplifying -inside- the crystal.
“Paige-” she started.
Then the crystal exploded.
In a flash of blood red light, the arcane crystal Paige had been carefully crafting and storing energy in since 1008 shattered into a thousand pieces, magic energy blowing outwards like a cloud. Just as quickly, the cloud seemed to suck itself back in, compacting into some kind of ball before disappearing. But that was nothing compared to what Static saw when she stumbled over to the window and peered outside, trying to get to light away from the chaos in the cockpit.
Another White Castle flew in formation with them. Everytime Paige twitched the stick, that same plane made an identical movement. Everytime the bomber tilted, the copycat did the same. The gun turrets even kept flashing with identical defensive fire, identical tracers (if illusionary) streaming out. If she squinted, she thought she could even see an identical Paige in the ruined cockpit, and an identical Sweet Static behind. Only, if she squinted closely she thought she could spy the copycat’s exposed face. And instead of red, she swore she saw black carapace and glowing eyes-
Static jolted backwards, half in shock, half because Paige had abruptly pulled the plane on a new heading. She glanced over her shoulder, out the opposite window. Another copycat Castle was in perfect formation with them, following the sharp turn as they dove. An Sv.109 banked and twisted, trying to avoid the illusion’s sudden unexpected shift and collided with an Sv.410’s wing, disabling both craft and forcing their pilots to eject. Beams of weaponized magic flickered past, trying to snatch one of the decoys but merely phasing through. Immediately, Paige turned back in the other direction and climbed, her lookalikes phasing in and out of the other Lancasters around them. The other bombers, predictably, didn’t like the prospect of another craft suddenly about to hit them, though many waggled in confusion as the images passed straight through them with no damage other than to their senses.
“It’s working!” Static exclaimed, looking up to spot yet another decoy illusion. This was -far- more powerful than any illusion had the right to be, and if it hadn’t been for that crystal she knew it wouldn’t have worked.
“What?” cried Group Captain Pants from the nose. “By Tartarus, is that you, Leftenant? I had begun to suspect I was headsick after losing blood from a shot! Bravo, we’ve got the bugs confused now!”
Static glanced back over her shoulder at Paige. The mare was laser focused, tied to her stick and trying to make sure she didn’t hit any of the actual bombers around her. Rusty and raw though she was, the off-white pegasus was handling the ordeal decently enough.
“Y-Yes sir,” Static replied, praying Paige’s lack of attention remained so just a little bit longer. “Just threw something up to keep us going. Works better than I hoped!”
Sorry, Paige. But with all the attention you’re grabbing, better nopony else goes poking through your record.
“Smashing! Absolutely splendiferous! Ah, if I wasn’t married I could kiss you! I’ll have to look into getting dedicated combat mages onto all my bomber crews, see if we can summon an army of deception up here! See how Chrissy likes us playing her own game, say what?”
Paige, for her part, watched the experiment with fascination. An illusion spell could make several copies of a pony, but replicating an entire bomber craft six times over and maintaining it for this period of time? Static didn’t appear to be struggling to keep it up, or be drained by the effort. Then again, if the crystal had both stored and magnified the spell it was likely still burning off all that energy left behind. If she did her math right, she thought as she pulled up to avoid colliding with another friendly Lanc and forcing two Sv.410s to spin away from her ghost squadron, then the spell should carry roughly the same strain on the charged energy as her message spell did to send that New Year’s confession to Cyril in 1010-1011 (her cheeks colored a little as she thought of it, even now). Which meant that the spell should only last five-
Abruptly, the images began to flicker. The spell was breaking down. The illusions would fade in seconds. She glanced out the window, trying to gauge where they were. Was it far enough that friendly Beaufighters could finally reach them?
The illusion flickered again, and she glanced to her left, trying to ascertain location by topography…and froze. There, not more than thirty feet away, matching her speed and copying every twitch she made behind the stick, was a bright red Sv.410. She knew it was the enemy because it bore the Changeling Trident roundel. Its engines glowed with blue exhaust, and she wondered what exactly was fuelling those to allow it such smooth flight. Its guns also glowed, and she realized it had to be the ace that had been dogging her and casually blowing through everypony around her. Two lines of small sunburst roundels were painted below his cockpit, hard to make out against the red paint but easier to see now up close. Her analytical brain immediately counted twenty four.
The pilot, masked and goggled, was looking directly at her. She felt a chill roll up her spine…but he merely raised a hoof to wave, nodding before rocking his wings back and forth a few times. And, like that, he was gone, pulling his nose up and cutting speed to twist away in the other direction, a red blur vanishing into thin air.
Before she could process what had just happened, the illusions finally failed, and bursting through were a quartet of Wonderbolt colored Beaufighters, cutting past the Lancasters as they chased down Sv.109s and 410s that had stuck on the raiding group this long, their guns blazing as they hounded the pursuers, cannon shells zipping through the air.
Paige sat back in the chair, letting out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, letting the White Castle settle on a flat, stable heading. They weren’t heading all the way back to Fillydelphia, they didn’t have the fuel for that. Instead, the fleet was going to set down on Cloudsdale, refuel as quick as possible and then leave to disperse back to their original airfields. Cloudsdale was a focal point of the air war, still bitterly contested and constantly under assault. Heavy bombers wouldn’t have much point in that kind of theater, even if they were armed.
With a clunk, the Colonel (Group Captain, she reminded herself) descended from the nose turret, emerging into the cockpit area absolutely brimming with energy.
“Splendid indeed! What a show, what a display!” He reached up, tugging off his mask to reveal his regulation length mustache above a grinning mouth, eyes overflowing with mirth and pride as he smacked a hoof down on Static’s shoulder. “What you did up there, Leftenant! Absolutely amazing, I have no other words! Well, I do actually! I’ll see to it you get a citation for that!”
“Please, sir. It was just something that came to me, I couldn’t bear to accept any award for that,” Static replied, glancing over to Paige with her eyes pleading and full of apology and regret.
Paige, for her part, felt a twinge of uneasiness settle over her. She didn’t care that Static was getting the medal…she cared that, for once, her genius work that had taken years to come to fruition had finally, finally, pulled off a grand success. And now, with the fragments blown out the ruptured windshield and no sign the crystal ever even existed, she had no proof to her claim. Static didn’t seem overwhelmingly ecstatic to take the credit. But then why did she do it at all?
“And of course, our gallant pilot!” Pants continued, beaming back over to Paige. “Why, the way you handled the craft, I’d have thought you were certified yourself!”
“T-thank you, sir,” Paige stammered back, taken by surprise and very unwilling to reveal she had literally been guessing the entire time, flying by the edge of her hooves and the seat of her ass.
“Well then thank you Paige Turner! Jolly good show there-”
Eventide slipped up past them all, physically interrupting the conversation. The cockpit had suddenly become very crowded, but she set to work tugging at Ace’s unconscious form. In all the chaos, she had squirreled herself out of the way during the fighting, though now it was mostly passed the thestral had resumed her role as temporary nurse.
“All due respect, sir, maybe we can talk about this on the ground?”
“Ah, right! Of course. It is far too early to be speaking of such honors! But I guarantee, Leftenant, I will make sure you are noticed for this!”
Invariably, the conversation fell to if the White Castle would make it all the way to Cloudsdale, all efforts turned to hauling Ace out of the engineer’s seat and dragged away to rest in a space he could be laid out. He’d live, certainly. But his flying days might just be over with this one. He’d certainly gotten off better than Maverick and the dead Meat Head (who, now he was dead, she had to remind herself that his real name was Bronze Masher).
Paige kept them level and steady all the way to the Dragon Mountains. Once they’d reached there, Pants himself offered to take over so she could get some rest. She took the offer without much word, retreating to the nose gun and sitting sentry there, watching as they chased the horizon as it began to turn to twilight, her mind muddled and shouting at the same time, looking up at the first stars in the sky as for the first time the analyst inside her had no answers for the myriad questions she had for herself.
Operation Black Harvest launched with one-hundred and seventy-seven heavy bombers across the Lunar Sea. By the time they reached Vaverfront, they had been further reduced by malfunctions and other issues to one-hundred and sixty-eight. When the strike force attacked Vaverfront, it was with a massive overwhelming force. The city had no local air defense force, and their anti-air artillery was disabled by the local resistance group, the so-called Jurva Kompani, mostly made up of former army troopers and Velvet loyalists, and about five Lancasters were lost to the limited flak defenses still operational. This meant the city was hit with an estimated six-hundred and seventy-two tons of munitions ranging from incendiary bomblets to massive blockbusters. The city’s fuel reserve, massive refinery complex and trainyard were either totally destroyed or burned by the fires, which spread to other parts of the city. All in all, around nine-thousand of the city’s residents, both civilians and garrison troops died either in the bombing or the fires. The destroyer struck in the harbor sunk, though most of the crew were evacuated.
When the Luftwaffe wing at Vanhoover was scrambled to intercept the air group as it passed by, around one-hundred fighter craft engaged the group. Of those, twenty-two SV.109s and six Sv.410 Hornisse heavy fighters were lost to defensive guns. Nineteen Lancasters were shot down before Beaufighters piloted by Wonderbolt aviators managed to chase them off. Of those, fifteen were lost, though their losses in such a critical engagement was used to highlight the lethality of the new changeling use of Spellfire cannons in almost every report sent to Cloudsdale and Canterlot. Amazingly, only two Wonderbolts actually died returning home to base, and the aviators of Zerstörergeschwader 1 are reluctantly credited with gallantry beyond expectations for ignoring bailed out pilots and leaving them be, a habit unfortunately rare in the ranks of the Luftwaffe, notably remarkable restraint in this theater.
Operation Black Harvest was considered a major success. For such a relatively low casualty rate, major damage had been done to the Hegemony, disrupting their fuel supplies at a critical point and crippling a key refinery. On top of this, it also revealed the existence of changeling experimental aircraft equipped with both magitek engines and spellfire cannons, a grim omen to Canterlot High Command but now something they could prepare for.
Flight Lieutenant Solar Ace recovered of his injuries, but was forced to retire from active combat flights for some time.
Flight Lieutenant Paige Turner was awarded the Black Harvest Star for exemplary gallantry during active operations during Operation Black Harvest against the enemy in the air.
Flight Lieutenant Sweet Static was awarded the Celestial Star for her ingenious employment of illusion magic in saving herself, her crew, a senior commander and possibly the rest of the fleet, on top of her own campaign Star.
Group Captain Fancy Pants was credited with the success of the operation and offered a position at headquarters planning further long range strategic bombing operations. He turned it down, insisting that he would fly with his aviators until the day he died. He was still promoted to Air Commodore, and while he was placed in command of several Bombing Groups, he would still insist on leading critical operations personally.
In Changelingia, heads quite literally and figuratively began to roll. And ripples shot out from Vesalipolis.
"Good morning, dear citizens of Vesalipolis. Today is Tuesday. What a beautiful morning! It's another lovely day in magnificent Changelingia! You all have great work to perform for your Queendom. When you go about your day, dear citizens, let me remind you to stay true to the values of your nation! As a member of Changelingia you are a supreme being, and a supreme being acts with force and ambition. A supreme being despises weakness and strives for perfection. They are honorable and pure in both thought and action. You are superior to all other races. You do not give up. You do not fail. You are obedient to your Royals and Queens, and to the High Queen most of all, the most supreme being of our race. Despite all the good work you have done, remember to maintain watch for harmonist and socialist infiltration among us! Many who posed as honest changeling citizens were recently found to be harmonist traitors, and their pernicious weakness allowed an enemy raid to deal light damage to the oil refinery in Vaverfront. While true changeling heroes like Oberstleutnant Kalart and his Zerstörergeschwader responded and destroyed every last interloper from our skies, the traitors were rooted out and executed with all due haste. In retaliation, we can now confirm that an amphibious operation conducted by our Olenian subjects has this morning struck the shores of the Spa Islands, and we expect inevitable victory any day now, as they are led by our valiant Heer! Stay vigilant! Stay loyal! Remember, this world is ours for the taking, and destiny is on our side! All hail High Queen Chrysalis! Attend now to your day with zeal and gusto, and work hard for the future. For Pax Chrysalia!" -Königliches Ministerium für Wahrheit early morning radio broadcast, August 12th, 1012
August 22nd, 1012 Bucksdale Airbase, Baltimare, Principality of Equestria No. 2 (Bombing) Group, Number 99 “Bloody Nightmares” Squadron
“Mail call, Eltee.”
Even now, Paige was still not accustomed to the title her new rank bestowed on her. An unexpected commission and elevation to officer had resulted in quite a few more courtesies levied her way, though her job hadn’t really changed up all that much. One of those new privileges was access to the Officer’s Club on base, a prestigious place that meant they didn’t have to drive into the city in order to enjoy a night out like the enlisted ground crews had to now. To be honest, Paige didn’t like Baltimare much. Full of labor unrest, some of the most neglected infrastructure in the nation, plenty of ethnic tensions between the ‘northerner’ citizens, thestral minority and Coltjun locals. It reminded her too much of her memories of Rijekograd and the picture painted for her by her parents and the newspapers. So she tried her best to stay on base, even when most of her flight went out on the town for their leave (getting depressingly more and more rare).
The Officer’s Club, also known as the “O-Club”, was a modest affair. It was set up in a single story building that could generously be referred to as a shack attached on to a Foalter hut, a cylindrical prefabricated structure made of corrugated steel. Inside, the wood floor and steel walls were surprisingly homey and inviting, bright lights stringing the ceiling and from the bar itself. A dozen tables and a few booths were spread over half the room, and a dance floor took up the other half. The bar itself was in the far corner, a line of stools and a large jukebox playing music for the occupants to enjoy their drinks to or dance. While this seemed like it would make the place cramped, it actually helped keep it cozy, as it never felt congested even when full. It felt like a bunch of ponies packed into a space meant for having a good time, while having a good time.
As music played for her, Paige turned from her conversation with Static at the bar and glanced over at the other privilege that came with being a commissioned officer now; a bored looking unicorn corporal with a mail saddlebag on his back stood there, a trio of envelopes held in his magic aura. She took them gratefully, nodding in appreciation before he dug in his bag to extract a small bundle for Static as well.
“Ah, the fans grow ever more distant,” the red unicorn lamented as she went through the half dozen or so. “A shame. I wonder if they’ll remember me if I ever get back.”
“When, dragi. When you get back,” Paige corrected, her forced optimism a hallmark of most of the RAF. Ever since Black Harvest, the fact that they -could- win had been severely marred both by the continual advance of the changeling Army Group Center on Canterlot, new engagements over and below Cloudsdale and finally the seizure of the Spa Islands by Olenian marines, which had finished two days ago in victory for the deer raiders. At least Summerdale had been held, so the situation wasn’t helpless. Perhaps now General Applejack’s Fortress Ponderosa could be relieved at last.
“Look at you, Miss Positive. When did you get so optimistic?”
Paige merely smirked back, glancing down at her envelopes again. The first was from her parents, and the news there was grim. Ost-Griffonia looked ready to start conscripting those protected refugees who had so far been granted settlement priority such as ponies from Deponya. Her father loudly declared he would never serve any proxy of the Empire, but…well, her mother was certainly nervous. For good reason.
The second letter was from her brother in Colthage. A surprising development, but not an unwelcome one. It had been some time since she’d heard from Brook. Apparently, his mercantile operations were doing well in his new home, which she decoded as meaning he was finally out of trouble and keeping away from the attention of both law enforcement and organized crime. She took that as a win.
And finally, she saved the best for last. As the night began to wane on, she tugged out the third envelope, taped to a package about the size of her hoof, examining it with a small, sad smile on her face before tearing the paper open with a hooftip, tugging the letter within out and beginning to read.
Sent August 10th
Dear Paige,
It’s been quite a time. I want to apologize for that. We had a large fight outside Vanguardigo, and it was a pretty nasty one, so we’ve been bouncing around a little. I’m alright, and so is the crew. But it wasn’t good. We lost a lot of soldiers this time, and we’re back in (this word has been clipped out) while the brass try to figure out how to get us into the enemy’s heartland. The frogs have been throwing new things at us. Ponies in knight plating, distance controlled Carpiquet bombs on tracks, heavy panzers with crystal-plated armor and now of all things flying ships. Though I’d bet you already know all about those by the time this reaches you. Flying ships, made of vrillium of all things. According to the officers, these had to have been in Aquileia’s yards for years to be useable now, maybe even since the time of the old kingdom. You’re in flight, have you ever heard of anyone across the world using enchanted vrillium that way?
Getting on Military Intelligence’s bad side isn’t good news, no matter what country you’re in. Having lived under the shadows of at least a half dozen agencies, be careful. If they want you, they’ll find a way to get you. You remember, it nearly happened to me a few years back. Though I am glad to help you through it.
Axum is alright. I didn’t like him at first, he’s kind of clingy and eager to please. But the more I hang around changelings, the more I think they’re just like that. That whole worker drone spirit in them. Might be a racial or cultural thing. All I know is if the nobles found a way to tempt more of them over here, most of our workers would probably be out of a job. I hear you about VOPS agents, though. We know they’re here. What to do about them is anygriff’s guess.
They promoted me again. Oberleutnant now. Though I have a new company commander, fresh out of her armor training. She’s competent, at least. But panzers and panzerkampf is brand new for her, and again she’s new. I’ve already spoken with all the platoon commanders, and we’re on the same page. Functionally, at least for the time being, I am in charge of Brutus Kompanie. It’s quite a heady feeling, though Hauptman Stahlbeak did try to get me prepared in case I had to take his place. Right now, it’s here. Rittermeister Ruria may be new to field command, but she knows how to whip Reichsarmee administration. She’s handling the tedious paperwork and requisitions to get us what we need, which leaves me to the matter of handling the actual drills and the T/O. Right, T/O is shortclaw for Tischorganisation, or ‘Table of Organization’. It's basically a fancy term for a list of who we have, what kind of equipment is available for them and how we plan to distribute those soldiers and weapons. At risk of being censored for leaking military secrets, I’ll leave it at that because I’m sure you can figure it out from there. It’s my job to work with Rittermeister Ruria and Hauptfeldwebel Wimpernbüschel to keep things going smoothly and give the orders until Ruria feels comfortable taking over.
We’re supposed to be in a holding pattern for now, but we’ve been advised that can change any moment. Strategies and operational orders keep changing at a moments’ notice, crazy like you wouldn’t believe. Again, can’t say much about that. Just don’t be surprised if the next letter is a bit late too. We both seem to be expecting delays.
I got a few of your suggested novels again. I’ve been reading whatever Maple Piers I can get. Cracked open another Daring Do. Started this old Aquileian book called 10,000 Fathoms Beneath the Waves, that one’s pretty interesting but it kind of wanders a little. Might be up your alley, it’s real big on explaining just about every little fact. Found this one crazy book somepony from New Mareland wrote based on an 1010 audiodrama about invaders from another planet with supposedly overwhelming technology being defeated by (of all things) bacteria and disease. Title is War of the Realms if you want to read it yourself. It’s okay, but it kind of relies more on shock value and spectacle. Checked out a book from the regimental library about engines. It helps. Don’t think I’ll find a copy of Saratoga on this side of the Celestia, but good riddance to good trash, right?
Listen, about the bad dreams; take it from me. You ought to find someone over there who you trust. Talk to them about it. We don’t write each other often enough to get all of that shit off your chest. It’s going to eat you up in your head and in your heart. Trust me, I know. There are some nights I wake up wondering where I am and so terrified by what’s been playing in my head I’ve already grabbed my pistol. I try to keep it unloaded lately. I’m terrified I’m going to shoot someone before I even know they’re there, and all for some weird images that leave my head right after. How would that be for sick irony? Just find a friend, a crewmate, someone you can talk to more often than me. Maybe have them sleep near you, to make sure you don’t hurt yourself or those around you. It helps.
We can only take it a day at a time. Sometimes it feels like the days flash by like a train streaking down the tracks. Other days the hours stretch on across the horizon and the sun refuses to move or set against all reason imaginable. But I’m still here for you, Paige. However far we might be. And that won’t be for much longer. I get the feeling in my gut something big is going to happen this year. I don’t know what, I don’t have divination magic. But I hope it’s something good for both of us. It’s about damned time we had some kind of turn in fortunes.
Love,
~Cyril
P.S.: I’ll get some photographs of Griffenheim for your mother, but it’s gonna be kinda tough getting parts that haven’t been bombed.
P.P.S.: Don’t worry about the whole religion thing. Since the Archon got ousted, there’s been a lot more acceptance going around. If that’s something you didn’t know, well it’s not really something I talk about much.
“Letter from Cyril?” asked Static, an eyebrow arched as she looked away from her own letter, the contents clearly no longer interesting to her. Instead, the unicorn mare smirked knowingly up at her friend, and Paige could feel her face color slightly. “You’ve got that looooook.”
“Shut up, I do not,” Paige fired back automatically. “It’s just hot in here,” she denied pointlessly.
“Uh huh,” Static drawled knowingly, sniggering as Paige shook her own head, tugging at the package. The ribbing was all in good fun, and the denial was only partially fake. “What’s he say?”
“He got promoted again, wanted to ask what I knew about vrillium ships, talked about a few novels,” she paused, her face falling still a moment before she seemed to refocus and tug at the package wrapping once more. “Said he understands about the dreams. That he’s there for me.”
“I mean…he’s probably our expert,” Static conceded quietly, magic aura folding her discarded letter back away again. “Let’s face it, the things he’s seen and done…if anyone would know how to cope, it would be him.”
Paige didn’t reply, just finally tore the wrapping away at last. Inside were two more things, one on top of the other. One was a sizeable package of deluxe Flowenan chocolate, one of the luxury kinds according to the label. She felt her mouth start salivating. He seemed to have discovered the one thing her sweet tooth awakened for, and it was possibly the best chocolate in the known world. Every now and then, he snuck some out to her in the mail, telling her he’d done some backroom trading in the trenches for some, given how hot a commodity it was. She still remembered the last package he had sent her, and this one was an even larger box, a fact she hadn’t absorbed while focusing on reading the letter. Clearly, the promotion had come with some perks.
“Hey, no fair!” Static whined, this one all too real. “I never get any chocolate…”
“Get a coltfriend,” Paige shot back, shifting her shoulder a little to block any snatch attempt. She’d had too many sweets stolen out of her hooves the moment she got it, she knew better. “Let him send you expensive candy.”
Static snorted, flicking a forelock out of her eyes so it curled back around her horn. The music swelled, then broke as the crowd applauded, breaking up to settle in for drinks as new dancers took the floor. As usual, a small argument broke out at the record player about just what song would come next, but the brief pause and relative silence it gave allowed them a chance at conversation.
“Yeah, sure. You just won’t share cause I bet you’re still sore about the whole illusion thing, right?”
An awkward chill suddenly settled between the two, and Static’s sass melted away as she realized the words were out of her mouth, too late to grab and stuff back into her muzzle. She and Paige stared at each other warily, one with hurt in her eyes and the other looking like she’d been cornered by a predator on the hunt. They hadn’t spoke of the incident since the awards had been handed out. There had been too many things to do in the interim, and with the agony of being sidelined as the war raged on, the silence between the two had simply swelled like an overripe melon. And with a careless comment, tossed out as a witty joke, it had finally burst.
“Yeah. I kind of am, now that you ask,” Paige replied flatly, her ears mirroring her tone and laying back along her head. “That crystal was years of work. I was the one who made it. -I- was the one who thought of using the illusion spell. -I- had just thought, perhaps, that my best friend wouldn’t -stab- me in the back.” The last part she had practically growled out as she glared down, eyes narrowed, at the suddenly very nervous looking Static, all sass and confidence robbed from her. “A group captain’s accolade and recommendation for that work could have at least moved me up to weapons development, maybe gotten me back on track towards academics. Instead, I’m still a city-erasing button pusher who sometimes grabs the stick. All because of -you-.”
Silence between the two mares again. Behind them, the arguing ponies finally agreed on the next song, put on the record and the club was back to dancing again, this time to some kind of popping swing from a decade ago, bringing back fond memories of the aftermath of the first failed changeling invasion and when Equestria seemed to live high on life with nothing but partying and good times all around. Life in the club picked up again, and the bartender quietly replaced their drinks without saying anything. The two mares didn’t stop him, and both took hard sips of Puerto Caballan rum. It helped ease the tension, and gave them something to occupy themselves for a few seconds.
Finally, the two seemed to come back around to resume their conversation.
“Why’d you do it, Static?” Paige asked huskily, her formerly smooth and suppressed Rijekan accent resurfacing with alcohol on the tongue. “With your record and background, all you’d get was that shiny piece of tin. Didn’t even try to get the right story out. So why take credit?”
The red mare herself was quiet as well, having extracted a cigarette with her magic and taking a drag. When she let the smoke out, all of the ease, sass and confidence seemed to have leaked out of her, leaving her a tired, slumped and apprehensive wreck. Paige once more thought they’d all gone on far too many flight missions. These last few weeks were supposed to be rest and recovery, especially while their plane and pilot were patched (a seven week neck wound recovery fortunately able to be cut to three by magical medics), but how much leave could one afford to be left on the bench when the whole nation was backed into a corner?
Finally, Static replied.
“It wasn’t for me. I didn’t do it to take from you, or get myself an advantage. But that S.M.I.L.E. agent, Paige. She’s already got a hair up her flank about you on thin charges. They just need an excuse to keep pressing. Do you know how much attention a citation from Fancy Pants would have gotten you? A complete review of your record, all the way back as far as they could go before they’d allowed a decoration like that. They did for me. And how much worse could it get if somepony found something the spooks wanted to use against you like a blunt weapon, and now it's out in common knowledge? Not to mention what might happen if the changelings find out you figured out how to play their game. Damned spies.” Static sighed, taking another pull on her cigarette, that forelock falling into her eyes again, and she barely even acknowledging it. “Well…that’s what I was thinking at the time. Looking back on it, it was a snap decision. I think if I had more than a second to go over it, I might have worked it out. Can’t tell you the number of times I’ve twisted something bad into good just by talking. Just didn’t manage it right this time.” She glanced over to Paige, regret and shame soaked into her posture and tone at every level. “I’m sorry, sweetness. It was a bad call for an admittedly bad reason. And I can’t take it back.”
That was true, Paige realized. If, after the fact once they landed, Static had tried to explain the real story to Fancy Pants, the officer likely would have written it up to modesty and charitably trying to spread credit around. Once it was out, and given the number of hours they had still been in flight before Paige even realized what had happened, it was impossible to state the truth. Especially after the citations were handed out like crazy. If there was one thing all militaries shared across the world, it was an unwillingness to go back and correct their mistakes, both from simple pride and the amount of work that would have to go into the process.
Paige’s expression softened. She felt her bitterness lose its edge. Not vanish entirely, but it certainly wasn’t as fierce as it was a few minutes ago. Maybe it was the alcohol. She finished that in a quick twist to gulp the amber liquid down before gesturing for another one from the barkeep. Her face turned back to Static, and she sighed as she processed the confession. They’d interacted with each other, gone on like things were normal still, but it was always with a stiffness, with none of the usual natural levity between them. Jokes fell flat, laughing always petered out, and the two had found reasons to stay away from each other.
“Dragi,” Paige started, and Static’s ears perked up at Paige’s nickname of adoration for her fellow crewsisters. “I appreciate the effort, and the thought. I really do. But this was…a big thing. I’m going to need some time to…process it. Look, I’m from Rijekograd. Do you know how many times I had to dodge the police over there because they made an assumption about who I was? I know how to handle bad attention. I can handle Military Intelligence. They’re idiots anyway.”
Static glanced back over at Paige, and just like that day when Agent Blossom came hunting for her, Paige saw a haunted look come over her face. Something clearly bothered her about this situation, and she was…unwilling to let it go.
"And VOPS? You know we got lucky that night in Mariposa. They’re everywhere, don’t think they aren’t. Have been since 1002. If our agents don’t get you, their spies sure as Tartarus will.”
But Paige was already shaking her head in response.
“Not something I want to think about. Everypony already goes around wondering who’s actually a bug in disguise. Trust me, I’m not taking any liberties with any bugs. Just stop stealing my thunder, okay?”
The two shared an honest smile for the first time in weeks. The rift may not have been sewn up, but now it was out in the open, and ready to be healed up instead of left alone to fester. Paige pushed the luxury chocolate over to Static.
“Oh, fine. Here, for being a good little filly after all. Never let it be said I don’t share with my friends.”
She shook her head at Static’s immediate hard shift to glee, turning back to her package. The second item had flipped onto its face, and Paige picked it up to read the writing on the back.
’Thought you might like another photo,’ the scrawl said in Cyril’s untidy clawriting. ’Us, in the field. Spotsley’s idea. -Love, Cyril’
His written Equish was getting much better, more natural. Without thinking, she flipped what was clearly a photograph over to look at the picture…and froze.
She knew the tank. The Gryta, an Imperial heavy design very similar to the changeling Tiger. Its gun was different and its turret was set further forward, but otherwise almost looked the same paint and symbols aside. On its turret was a small cartoon of a looming titanic biped, gray in color (at least she assumed with the black and white nature of the photo) with a few obvious rivets drawn on its limbs. She wondered if Cyril himself had painted that on Next to that were the words ‘Eiserner Riese’. The paint looked freshly applied and neatly done, even if the Gryta itself was rough and still bore evidence of recent welding, probably to patch battle damage. Next to the cartoon was a series of small symbols, each a series of two rings inside and a dot in the middle. They were arranged in rows of five, and she counted fourteen total. Cyril must reset the kill marker everytime he was put onto a new machine, for this wasn’t the same panzer he had fought through Westkeep in. That one, Isegrim had been wrecked. This was a new one.
But it wasn’t the tank that made her breath cut sharply. Draped across the vehicle were five figures. A female dog with an eyepatch and a sour look despite trying to smile, a nervous looking young male griffon who had a bit more aging than his disposition implied, a changeling who seemed frozen like a deer in the headlights, a female pegasus (Paige fought down a brief spurt of jealous envy she knew was unjustified) who didn’t even look like she was trying to smile-
And Cyril. Almost as she remembered him. His metal wing seemed a part of him now, like the most natural thing in the world. She wondered if he forgot it was still there. He looked so tired, forage cap titled back slightly, a cigarette in his beak as he looked towards the camera with the briefest hint of a smile. He had some new scars she could see under his feathers that he had gained since his last photo.
And they were all wearing Reformisten uniforms. Oh sure, the style and color of their panzerwaffen fatigues hadn’t changed. Those had always been black. But their branch pins and rank icons, even the pin in Cyril’s cap were all Ostheer. Shiny silver totenkopfs. All five of them wore it.
Unbidden, Agent Blossom’s words crept back into Paige’s mind, however much she tried to push them back out.
”He seems to hold little ill will with them anymore, aside from an occasional quip about their hard-headedness. I’d say he’s certainly had a change of heart.”
Paige didn’t even notice when Static took her own share of the chocolate. She didn’t hear the music in the background, or the laughing of the crowd. She didn’t hear planes overhead coming in to land after patrol.
She just stared at the wall behind the bar, trying her damndest to process the ugly sight that had been thrust into her face.
September 10th, 1012 28 kilometers southwest of Imperial occupied Illeagle, Vinovia, Aquileia 3rd Armee, 19th Panzer-Division ‘Landgraf von Aiwlen’, 205th Schwere Panzerabteilung ‘Kampfgruppe Lehr’
Kompanie command.
It was a heady consideration. On paper, Rittermeister Ruria was of course the commanding officer of Brutus Kompanie. But on that first day, she had looked Cyril directly in the eye and told him to be her griff in the field. Everything she knew about armor, she said, was from a book or a blackboard. For now, she would yield to his greater veterancy and observe while he was at work until she felt confident enough to assert more direct command. That meant, for all practical purposes, that on top of his promotion to Oberleutnant, for the time being all panzers of the unit and all their various attached support fell under his direction, not including his own beast and Ruria’s command Gryta.
He looked out now over the assembled Grytas in the staging ground. As heavy panzers, they were not quick reaction units. Despite what Kampfgruppe Lehr’s mission currently was, they were expected to let the enemy come to them. Other kompanies got to rush off to contest Republicaine paratroop raiders dropping from the Levant ships these days, all while trying not to die under the guns of the marvelous airships, waiting for Imperial craft to respond. It was always sobering, watching the vrillium juggernauts cleave through their lesser foes. Some of them were using something new, some kind of experimental guns. Not Spellfire cannons like he’d seen mounted on some panzers, but howitzers that fired glowing shells able to twist and spin in midair. While pounding rocket batteries were still lethal, these other ships had just shifted the game once again by being able to fire on the move and accurately hit every single time. He’d watched it happen, as Fleigender Teppich squadrons swarmed the Levants at odds of four to one, autocannons pounding and machine guns chattering, accompanying fighters charging in alongside them.
And yet, everytime, the Levants would knock all opposition out of the sky or simply leave if the pressure was too much. The vrillium aerocraft were too powerful to overwhelm, or too valuable to waste on such risk. No one had a concrete plan yet on how to bring them down. But rumors in the ranks persisted. In the meantime, scores of Luftstreitkrafte airships burned across the Aquileian countryside, their gas envelopes collapsed in on themselves and their crews consigned to ignoble deaths for stalling attacks and little else.
At least on the ground, they were holding. So far the Aquileians had tried four times in the past month since the Battle of Vanguardigo, putting together a new offensive every week or so, with smaller constant spoiling and probing attacks in the interim. Kampfgruppe Lehr and the whole division had fought back fiercely, but it was plain to state that even this crack, elite unit were starting to fray. With the Levants appearing and pounding them, and now having to constantly hold back the renewed Aquileian tide, morale was visibly dropping by the day. They’d reinforced as swift as they were able, but he glanced out beyond the Grytas at the back row of armor. He hadn’t been completely honest in his letter to Paige. While he was supposed to have twelve Grytas in Brutus, supplies had clearly bottlenecked somewhere. He had six of them, not including his own. To make up for the shortfall, he had eight Greifkonig medium panzers. Not bad armor, in their own right. Good medium panzers. But it badly illustrated how Vanguardigo had knocked a lot of things off kilter.
The crews were quietly maintaining their chariots, a few glancing up as artillery thundered in the distance. The experienced veterans didn’t bother, and instead smacked their green crewmates for their stupidity. Cyril chuckled, settling back into his own seat, carefully toying with the letter in his claws. It was, of course, from Paige. He didn’t know why he hesitated to open it. A lot of things had been changing lately. From the latest news, it wasn’t looking good across the ocean. That little voice in the back of his head started whispering again, that maybe she was dead right now, and he held her last words.
Cyril snorted in wry amusement. He was pretty certain Paige and his mother had both been having those same thoughts everytime one of his letters showed. Without hesitating any further, he dug a claw into the envelope, opened it up with a single harsh movement, tugged the paper out and began to read.
Sent August 27th
Dear Cyril,
A lot has happened that I’m now allowed to tell you about. A few weeks back, when you sent your last letter across, I was up in the air over Vaverfront after a sixteen hour flight over the Lunar Ocean. You might have heard of a small incident involving a few aircraft and an oil refinery? I know the changelings are massively playing it down, but it was quite a punch on our end. I hear word that Army Group South has pulled out of Summerdale because of us. The official story is that with their fuel lines in disarray they’re withdrawing General Pharynx’s troops to prevent an all out disaster. Only a matter of time before Hoofgonery goes after Hoofington and Dodge City. Feels good to be on the attack again, at least on one side. Anyway, given that it’s old news, I can freely admit to you that Vaverfront wasn’t just a raid, and it didn’t just bang the place up. We had almost two hundred bombers over that place, and we burned as much of it to the ground as we could. I’m proud of that, so I won’t couch my words. We got a real win out of it, and I'll be damned before I let those stupid bug movies coming out of Applewood take that from me. Your marefriend is a real-life bomber ace.
Oberleutnant, congratulations. I feel like you need to get the right kind of recognition. Sure, medals are great and all. But now you’ve been given a command, I feel like you are in the right position to get things done the way you always wanted to. I’m just a cog in the machine, but Ace is giving me more pilot familiarization training now that he’s patched up again. White Castle is back out of the shop, we have new crewmembers and we’ve been given a new mission; apparently Air Commodore Pants was working on an idea he wanted to implement in heavy bombers; a defense oriented plane meant to protect a bombing group by taking out the payload and replacing it with more guns and crew. I can’t say anymore, unfortunately, but lucky me I’m not spilling anything that hasn’t already flown against the changelings. I don’t think I’ll be smacked too hard for it.
Something just occurred to me, as I’m sitting here writing this letter and reading over your others. I guess it has to tie in with the bad dreams too. Do you ever get the feeling we’ve kind of been overtaken by the wars? All of our conversations keep drifting back to it, over and over again. It feels harder to talk about other things instead. Like the hoofball matches that aren’t playing anymore over here because the league got shut down. Too many of the players were drafted to go and fight. Books are hard to talk about because we keep reading the same dog-eared novels over and over again. I read technical manuals and flight books so much these days, I actually can’t remember which novel I read last time. The radio is packed with wartime announcements, news from the front, advertisements supporting the war effort. I found one of your earliest letters to me when I was going through some of my things. I guess I must have dropped it. October 18th, 1007. You go on for a bit about your crew, your regiment, all that. But then you start talking about Griffenheim and it goes on and on and on. There’s Geheimisnacht, autumn, the early snow, your mother, where you live in the city, pumpkin beer, spiced sausages, questions about alicorns, assuring me I belonged at Luna Nova, the part where you crossed out ‘foot’ and ‘everygriff’. It feels like a lifetime ago. Five long years. I’m scared, Cyril. If this war hadn’t happened, I’d be studying and discovering and moving on to be the scientist I know I always wanted to be. But every bombing mission I go on, everytime I push that button to drop the payload, everytime I help patch holes in the fuselage, I feel it slipping away from me. I used to tell myself I wasn’t a soldier, I was an academic. Now, I don’t think that’s the case anymore. I suppose it all comes down to asking, what are we going to do after? I know we had plans before, but can we even do them anymore? So much has changed. If the wars ended tomorrow, what would we do with the rest of our lives? I don’t know if I have an answer anymore. I’m scared. For me. For you.
(A crease spreads the ink a bit, as if the writer had folded up the letter, then come back to it later)
I am sorry. I didn’t mean to go off on a tangent like that. I thought about just starting the letter over again, but I can’t really talk to anypony else about this stuff. Well, maybe Static and Ace. They seem more focused on after. Static knows where she’s going, right back to her rebel radio station, earning dimes and living the life she loves. Ace is going to fly planes as long as he can, even if the Air Force drums him out. Our new engineer Bagshot has a mechanic’s shop and two sons to get back to. I know I said I’d come back to you and my parents are out there too, but I still have to start my life over. And I don’t know if I can go back to classrooms, to labs and workshops.
Send me some drawings of yours. I like those. You have talent, I know you don’t see it but I do. And so does everypony else I show them to. I know the Reichsarmee is your life, and I know that will probably stay a fact even after the fighting is done. But I want you to remind me that there’s a life outside of the fighting. Outside our uniforms, our ranks, our equipment. I feel like I’m losing myself, and I’m afraid you are too.
I gave it a try. It’s so funny, I can do complicated equations, arithmancy and spiel off facts and statistics. But I can’t seem to sketch. It might be the hooves, but there’s plenty of pony artists. So, here you have my first draft.
Please don’t laugh.
Love,
-Paige
(Inside the envelope is a sheet of notebook paper. Upon close examination, it can be reasoned that this is a very poor attempt at an airplane. What make or model is difficult to tell, though trying to picture it as a Lancaster does indeed reveal four engines and a cockpit roughly where it’s supposed to be. A small note at the bottom says ‘White Castle, 1st try’)
“Not so bad,” Cyril muttered, thinking back to his first attempts as a boy. Even in his own humble opinion, they had looked quite a lot like these. An inability to form the shape properly and no sense of dimension translating from brain to pen. “She’ll get there. A mind like hers...”
“Oi! Duskwing! You in there?”
Frowning, Cyril rose from his commander’s chair, rising through the hatch and out over the cupola. Standing at the base of the Gryta were cluster of officers, those from his kompanie and a few others that he recognized. The one who had called up to him had been, surprisingly, Leutnant Grimfeather. She smirked up at him, as if knowing he would be where she had found him. He didn’t get to see the infantry officer often, but the two had retained their friendship from Westkeep, and every now and then ran into each other as their responsibilities allowed.
“Gotcha! Come on you workaholic! We’re going to hang out at the Pit. Care to join us?”
There were some things that even long deployments in the field couldn’t stamp out, and that was a Reichsarmee landser’s ability to set up a still and crank out cheap rotgut schnapps and gin for the enjoyment of his fellows. The Pit, as they called it, was an unofficial pub set up in a supply tent in the main camp open to both officers and enlisted. Many contributed their own beer or liquor they had bought on leave, received in care packages from home or purchased from locals or camp followers. While the Vollstrecker clearly disapproved, and audibly railed against it, only the most dedicated to discipline actually tried to break the Pit up. When that happened, Hauptfeldwebel Wimpernbüschell (the landser who ran the still) simply packed up, waited a few weeks and then reestablished himself in a new place. If anygriff let himself get so drunk he couldn’t stagger back to his own tent, they let the Feldjagers and Vollstrecker have at him. There was no urge to let a good thing go by testing patience. Interestingly, the Reformisten troops among them contributed just as willingly, bringing fine wheat and rye beer from the east and contributing to the Pit, a memo from Heimclar permitting the behavior so long as it never ran its course too far. Ost-Griffonian contributions to the kind of hole in the wall dives that had long ago been restricted by the Reichsarmee had resulted in clusters of soldier’s pubs being erected wherever Kampfgruppe Lehr camped, with higher quality alcohol than just some illicit still could make in large quantities. Interestingly, with the money so focused on beer and good cheer, they made a noted exclusion towards encouraging brothels and the like. They still existed, but not in the same kind of numbers that had previously been noted during other campaigns. Plenty of the Ostheer soldiers could be found in the Pit, drinking next to their Reichsarmee companions far more easily than before when they had worn different uniforms. It was a welcome and encouraging sign, after the tensions of Vanguardigo’s disaster had exposed the lines between them.
Cyril hesitated, considering. He hadn’t been back to the Pit since Vanguardigo, since his promotion and new position. He’d been, honestly, too busy. The alcohol he used to sleep at night had been something he wasn’t proud of. He felt no urge to flaunt it. And yet, here was a chance to ease up a while. Paige’s letter was…a bit distressing. He needed some time to process it, and the war at the same time. Maybe…maybe it was a good thing after all.
“Sure, Leutnant,” he called down, tucking Paige’s letter away and stretching his wings, metal and flesh both to rise from the cupola. “Just let me tuck a few things away. I’ll be right down.”
They weren’t exactly his friends. Some of them he’d served with since the beginning, back before the blitz through Adelart. Some of them had been with him in Westkeep. Some were fresh replacements, rotated in from other Reichsarmee armored divisions to fill the holes left. Some were fresh from the Ostheer grounds, brought in with the new Ostheer line divisions. Some of them were even from other kompanies or, such as in Grimfeather’s case, other battalions. But most of them had formed a core of companions both veterans and fresh-beaks, Reichsarmee and Reformisten. And so, he went with them.
The Pit was stashed in likely the least used supply tent in the entire camp, registering noted complaints from the quartermaster that fell on deaf ears when it was revealed the ‘vital supplies’ he insisted on getting to were mostly the varying weather supplies such as thick coats, weather linings, ponchos, swamp gear, padded boots and so on. Some certainly needed coming soon, but highly unlikely to need to be cracked into in a rush or, in Cyril’s experience, even fully handed out when the time came, army efficiency being what it was. The tent always had a pair of Vollstrecker nearby, sitting in a Vasall and watching the pub closely. Semi-authorized as it was, discipline and order came first, and drunken rows would be met with whistles, batons and Feldjagers swarming over the place. To dig the knife deeper, on this one occasion the veterans of this cluster of officers didn’t even glance up at the Vollstreckers as they walked in, though the fresh-beaks did shoot a few concerned looks over.
The inside of the Pit was actually much more cozy than it looked. The canvas walls were thick and durable, and a few ad-hoc heaters had been 'requested' from elsewhere, made out of empty petrol barrels. The supply tent had a wooden floor, tracked with mud until one of the feldwebels bullied a lower enlisted to sweep it off every now and then, at which point it had a stained, sickly sort of coloration. But that didn’t matter so much to the occupants who had usually come in from trenches or long patrols. The tables and chairs were often the very supply crates full of extreme weather gear that had been complained about, though a few of the larger ones that held all-purpose tarps were converted to card tables in the corner. Against a wall, they had one of Heimclar’s few demands; a projector they ran at his insistence, running film from canisters that were kept under the strictest of guards, the quartermaster himself. Hosting the battalion film in his tent was seen as a holy honor, and stymied some of his complaints about the use of this tent. An armed landser stood over the crates and projector at all times, and everyone treated him as just as noble a warrior as one of the vaunted Templar, sometimes even being a Vollstrecker himself. The reason Heimclar had demanded the projector was obvious when it came to the films he allowed, such as a few from Talsonberg certainly, a couple of Applewood specials (that recent changeling-sponsored stuff was okay) but a lot of them were Adler propaganda from the east. Those were always good for a raising of the spirits, and the Black King Wingfried’s speech had turned out to be a popular selection when it came to thumbing through the propaganda, only just losing out to the recently made “Ich Leiste Meinen Teil!”, which was always a hit when the Zebrican auxiliaries were passing through as it had honest to gods zebras in it. Sometimes, Cyril ran into Long Haul assisting with the projector, especially when it was mandated to put on a few of Adler’s pieces, and it was good to see him after everything that had happened. With his wounds and the scars they left, Haul wasn’t much for the field anymore, though he took his job back here in camp very seriously. His new assignment to the kampfgruppe’s artillery battery had done him some good, allowing him to still engage in the battles as they presented themselves despite his limited status.
The bar itself wasn’t anything special, literally the rear bumper of a flatbed truck and a few of the sturdier field tables they could scrounge up. From the bed of the truck, Hauptfeldwebel Wimpernbüschell or one of the confederates he had in his partnership ran the Pit, serving alcohol from the crates stacked up on the truck. While you could bring your own drinks, these days it was considered a faux pas to not return with some booty for the bar after returning from leave or from some time on the town. The stocks of beer varied in quality, from looted Aquileian tender to high quality Erdbeere drinks, Griffenheim stouts, Feathisian ale, Kosakenland brew and even more exotic stuff brought in from the harbors and somehow trucked all the way out here. Hard liquor was in stock too, though most of that was the standard cheap schnapps, gin and vodka fare the still could churn out on its own. Drinks like whiskey, wine and rum were practically currency themselves in the field, and reserving it for one’s own use was never looked down upon.
Cyril and the other platoon commanders bellied up to the bar. It wasn’t too busy tonight, though the power to the bare hanging bulbs seemed to flicker intermittently like they were under shellfire. As they were not, Cyril gathered that the raised voices in another part of the camp nearby were several soldiers arguing about how to get the generator to stop screwing around. Regardless, in the semi-darkness the projector was silently showing the King’s speech again, black and white figures running around as it had just gotten to the point where Wingfried had been shot once more. Cyril pondered the screen while their drinks were retrieved. What a wonder it would be, he considered, if they could find a way to make films and photographs in color, instead of black and white? What was the limiting factor?
And then his trail of inquiry halted as the drinks were brought out, a motley collection of beer from a varied sample of the collection. Cyril lifted his Braufenweisen, pondering its amber depths for only a second before he took a gulp. Not bad, he thought. Not chilled, but then again ice was murder to haul out here every few days for a semi-legal portable pub. Not piss warm though either, a moderate experience that was tolerable and even pleasurable on colder nights.
It wasn’t a surprise that the rest of the crew filtered in over the course of the night. Axum was first, of course, flitting to Cyril’s side and asking if he needed anything. With Cyril’s new responsibilities, the usage of the changeling as an aide actually had real meaning, and he often processed the more mundane paperwork for his kommandant while Cyril himself moved on to more important things. Spotsley herself emerged quietly at one point, but she too stayed near to Cyril and didn’t speak much to anyone else. They simply nodded to one another, few words needing to be said. Schneider was the outsider in the group, unfortunately. It wasn’t just that she was new, her attitude simply ran at odds with the rest of them. It wasn’t an anomaly, the same thing had been true for Haul for quite some time. While Reichsarmee-Ostheer relations were finally thawing after months in the grind together, no one could say unification was on the horizon. They’d die for one another, certainly. But politics always seemed to get in the way, in their small or large fashions. It was…progress. But for Schneider, it wasn’t just her homeland that was a problem, it was that attitude still. She came in to drink, certainly, but seemed to hold herself above her peers in that silent way, nursing a single pint through the entire night and not hurrying to drain it as she watched over the growing crowd, her expression haughty and judgmental. Cyril still didn’t know what her problem was, plenty of Ostheer landsers had learned to ease up and they had been the ones most successfully inducted into Reichsarmee social groups. So it was obviously a personal thing, which he left alone. Never a good thing to pry into personal business until it became a problem. Then, it was all their business.
Brightclaw, interestingly, didn’t show. Cyril pondered on that one before shrugging and getting back to his drink.
The night progressed as it had before. With a spark and a bang, the bare string bulb lights were brought back to full brightness to the cheers of the Pit’s patrons. Another film was put on, some sappy romance flick (silent again because whoever had figured out how to get the projector’s audio working had to be some kind of sorcerer and none of them here knew his magic) and good times were had all around. A few landsers couldn’t remember how to moderate and they were swiftly turned over to the not so tender mercies of the Feldjagers if they refused the assistance of their comrades to return to their tents. The chatter on beaks, muzzles and lips was a variety of topics, most of which ranged from complaining about the food, smack-talking the enemy, taking the piss out of the fleet that sat cozy in their harbors now the blockade was broken, taking the piss out of the aviators that could go back to their airfields every night, considering a small run over to a nearby battalion to see if they could hijack any beer, what was going on back home, so on and so forth. But when events abroad circled back around to the war across the sea, voices paused as they all considered the Crystal City and events occurring there in hushed tones before quickly moving on to other topics. Other officers and enlisted trickled in, replacing those who had already departed. Even Rittermeister Ruria showed up after a few hours, moving to join her platoon commanders in the corner they had staked as their territory.
“Good night?” she asked, holding up a paw for a drink. Nearby, Leutnant Nebelschnabel shrugged, the first to answer.
“We haven’t been shot at today. It’s good.”
Nebelschnabel was a troublesome officer for Cyril. Not necessarily disobedient, but certainly reluctant to take his orders. He was a good panzer commander, and led his cluster of Greifkonigs in support of the Grytas quite well. The problem was, he didn’t see Cyril’s appointment as commander as valid. He hadn’t been present when the declaration had been made, having been a replacement sourced in from further east once the Verenia front had calmed down. As such, he had no personal respect for Cyril. Follow orders and respect the rank, certainly. But Nebelschnabel clearly thought he could do Cyril’s job better. They hadn’t been involved in a pitched battle yet, just this ridiculous attritional holding action. He hadn’t seen. Cyril thought that was the best display of how frustrated this front had become, an indication of morale and discipline beginning to breakdown as they simply waited for the next pounding by the Levants or the quick-firing Aquileian 7.5cm guns the frogs could haul in by truck, pop a few rounds off and then be gone before Imperial guns even had their direction.
Tonight, Nebelschnabel seemed content to be civil, merely glancing over at Cyril as if daring him to challenge the statement. Cyril, wisely, chose to take another drink.
“Good. Sorry I’m in so late. Doris Kompanie received some new blood, and one of those was their own Rittermeister. Arrogant prick.” Ruria took a swig of her drink, nodding in the same kind of contentment Cyril had known. “Anyway, expect some new faces around as well. And we’ll have to work with them going forward. The Oberstmeister says we have some new motions in the book going forward. I’ll tell you more later.”
Cyril, Nebelschnabel and even Grimfeather nodded at that. A bar was hardly the kind of place to talk about new developments from Oberkommando coming down through Heimclar. However, Ruria hardly seemed to think the same of day to day business as she tugged off her field cap and turned to Cyril.
“Listen, I’m worried about the crew of Number 71. We’ve got all the others mixed with veterans and fresh-beaks, but 71 is all fresh. Leutnant Tintenflügel tells me they’re struggling. Have you seen her?”
Cyril shook his head, making a mental note to talk to Tintenflügel in the morning. They couldn’t afford to have a panzer crew that would end up slowing them down. Every crew had its own internal gripes, disorders and tensions, but those stayed in the vehicle. If they wound up emerging to become a problem for the whole kompanie, that could get someone else killed. That made it his problem. The fact that the crew hadn’t even come together to put a battle name on 71's hull was a bad omen, a sign of vicious discord and lack of unity among the crew.
He sighed, tipping back on the beer before holding it up to gesture for another. Ruria glanced down at the veritable palisade her second in command had in front of him.
“Duskwing, you okay?”
Cyril glanced back, surprised.
“Ja, ma’am. Just fine.”
“I only ask because you seem to have built yourself a barricade there. Expecting to be assaulted by Nebelschnabel soon?”
“He wishes,” the officer in question butted in. “It’d be over so fast, I’d be having the victory toast on his corpse.”
Other nights, Cyril’s temper might flare up. He might shoot back a witty comeback or some kind of rejoinder. Hell, he might even throw the first blow. But Ruria was right. There were no waiters, so bottles tended to pile up until a lower enlisted was bullied into making the collection round. The others had been tugging at their drinks, but they had been more focused on conversation. Cyril, in contrast, easily put down twice as many as the others. He hadn’t been trying, and he hadn’t been paying attention. Now Ruria mentioned it, his head suddenly swam a bit. The delayed onset of drunkenness asserted itself like an ophiotaurus from the bush, rising without warning to strike. This wasn’t good, and he didn’t favor another night of enforced stay in the stocks.
Without anything further, Cyril arose from his seat, aware that his wings were fluttering and flaring almost of their own accord, the metal one almost seeming to be lost in delay as the more instinctive motions of the flesh and blood one twitched of their own volition.
“Actually, you’re probably right, ma’am. I think I’m going to call it now. Save myself for the morning. Guten nacht.”
Ruria nodded back rather bemused at her second leaving so abruptly, but as she had been the one to point out the large number of bottles, it would be poor form to object. Clearly, she had no desire to do so.
Spotsley helped Cyril out the flap of the Pit without a word. The Vollstrecker they were passing were already busy dealing with a large inebriated earth pony stallion who had clearly decided to pick a fight with a nearby truck (judging from the dent in the radiator grill, it had been a close draw) and as such a griffon and dog moving under their own power in a non intrusive way were not on their list of priorities. Axum had already scattered off to attend some small thing Cyril had brought up to him, so the two moved through the dark camp on their own. It was as quiet as such a place so near the front could be, the constant droning of distant aircraft overhead, the soft rumble of artillery echoing through the night, the distant crackle and pop of sporadic gunfire, the occasional stumble across a sentry patrol only visible by the cigarettes they smoked demanding the night’s password to ensure the two weren’t Republicaine infiltrators or partisans. Heimclar had already dodged an assassin’s knife last week, and security was getting ever tighter.
“You going to be okay?” Spotsley asked as they got near the tents. She’d already set up her usual arrangement, kicking open Cyril’s spare bedroll to accompany him through the night. But she could tell something was clearly bothering him. They were all heavy drinkers, it came with the trade. But Cyril’s intake lately had been…worrisome. They needed him a functional officer, not a shambling drunken mess. And, on top of that, Rebekah Spotlsey worried for her friend.
“Ja, I just…Paige’s letter came in today.”
“And that made you drink -more-?” she asked pointedly, depositing Cyril onto a crate outside the tent that he often used as a chair. Cyril leaned back, huffing as he tugged off his field cap and considered both her question and the sky above. This far away from the city, they should be seeing stars. However, the constant gloomy pall of bombs, incendiary weapons, diesel exhaust and dust kicked up by endless formations of trucks and tracks left a constant smudge across the sky. No stars tonight. As long as they didn’t see any Levants either, that was fine.
“She’s worried. Wrote a shorter letter this time. She thinks we’re getting eaten up by the war.” He paused, reconsidering his words. He wasn’t slurring his speech or stammering, but clearly he had imbibed more than he’d realized. “Consumed, I mean. She’s worried we’re not going to know what to do when the war ends.”
“When,” Spotsley quietly chided. The single word held a lot of meaning for them, for every soldier in the Reichsarmee. The truth of the matter was that even if the war with Aquileia ended tomorrow, if the Republic in the north simply went away and Vedina threw in the towel, the sad fact was there would be somegriff else lining up for the next slot. Though not very large, the Socialist Republic of Skynavia was certainly one of their next enemies, from an ideological standpoint as well as territorial. Hardline socialists that they were, the funding and instruction they’d received from Stalliongrad before the war had stopped those efforts meant that they would be a hard nut to crack regardless of scale. Wingbardy would be the next big thing, and soon. If the southern realm wanted a chance at victory, they’d have to strike in the next few years before the Empire could consolidate their gains and restore their losses. That war would take years, at least. Though wracked by internal divisions and economic woes the past decade, Wingbardy still had capable soldiers and a string of victories under their belt in Sicameon and Abyssinia to shake out the dust and cobwebs. While it was known they were behind in terms of hardware and industry, it wasn’t a wide gap now. If Beakolini wanted to win, his best chance would be sooner, rather than later. And then, of course, who knew where the Riverlands would be. Would they still be fighting each other? Would a clear winner have emerged from the Anarchie? Ost-Griffonia’s main dedication was guarding the east, so they would be the best prepared for the Riverponies. But who knew what that would look like in five years? Six? And then what? Who would step up after that?
In contrast, if the war in Equus ended tomorrow, that was it. Everypony could go back to living their life, rebuild and move on. Paige would come to Griffonia to…what? Be with him, certainly. And she deserved the rest. But Griffonia would go on tearing itself apart for at least the next ten years. None of the powers present were under any delusion to the fact. There could be no peaceful cooperation with neighbors like these. If one nation decided not to join the great scrap, their enemies would land on them with both feet like a falling meteor at the opportunity presented. That kind of mentality had been what had spurred the Entente to invade in the first place. Aquileian politicians had been very firm on the fact that if not now, it would have happened sooner or later.
The fact settled in on them. ‘When’ had become a catchall term for Imperial forces. ‘When’ was an indication that even if they survived today, there was years of hard struggle still ahead of them. It was inevitable, really. Cyril and Spotsley knew it. It didn’t need to be said aloud.
“Ink’s in good spirit,” Spotsley said, picking up the conversation and moving on. “I don’t know if you got a letter from him recently?”
“Not yet,” Cyril replied, smirking in reply. “I think he saves most of his effort for you.”
Spotsley blushed, almost indiscernible in the weak light, though that was her only reaction. During Machinki’s recovery, the two had taken what had started as a nascent friendship after rebuilding bridges again and carried it on through their own letters. It was quite similar to Cyril’s own long-distance relationship with Paige, though her own penpal was on the same continent at least. Cyril had only seen a few of Spotsley’s letters from Machinki. The big Gryphussian had been grievously injured at Westkeep, and his recovery had been touch and go from the start. That much dark magic had nearly vaporized him the same as his unfortunate crew, and even the wing that had remained had been too badly mauled, amputated despite the miracle. No photos had come yet, though from Machinki’s descriptions he claimed he had more ‘medals’ than Cyril, referring to both the pair of crystal-powered prosthetic wings and the other scars and augmentations he now bore, including a beak attachment. While there had been a time where the knight had wallowed in his misery both at his wounds and the fate of his crew, he had come roaring back with declarations of his desire to rejoin the fight and reap bloody revenge. He wasn’t out of physical therapy yet, with all the numerous pieces he had to get accustomed to. But he had kept up with Cyril’s journey both through letters and the newspapers. Ironically, he seemed to consider the overblown propaganda pieces the truth, and Cyril’s own corrections after the fact mere humble chatter, declaring he knew nothing could stand before them once he returned. Maybe that was even true.
But the letters he had seen to Spotsley had been…surprisingly tender. Less boisterous boasting, more serious and level talk. Spotsley and Machinki might not be to the point of professing their undying love (which was neither of their own personality) but they had indeed come close. Cyril was happy for them both, and hoped they’d get the time to see where this was going between them.
“He’s not worried,” Spotsley continued as her face eased up its coloration below her fur. “He seems to think it's all going to work out. I’d call him naive except…”
“Except it’s Ink,” Cyril finished for her. “And we know he’s anything but naive. Got too much steel in him now for that.”
Spotsley chuckled as well, glancing over her shoulder. She chose to remain standing, a good sign given that Cyril felt little inclination to rise from his seat. They watched the camp from their little cluster of tents, the few lights left on in the night blazing intermittently, not wanting to give the frogs a good target to pound from the air. After the topic they had been speaking of, and Paige’s letter, and that notorious question of ‘When’, Cyril could see what had Paige so concerned. The camp felt more like home now than that tenement in Industrie ever had, sad fact it was to say. And no, he couldn’t imagine what he’d do when the fighting ended anymore. His plan was already pretty tenuous a few years ago, when he had enlisted. Now? It was impossible to visualize.
Another movement caught his eye, and Spotlsey’s head turned too to track it. Nearby, not headed in their direction but close enough they could make out details, was Brightclaw. The radio operator walking past and in conversation with someone next to him, not quiet discernable yet. After all, the drake was big, all that time he had spent as a loader stocking him up on muscle to match his frame. Cyril and Spotsley waited patiently, silently curious as to just where their crewmate had been all night instead of with them at the Pit. Finally, Brightclaw’s head moved enough that they could make out enough details on his companion.
“No fucking way,” Spotsley let slip, though Cyril was on the same track as her, stunned and shocked. For Brightclaw was currently out enjoying a late night stroll in the middle of a war camp with none other than Sarika Basu, the Hindian war correspondent. They weren’t surprised she had decided to stick around, and had become more or less a permanent fixture of the kampfgruppe. Sometimes she even ventured out into the field armed with nothing more than a notepad, a camera and a field vest that read ‘REPORTERIN’ across the front in white letters. Her willingness to go to whatever lengths she needed to in order to get her story and all its genuine facts for the papers back in Ostkranbi was remarkable, and foreigner or no, civilian or no, she had earned a real respect from the rank and file, even a slight measure from the Reformisten among them.
But Brightclaw? The son of the bishop? The worrier who constantly whispered prayers under his breath? After all the flirting she’d done, Cyril had been convinced he’d been warding off her advances forever.
“I’ll be damned,” he chuckled, the situation both absurd and intensely amusing. For all that he had worried, an answer to distracting her attentions had fallen from the most unlikely of places. “I guess we know what they’ll be doing after the war.”
“I think we know what they’ll be doing next time they get leave,” Spotsley returned enviously.
And Cyril laughed, long and loud. It was too funny, he decided, and too unlikely to let go to waste. You had to get your kicks where you could get them.
In the distance, another peal of thunder rumbled again.
“If you put two griffons in a room, you get three opinions.” -Common Equestrian proverb
“If you put three griffons in a room, only two leave.” -Common Riverlander proverb
August 16th, 1012 Middenheim, Geburtsort, Duchy of Yale
“I do not see the purpose of this.”
“They don’t have military balls in Ost-Griffonia? Events, all that?”
“Certainly. But we host competitions. Duels, ceremonies, speeches. A gathering of soldiers -by- soldiers. The celebrations at the warrior lodges are spectacles for troops and officers alike. Not like this useless posturing.”
“Ah. Suddenly a lot makes sense.”
The drake in black swung to Generalfeldmarschall August Duskwing, eyes narrowed in suspicion. He seemed to mull it over for a moment, trying to feel out the snub on his own and guess at the insult hidden in the former Stormtrooper’s voice or tone. Upon not finding such himself, Luftfeldmeister Leonid Beekyarov commander of the Ost-Luftwaffe grunted in annoyance. He reminded him quite a lot of Reinhold Thundertail in that same bullish, brusque manner. The two both held a hatred of politics, and as a result of their dispositions were also both open books completely readable without a hint of guile.
“Are you implying something, herr Feldmarschall?”
Before August himself could reply, one of the other two figures sitting at the table with them sighed in aggravation.
“He is implying we have no subtlety or skill at political maneuvering. Not an unfair judgement, but a general one to make with too many exceptions.”
The griff who had just spoken was himself Generalmajor Savros Vigilus, himself a member of the formidable Ost-Heer and technically still a commissioned officer in the Reichsarmee. Vigilus was a native Hellquillian himself who had departed the territory when the Order had turned its back on the Empire after Grover V was crowned in 979. The Order, it was stated, would not kneel to such a weak realm. Vigilus, a young knight at the time, had renounced his vows and left westward in disgust. After the reunification and Wingfried’s appointment as Lord Protector, Oberkommando had recognized the value in sending a drake such as him back east to act as both liaison and coordinator, something Vigilus was very on board with. While he sat there now in his Integralist blacks, any who knew him had seen him just as comfortable in Reichsarmee green-gray.
Beekyarov huffed in return himself, arms crossed over his decorated breast.
“I know the -reason- for hosting such a gathering. But the purpose of events eludes me. There are vapid nobles and politicking generals talking endlessly about nothing out loud but quietly making plans and building clandestine alliances behind sheltered wings and in the corners. There’s no true merriment here, only pointless displays of wealth and backbiting scheming that weakens the Kaiserreich from within. It should all be in the open, out of the shadows. In Kosakenland things were done properly. A feast, with a roaring fire in the hearth and good drink all around while the chiefs discussed business in the same hall. A party is a -party-, not some quiet dining event at a local club. That is what I do not understand.”
“It’s less about the lack of enjoyment and more about the chance to make honest dealings,” August began. “Well, so to speak. This gala is held under a host or hostess, who takes the security of their guests seriously. With such a clime, deals and agreements can be made with more surety that both parties are on the straight and level. Anygriff who wants to assassinate or cheat another here risks incurring the wrath of their host. And given that this hostess is technically the Duchess-Regent herself through the new baroness, no one is going to risk bringing that kind of attention down on them.”
Beekyarov squinted, as if seeing August clearly for the first time and trying to place him in some familiar frame of reference.
“You…you are the one whose son got the first iron wing, aye? That young panzer ace.”
August bristled, but only slightly. It wasn’t the first time he’d been asked that question, and he knew it likely wouldn’t be the last. While he loved Cyril like his own boy, stating anything other than the truth was a disservice to Stefan’s memory.
“My nephew, but yes.”
Beekyarov snorted, still clearly not impressed despite the revelation as he carried on with the previous conversation.
“Like I said, pointless posturing. The scheming of nobles is part of what led to the Revolution in the first place, and before that the breakup of the Empire.”
Vigilus growled, a sound of immense aggravation. Clearly, the younger knight was sorry to have brought the point along.
“Let it go, Leonid. For fuck’s sake, we all know the only way you’re going to uproot three centuries of aristocratic nonsense is at bayonet point. You going to be a revolutionary now?”
The luftkommandant snorted in loud and obvious derision.
“Hardly. A more insulting barb you could not have delivered, ‘serr’ Vigilus the Defector.”
“Then shut it, waffenbrüder, you are preaching to the choir. We need some of that ‘useless politicking’ if we want to influence things here. What worked in the east won’t work in the west.”
August shook his head, glancing away from the two squabbling drakes as they descended into another blow by blow of political commentary about the Ost-Reich versus the Kaiserreich once more to look over at the silent griff sitting next to him, spot free black uniform practically stiff as he held to his quiet observation. He still wore the dark glasses seemingly through habit if nothing else, but August suspected it to be at least partly intended to fend off attention from sycophantic busybodies.
“Are they going to be like this all night?”
With a simple nod, Feldzeugmeister Féher Zugravescu expressed no great deal of suppressed exasperation himself, clearly not overly taxed by observing such an exchange as if doing so was a common or dear occurrence to him.
“Not long,” was all the seldom talkative drake spoke, almost wistfully as if amused by the display. August shook his head once more and glanced around.
This celebration, by all rights, should have been held in as prestigious a place as possible. The new Duke’s estate in Greenback, having been rebuilt after the Herzland War to facilitate the new dynasty, would have been the ideal place to host such an event. However, when Duchess Regent Gabriela had made her order, it had been very specific. Not Greenback, no. Not even the second most prestigious burg in the Duchy at the city of Yale itself, home to some of the highest centers of learning on the entire continent. No, the Duchess Regent had ordered this celebration be held in Middenheim, the city home to the School of Economics. One could certainly see this as a direct snub, a way for Gabriela to remind everyone in attendance who was in charge by refusing to give the Duke his chance to show off and work his own political dance. But given who the gala was being thrown for, August was more willing to gamble that the Duchess-Regent was being more pragmatic than spiteful.
The estate chosen had been that of a local baroness who had willingly given way to such a request with no resistance, likely as a way to peacock and earn favor with aristocrats so far above her station she was unlikely to have ever interacted with them otherwise. Whatever else she was, the mansion she owned had been decorated as well as any ballroom back in Griffenheim, if a little small. It also was hung up in the modern style, with strings of lights connected between marble pillars lighting up the wings, hanging tapestries and banners honoring each of the various houses in attendance strung from the balcony, crystal chandeliers spaced across the ceiling to illuminate the great space in whole. The floor was mostly hard tile likely imported from some exotic or far away place to incur eye rolling at such expense, while tasteful if a little dated artwork hung from the walls themselves. At one end of the ballroom, a twisting staircase led to the balcony of the second floor, where griffons, dogs and ponies of the noble class quietly conversed as they literally looked down at the event, dressed in the latest trends of high class fashion, expensive tuxedos, dresses and formal uniforms all adorned with sparkling decorations that could blind the unwary, jewelry and perfectly starched gloves shown off on every limb. Off to one side, a string quartet played at their instruments solemnly, faces caught between disciplined concentration and aggravated constipation. At the head of the room, beyond floor to ceiling windows looking out over the well-lit garden where more guests casually conversed, a very enthusiastic baroness watched eagerly, taking all comers who chose to come speak to her. She wasn’t quite the center of attention, but it was clear she would profit handsomely from tonight, financially and politically.
The party from Griffenheim, the one who had ordered this event in the first place, was not yet present. Tastefully late was a concept August had never grasped, coming instead from a world where you showed up to your factory shift on time or lose your job, you arrived for an illicit deal punctually or your boss would whip you, and you based your entire military existence off the preservation of timetables. Fashionably late was not in his vocabulary, leaving him just as annoyed as the three Reformisten officers who had, after spotting him sitting alone off to the side, invited themselves to sit and keep him company. There were other military figures in the room, of course. Reichsarmee, Kaiserliche Marine, Luftstreitkräfte, even a few knights from lesser orders, but these three were the only Ost-Reich officials in attendance. Passing by his table as they sought to exit the crowd of socializing aristocrats, their black uniforms standing out against the wave of well-tailored suits and dresses, the three had drawn chairs and proceeded to launch this discussion. August Duskwing had dealt with Ost-Griffonians enough to recognize that they were wandering alone, trying to find some place to gain shelter with one who understood them. They’d never admit it, of course, but being nobles themselves (the weird Reformisten version) they had to know just how much they stood out here and were self-conscious enough to try and blend in. Either that or they did not care about their isolation and were merely looking for someone they respected enough to sit with and pass the time. Knowing the arrogance of the Black Knights he deduced the latter to be more likely. August could not help but relate; being the judge in a court martial that had been unfavorable to the more influential noble of the two involved did little to improve his already non-existent standing among the higher echelons of society.
“The real question,” Vigilus finally asked as the two finally stopped their argument long enough to contemplate their situation once more. “Is why -we- are invited. The Reformisten is hardly popular with the aristocracy, after we forced most of the eastern peer out or shot the worst. And I’d hardly call you a political drake, herr Generalfeldmarschall.”
“Speaking of shooting the worst,” Beekyarov chuckled as he interrupted the conversation once more. “Duskwing, you should have seen what happened when Prince Erich ordered Pallas executed by an all pony firing squad. That look of sheer defeated disbelief, I’ll never forget.”
As Beekyarov chortled over the memory, August let his mind go back to Vigilus own statement, though that was a question he didn’t have an answer to. Not one for idle chatter, he chose not to speculate and merely sat back to consider the question as the conversation carried on again. It was a good question, and made him ponder the possible answer. Before his train of thought could really leave the station, however, Leutnant-Oberst Dvorjak came stumbling back to the table, wings flaring in brief panic as he tried not to trip over some countess’ dress train, a very undignified look for such an officer. Luckily, Beekyarov was already up from the table and helping to catch some of the drinks before they spilled, quickly checking to make sure Dvorjak was unharmed and still on his feet. Crisis averted, the refreshments were passed around, and conversation halted for a moment.
Beekyarov, ever the social combatant, still found something to raise a gripe about; the drinks.
“Wine,” the black drake snorted, glancing around at the glasses full of the classic taste of the aristos that the others had picked up. “Such a gentle brew, you would have to guzzle it like water to get drunk.” He gestured at Dvorjak. “Did you bring what I asked you?”
Sighing, Dvorjak reached into his coat, extracting a flask with a silver totenkopf emblem on it. Though not especially illegal, as a Kosakenland native himself the adjutant had known exactly what Beekyarov was asking for when he was sent up to the luftkommandant’s quarters to fetch this particular container.
“Ah, excellent! Did you sample some yourself? You brought it all the way down. You probably miss the taste, yes?”
August also knew, though that was more through speaking with Dvorjak about the home he had left behind. The Gryphain Host, renamed Kosakenland after joining with Ost-Griffonia, had little time for the soft wines of northerners. They also preferred a type of homebrew beer that was made particularly to carry a much stronger alcohol content. Less fit for typical social consumption by Herzland standards, it was very popular with factory workers and frontline soldiers, and the Kossaks themselves were just fine with that reputation. Dvorjak wordlessly unscrewed the lid, taking a swift swig and immediately coughing at the strong rush that ran down his throat. To his credit, he quickly suppressed the sensation as he was reminded of the drink of his birthplace, and Beekyarov chuckled heartily, taking the flask himself. He offered it to August as well who, after a moment’s consideration, took it silently and made sure to down a larger gulp of the brew. The homemade beer was strong in both flavor and the bite of alcohol, but it had a sweeter edge to it as well. Brewed from rye instead of hops, perhaps?
“I knew the relative to a hero of Temsoar would have good taste!” Beekyarov chortled as he took back the flask. “A real fighting drake’s drink! Nothing like the grape juice and cider piss these prissies sip at, aye?”
With that, he took a deep pull, clacking his beak as he finished his first taste. His good mood restored, he started up a new talk with Vigilus, this time about the merits of starting a Grenzwald style brewery in Griffenheim.
August, being a very plain drake, had requested his adjutant fetch him a decent red wine, which of course he had. He’d rather have a beer, but those were seen as the drink of commoners or of relaxation, and it wasn’t the right crowd to risk getting drunk on something harder. This gave him exactly the time to pick out the guest of honor tonight aside from their host. He was an unassuming drake, situated off the side and enjoying what looked to be an animated and engaging conversation with a clawful of others nearby. Whether they were genuinely interested in what he had to say or were merely playing to the sycophant angle was anygriff’s guess. Prince De Charbon, the self-appointed representative of the wealthy banking city of Flowena, had signed quite possibly the biggest breakthrough for the Kaiserreich here in the southern theater. While the Reichsarmee were tied down in occupation duty in a thousand towns and cities, Flowena had not only been treated with soft claws (any rumors of vaults being pillaged were exaggerated, though some looting had occurred regardless) because of the tremendous amount of wealth they represented. Flowena had, was, and likely would still represent massive financial interests, the center of a dozen of the largest banks on Griffonia. They were so rich, they could likely compare to the Imperial vaults in terms of wealth. Under the control of the Republique, Flowena had provided massive funds and loans to the Republicaine cause, loans that were now unable to be repaid unless Aquileia reclaimed the city or the Empire won. Occupation policy had been mixed in the Oberkommando on just how to approach the question of exerting force versus outright negotiation when it was all solved for them. De Charbon, self-appointed Prince of the occupied city, had marched out one day and requested to not only formally surrender the city as an independent entity from the Republicaine cause, but to then voluntarily reintegrate his city to the Empire. While quite a lot of funds had gone to bankroll the Republicaine war effort and some thousands had been lost exchanging the city back and forth, De Charbon had publicly revealed several reserve vaults underground that had saved part of the vast fortune from being pillaged, vaults he himself had taken personal control of and opened to the Empire’s coffers for their own war. Needless to say, Griffenheim had leapt at this offer. Now, here they were, celebrating the first southern province to accept reintegration and full Imperial rule, all because a single griffon decided it was time to act and chose what he thought would be the winning side.
August’s musings were suddenly cut short at a shrill statement, and he grimaced. It had taken a lot shorter time than he had assumed (hoped) to get the attention he hadn’t wanted.
“Generalfeldmarschall Duskwing! I am glad to have found you at last!”
She was a glittering spectacle, a formel covered from crest to tail in gold, diamonds, pearls and silks. The elaborate sea-green dress she wore almost looked like it was bound to her as a second skin, a risque look by the fashions of the Herzland which lately advocated for either full coverage or nothing at all. To thread the middle by wearing such a piece was a statement in and of itself. Upon her head, she wore a glistening tiara of silver, with a ruby the size of a chicken’s egg taking place of prominence in the middle. She was in her youth, perhaps late 20s or early 30s, her feathers a shade of tan edged with a smattering of black across her breast. Behind her, in the place of honor normally held by a house retainer or bodyguard, was a gray mare with a greenish mane, dressed in military uniform and bearing of someone who really would rather be anywhere else at that moment.
He didn’t know her personally, but she certainly wasn’t military or from a conservative camp, so he therefore had little chance of meeting her before. And no scion of an old family would so daringly stroll up to their table specifically for him, even the dumb ones weren’t that stupid. This was a public appearance, a spectacle to gain attention. So, a Niederer Adel, then. Those griffons from claims typically in parts of the old Empire that had been lost after the secessions and Revolution. They’d held onto their name only titles through the decades, passing them on to their children with their fortunes but little in the way of actual political power. The lucky ones had been granted new titles in the former Holy League, replacing outright traitorous families and taking their lands and titles. Some others now were strolling into the Peripherie and Verenia to assert their claims to ancient family titles, only to find their family lands were clustered with craters, wreckage and rotting corpses. The rest had to sit and wait for the Reichsarmee to finish conquering the continent so they could get on with squabbling over who got what out of the annexation.
Some, new additions, were from Ost-Griffonia, having been ejected by the Integralist Reformisten. Those lucky ones who had learned to bow their heads and ride with the new regime were…few. The ones who hadn’t caught the changing winds or bowed to Wingfried’s demands had found themselves treated much like socialists and traitors in Ost-Griffonia; dodging bullets and seeking desperate sanctuary in the Kaiserreich. Needless to say, it was a lesson quickly learned.
This formel wasn’t old enough to have fled before the Secessions herself. A child inheriting a family name, then. He rose from his seat, clearing his throat and brushing off his uniform. A commoner risen through the ranks he might be, he knew his mannerisms around the aristocracy, however meek and feeble a role they were in.
“I apologize, Fraulein. I don’t believe I’ve had the honor.”
She smiled regardless, extending her gem covered claw, a ring on each digit of different rare stones.
“Of course, I should have introduced myself. Gräfin Elisabet von Balefire, daughter of Graf Helmut von Balefire. I inherited my father’s title after he died last year.”
He took her offered claw, gently leaning his head down to nuzzle her talons with his beak. So, Verenian then. She had likely come down after the army had moved on to see what she could claim of her old estates, which had changed claws a dozen times since 972, when Aquileia’s secession had prompted Verenia to split off as well.
“Might I introduce Alesia Snezhnaya, commander of the White Druzhina landschneckt group? She’s agreed to a lucrative contract with my house to have her soldiers fight for the Empire’s cause.”
The gray mare nodded stiffly, offering her hoof to August. He took it and shook firmly, taking the heartbeat or so it gave him to look her up and down. Upon closer inspection, the uniform she wore was not one he recognized, though the gorget depicted unfamiliar four-pointed stars like that of a compass, the trio of medals underneath not from any military he knew. Judging from her name, she was either Severyanan or one of the Riverlanders, though a wide cultural gap separated the two. Crow’s feet tugged her eyes in one direction while bags under the socket went in another, a life lived long and full of stress and worry. Early to mid forties, he guessed. As a mercenary, that meant she was either very skilled to have lived this long, new to the business or very good at saving her own skin. Many pony nobles in the Empire were Severyanan aristocrats ejected from their home after their own Revolution (and then again when Aquileia descended into chaos), and while they were few their accounts were vast. To better fit into their newly adopted homes, these ponies hired the numerous landschneckt armies roving Griffonia to act in their interest as household troops…or as part of their contribution to the military.
He let go of her hoof, and she spoke. The accent was thick, though formal, telling of an aristocratic education. Severyanan, for sure.
“It is my honor, herr Feldmarschall.”
“The honor is mine, for both of you.” He turned back to Elisabet, not liking the look in her eye or where he dreaded this conversation might just be heading. “Mein Dame, is there something I can do for you? Would you like to pull up a chair with us?”
It was a carefully calculated tactic, he thought. If she only wanted to use his appearance and reputation to pad her own, she risked offending all those at the table by refusing and exposing her shallow gambit. Not that she’d actually care about offending them if he assumed correctly, the loss of face was more of her concern. However, she would then have to ingratiate herself with the party at the table, which was clearly the last thing she wanted.
But she sidestepped it with a rather obvious polite dismissal.
“Oh, I don’t mean to interrupt your conversation.” Which she already had done, by stepping over here. “I only wanted a quick word with you, Herr Feldmarschall. I saw you over here and knew I might not get another chance! Your reputation precedes you, after all!”
“My…reputation?”
This was what he dreaded. Throughout his career, August had been very careful to keep out of the intrigues of the court. As a commoner, it was a world he was entirely separate from, beyond and above both his station and his interest. However, even commoners were promoted to officer ranks, and the state of the military was very prestigious to the nobility, which accounted for the number of peer officers in the ranks. The Reichsarmee (and now the Marine and Luftstreitkrafte) were deeply tied to Imperial culture, and as such was always in ‘vogue’. But August Duskwing was literally the highest ranking commoner ever promoted. No other member of the General Staff or Oberkommando was a commoner, all scions and proud results of long martial lineages. And he? He was a former factory worker, convict, line soldier and Stormtrooper in that order. An aberration, by the perspective of the nobles glaring down their beaks (and now muzzles these days) at him. Hence, he had always tried to keep out of the limelight and accrue a reputation at all. This was one reason why.
Elisabet threw her head back and guffawed, dramatic and overplayed. August glanced to Alesia, and the mare rolled her eyes in aggravation, something he was sure she wouldn’t have done with her patron alone. It struck him as a question why Elisabet had hired the White Druzhina to begin with. Surely she had enough money and a household to retain her own troop formations? Then again, the Neiderer Adel were known to clamor onto every new and popular thing to make themselves look more prestigious than they actually were. It wouldn’t surprise him to learn the young countess had decided the fad looked smart on her than consider why the White Exiles did it in the first place.
“Oh my dear Feldmarschall! I apologize, I assumed you knew! You’re the one, of course! The Commoner General who struck down the Van Zieks dynasty with Feldzeugmeister Zugravescu! Of course there would be a reputation!”
“Mein Dame, I was merely the judge at the court martial,” August tried to gently correct, shooting a withering glance back at the table of Reformisten officers, half of whom had been at that damned trial. None of them, as predicted, came to his rescue, merely watching the proceeding with that disaffected air of sitting on a bench at a zoo as the elephants threw dirt at each other, an expression of smug contemplation on their faces as they took in the spectacle. Zugravescu, as predicted, watched on with an expression of silent fascination. “My ruling only came about after the Panel made their decisions.”
Elisabet, either determined to get her way at courting a drake of such infamy or literally so blockheaded she didn’t hear the difference, shot him what she certainly thought was a subtle wink which was so provocative and blatant it physically stopped him up short.
“Of course, Herr Feldmarschall! I understand completely.”
Abruptly, from out of left field, Savros Vigilus stood as well to come to August’s side, a move that seemed to throw the young countess off. Noble in family the other two might have been, Vigilus had actually lived in the Kaiserreich for a number of years, and witnessed some level of the aristocratic court himself.
“Mein Dame, might I present myself? I am Generalmeister Savros Vigilus, of the Ost-Griffonian Heer. I don’t mean to be rude, but I could not help witnessing your conversation with the honorable Generalfeldmarschall.”
The declaration of allegiance and the use of August’s full and proper rank made it plain that he was not nosing in to toady up, even as he too brought his beak to Elisabet’s claw and shook Alesia’s hoof. August relaxed a little. Say what you want about Reformisten officers, they weren’t ones to do things by half.
Introductions done, Vigilus continued barrelling in with his determined rescue attempt.
“I couldn’t help but overhear you are the Gräfin von Balefire? I am curious, have you returned to your family estate?”
“I have! Dreadful what the locals have done with it. And then the army having to take it back by force.” Elisabet tutted like she had witnessed a slight faux pas at a dinner event, instead of referring to decades of civil chaos and years of military grade slaughter and destruction. “Luckily for me, the house is intact. I only need to hire some laborers and the estate will be restored good as new. The hauptmann of engineers assured me they’d clear the battle damage.”
Vigilus shot a glance over at August, a smirk on his beak before he wiped it away. Such a casual statement to address shell craters, unexploded ordnance and mounds of corpses. Likely Balefire wouldn’t be ‘restored’ for years, even with the Reichsarmee’s help.
“And what do you think of the state of the war, mein Dame? We are, of course, eager to hear how you view our efforts.”
Hand it to Vigilus, the drake knew how to execute an assault. With an introduction and a few questions, he had completely derailed the vapid formel from her attempt at grandstanding and scandal, and fixated it on something she certainly held in high regard; her own opinion.
“Well, I should wonder what’s taking so long. No offense to either of you, or our brave and valiant troops in the field. But one would think we should have smashed a bunch of disorderly rabble by now, shouldn’t we? Cloudbury only has, what, a fifth of the Reicharmee’s strength to their name? Less, now that traitor general has betrayed them. And a lot of other families have land in the south they’re eager to return to. I for one would love to see the Republicaine experiment finally put to an end, so the rightful rulers that the gods appointed can return.”
She certainly had given what she was going to say a lot of thought beforehand. Though terribly misinformed in and of itself, the topic had likely been of some interest to her, and August cringed at such generalizations to what he knew were complex and multifaceted problems. But where he did not know how to carry such a statement onwards (by the gods, even the stupidest general he had ever spoken to had been smarter than this formel), Vigilus immediately changed tact yet again.
“We all would love to see this conflict through to the end, mein Dame. Perhaps after Aquileia, we can go and send a troop to help our allies and reclaim Nova Griffonia? After all, we should want to get it before the changelings do.”
There. With that, August knew Savros, the brilliant bastard, had swiftly and efficiently driven the noble onto a topic that would keep her spieling off so long, she would hardly even think to return to trying to coddle his own favor. Vigilus glanced at Duskwing again, an expression of triumph on his face. The drake had once been part of the Imperial Guard, a lowly baron with no real claim to the lands back in Hellquill that had once been his family’s to own. However, what he lacked in title he had clearly picked up with experience, using the constant contact with nobles during his time protecting the Imperial Palace to learn the quickest, most efficient way to put off feckless aristos with no more than a few brain cells between their ears.
But Elisabet’s next words gave the two officer drakes another turn, as she smirked mischievously. It seemed she had cleverly anticipated this very topic coming up, and her response was rehearsed, smooth and delivered from a position of both complete sincerity and utter disconnect.
"Well, why shouldn't we let the changelings have Equus? They aren't rebuilding a former realm like we are, their invasion is completely alien. It'll take decades for them to solidify control, if they ever do. Yes, they'll have an entire continent, but by the time they can take advantage of that, where will we be? Give it a few years, we'll finish this war, conquer Wingbardy and the north, finish off the Riverponies while they're busy destroying each other and then Zebrica is all ours. What can a bunch of warlords and tribal chiefs do against the might of the Reichsarmee? Who's going to stop us? The hippogriffs?"
Back at the table, Beekyarov had been slowly rising at every word out of this formel’s beak, a centimeter at a time as he had locked in on her inane ramblings. The absolute dredge spilling from so uninformed, so pampered, so spoiled and sheltered a mind as this countess had. Next to him, Zugravescu raised a claw, calmly gesturing the Kosaken native back into his seat. August glanced over at Alesia, certain the mare would have something to say about her employer so casually implying that her homeland might just be fed to the changelings as a matter of practicality. To her credit, the mare barely reacted, seemingly fascinated by some tapestry nearby, only the slight twitch of an eye any overt sign that she had heard the statement.
Elisabet had noticed the gesture, however. Whatever tangent spiel she had started on, it seemed to peter out in her beak as she remembered who else she was in the presence of. She certainly knew Zugravescu by past events, for she had mentioned him herself. Perhaps she hadn’t realized the quiet orange drake in the dark glasses was someone so infamous, but then again Zugravescu didn’t really make himself a fixture of attention. August’s mind cast back to Van Zieks’ trial, and he quietly made himself question that statement.
“And you must be the vaunted Feldzeugmeister himself! Zugravescu, in the flesh!”
The orange drake merely gave a slow nod, shifting imperceptibly in his seat but clearly not intending to stand up.
“I am.”
Nothing else came after that simple declaration, a quiet snub that had both August and Vigilus glancing back and forth, wondering where things would go. Beekyarov smirked, taking a pull from his flask. Dvorjak looked uneasy, but in the way that subordinates had around their superiors managed to hide it fast enough to avoid attention.
“I…see,” Elisabet replied, visibly put out before she rallied again. “That means you are one of significance, yes? What is your title?”
A moment of silence passed at the table, as if the officers all held their breath to watch his reaction, even Alesia as she had quietly shifted to join the side of the military members. Then, deliberately, Zugravescu straightened in his seat, reaching up to delicately take up his glasses, fixing the countess with a direct, soul-piercing stare that could have shattered ice.
“I am Feldzeugmeister. Nothing else in my life is of a higher station than that.”
It was exactly what the three drakes had expected, exactly what Elisabet had not. Alesia, for her part, looked extremely amused at watching the air deflate from her patron so swiftly.
Abruptly, a voice bellowed above all others, the volume amplified by the ballroom’s acoustics. From the double door entrance, a young page had taken up position, and called out above the crowd to gain the attention of all the attendants.
“Honored guests and loyal servants! Announcing the arrival of the Imperial party from Griffenheim; the Duchess-Regent Gabriela Eagleclaw-Weijemars!”
“Ah, I believe our hostess has finally arrived,” Zugravescu noted, causing the young countess to whip back and forth almost comically. “You should go find a seat. Preferably with your own…” The look he gave her might have been reserved for an insect he found that had been crunched between the treads of his boot. “Kind,” he ground out. The dismissal was clear.
The doors opened fully as the entire ballroom swiveled in place to witness the much anticipated arrival of the Empire’s de facto ruler, many of them salivating at the chance to petition her for their own pet causes or attempt to curry favor with her. But when the double doors opened, it was not the Duchess-Regent herself who stepped in first, but a pair of massive griffons, clad in enchanted black armor lined with gold and bearing the crest of Erdbeere on their breastplates, a white strawberry on a green field. Glowing pistols were holstered on their breastplates and while their enchanted swords remained sheathed, there was the obvious threat they could be drawn in an instant. Everyone inside knew who they were, knights of the Hertogelijke Garde, the personal bodyguards of the two Regents. After a moment, the knights moved to either side, still scanning the ballroom, but it was still not Gabriela herself who entered. Four troopers clad in the blue dress uniforms, enchanted half-plate armor and ceremonial pickelhaube of the Imperial Guard entered like they were clearing a hostile apartment, holding crystal rifles at the low ready as they too scanned the ballroom, fanning out a pair to either side before slinging the glowing magitek weapons over their shoulders.
Finally, her security clear, Duchess-Regent Gabriela entered the room. She was resplendent in a blue-gray gown spun with gold filigree, white lace tracing around the shoulders, cuffs and base of her wings. Her gold diadem was in place on her pink feathered head, and around her neck she had a simple necklace of flattened thick silver loops, hanging from which was a broach that bore the orange, yellow and black of the Imperial banner with an iron cross in the center. Even as she entered, an aide was quietly taking a fur-lined cloak of darker wool from her back, a move clearly calculated to show a bit more prominence than simply leaving it at the door to the great hall. Behind her strode two more Imperial Guard troopers, these two already having slung their rifles and marching in perfect disciplined lockstep, polished black jackboots snapping hard as they stamped the ground. Interestingly, where the knights and Guard troopers securing the way had all been griffons, the two personally escorting Gabriela were a Bronze dog and unicorn pony. As the Duchess-Regent stepped through the doors and came to a halt, these two troopers came to a perfectly timed stop and stomped loudly, sliding to rigid attention on either side of their regent.
There was no applause. That was not what happened when one of her station entered. But no one was sitting, all had risen to their paws and hooves. Covert whispering could be heard as several guests surreptitiously commented on her appearance in general, her dress, her security or the state of her expression. Some of the whispering August knew would be good, positive and supportive. Some would be idle and mean nothing. But others were from conspirators and critics, he knew.
The baroness of the estate quickly flitted to appear before the Duchess-Regent, bowing low and pressing her beak to the ring on Gabriela’s offered claw.
“Your Grace! How wonderful you have arrived and graced us with your presence!”
Gabriela’s stormy expression finally broke, and she smiled down at the simpering sycophant, gesturing her to rise.
“I apologize for my tardiness. Part of the rail line had suffered some bombing damage outside of Romau.”
Knowing the list of target priorities, August had no doubt that was true. Romau was a significant metropolitan area in the Herzland, possessing not only several arms works but also the Landsersplatz as well. Romau’s anti-air defenses were strong, but the railroads were still vulnerable to the flocks of Aquileian bombers that had resumed the pounding offensive after Vanguardigo and even the occasional Levant raid.
“If I may make a statement?” Gabriela asked politely, and the baroness nodded emphatically, sweeping aside and gesturing for the Duchess-Regent to step forward, wings quivering in such excitement August was amazed they didn’t simply pop open and flare on their own. The pink formel, who was likely one of the most powerful creatures on Faust at present, stepped forward to look imperiously around at the assembled crowd before she nodded, as if confirming something to herself.
“I sent my invitations, my summons as it were. To all of you. Griffons, ponies and dogs of power and prestige. Industrialists, members of the press, nobles of impeccable reputation and immense wealth, military commanders of high regard. From all corners you were called, and from all corners you have come. I am glad. These are hard, violent times and it is not so easy for anyone to travel. But I won’t bore you all with empty pleasantries. You’ve been waiting, though longer than I would have preferred.”
A ripple of confusion washed over the crowd, many of the more savvy individuals catching her words and frowning in confusion, trying to decipher just what she meant by such a statement.
“So I will have it out with you. We are here to honor Prinz De Charbon, and welcome him back to the fold as the new representative of Flowena, and their affirmed loyalty to the Imperial cause now they have returned. Flowena’s vaults opened to our cause are a great boon indeed, as is the military support he has already gathered from loyal Peripherie states. It is thanks to his work and contributions that you have all been inoculated with the first round of vaccinations against the perfidious Wet Plague, and we are ever grateful for this breakthrough.”
De Charbon, still off to the side and in a knot of hangers on around him that cleared immediately upon the Duchess Regent gesturing in his direction, smiled and bowed in appreciation, lifting his drink in salute to her as he placed the other claw on his breast.
“More than that, I have specifically called you all here to Middenheim to make a proclamation. I will simply have it out, with little flowery language to describe it, for it will be a difficult pill for many of you and your peers to swallow, and I wish to leave as little confusion as possible in its meaning. The aristocracy can no longer avoid their part in creating the conditions that led to the Revolution of 978. No longer shall the nobles host enough power to challenge the throne itself. The aristocracy will now exchange their titles from the throne for important official duties, the lesser gentry serving in the state apparatus or as officers in the Kaiser's armies and the higher peer using their wealth to support the Kaiserreich. We cannot allow another Revolution or Holy League to arise in the new Griffonia."
A silence fell that wiped away even the idle whispered chatter behind claws. August’s eyes were wide, but he knew that as a commoner his reaction had to be muted compared to that which was brewing in the beaks and mouths of the actual nobles around them. Though a relatively short statement, such a brutally curt statement, delivered with such casual conviction and so matter of factly was astonishing in how much weight its words carried. In the space of a minute, Duchess Regent Gabriela had just announced an upset to centuries of tradition and the very nature of the noble privilege she had championed since she had entered court decades ago.
But she didn’t let the silence sit idle and allow the murmuring to brew. Instead, she held up a claw.
“I understand, such a decision is upsetting to many of you. Rest assured I have no desire to usurp power or kick anyone out of their positions, homes or fortunes. But the simple fact is that the world has changed. Normally we would stand like a pillar in the face of that fierce tide. But we’ve been shown that is not going to be sufficient anymore. A rock can only stay unyielding so long before the ocean batters it down. And if we do not implement partial reforms now, we risk another Revolution. And after this round of wars, that would be the end of us.”
She drew herself up, clearing her throat as the murmur started again before speaking again. It seemed to August’s eye that she was trying her hardest to proceed onwards, getting the words out of her throat. He had always heard Gabriela had always been a hard firebrand to protect the rights and positions of the aristocracy, but unlike many of her opposite numbers in court her opinion and methods were…malleable. It was incorrect to assume that Grand Duke Gerlach was the one who had been behind all of the token reforms coming down the pipe as of late. Now, it seemed the pink formel was willing to throw all of her weight behind a gamble, and come right out and make it blatantly, bluntly public exactly what she intended.
“On another note, the issue of military command versus noble title. It is becoming a problem. Therefore, for the duration of this war, my same proclamation will make military rank, any military branch, supercede that of aristocratic privelege. We cannot allow officers to abuse their ancestral name to influence the flow of military affairs. Seeing how we have some of our esteemed brothers from the east here with us, I’m making it clear that yes, this includes any relations between the Dual Monarchies.”
She turned towards August’s table, dipping her head sharply at the three generals dressed in black, two of which seemed very taken aback while Zugravescu merely smirked behind his mustaches and prosthetic beak, almost like he had seen this entire unthinkable scenario coming.
“We have to strive towards unification with the Ostreich, and that means accepting their officers for nobility, however strange and different it is to us. It is a drastic step. But I have invited you here because I felt you were all significant enough to know first. There’s going to be no exception to this. And it becomes official policy when I return to Griffenheim on the morrow. We are here, as close to the fighting as I felt we could safely allow though the front is still leagues from us, because things are changing. And, now that is all out, I invite you to finish your merriment, to salve the sting these changes must bring. I believe dinner is about to be served. And now you have such a wondrous topic to discuss.”
With that, into the stunned silence strode Duchess Regent Gabriela. If any still quietly questioned just how far she was willing to go to save the Kaiserreich, that no-frills delivery had settled the question for all time.
August slowly sank back down into his seat, ignoring the apoplexy of Elisabet who had just regained her estate only to have her title turned over to the war machine, nor did he pay attention to the look of rather smug satisfaction and tacit approval on Alesia’s face. Instead, he merely turned towards Zugravescu.
“You knew.”
The orange drake, in his characteristic way, remained silent, watching after Gabriela’s depart form as the Duchess Regent strode into the crowd with the host baroness at her wing, already being mobbed by those guests who had recovered enough to begin pressing their outraged protests and questions. Many were shoved off by the knights and troopers that guarded her, and Gabriela kept her head held high and her bearing controlled. She did not slow her pace, her knights in full plate keeping a path open for her made sure she did not have to stop.
Then Zugravescu turned to August and, in a clear and rich voice he hadn’t heard from the scarred and almost deformed Ostlander, replied.
“I had certainly suspected. The choice of an economics university as the landmark to host this event was certainly a clever twist.” To August’s perplexed face, Zugravescu merely gestured towards a line of servants leaving the nearby dining hall and moving from table to table, quietly delivering the same message to each group as they went. “Ah. I believe the feast is ready. Shall we?”
Beekyarov rose at that, gesturing to Dvorjak at the same time.
“Keep your seats, Generalfeldmarschall, Feldzeugmeister. We’ll handle this, won’t we Oberstleutnant?”
Dvorjak glanced to August, who merely nodded back. This feast had the option to take food back to the ballroom like a buffet instead of sitting at the grand dining table which certainly did not possess the room for all the guests. Having already resolved himself to such course, he saw no issue with this turn of events.
Elisabet and Alesia had disappeared sometime during the Duchess-Regent’s declaration, likely so the young countess could try and avoid getting conscripted after just returning to her family lands and the mercenary probably internally chuckling the entire way. Vigilus slipped off as well, declaring he would rather fetch his own food than trust the scoundrel that was Beekyarov. For the time being, Duskwing and Zugravescu were alone.
“I was wrong about the Duchess-Regent,” Zugravescu suddenly said aloud, and indeed his voice was rich and strong. Whatever treatments he had been seeking had certainly done him good. “I came to this land expecting her to hold fast to the status quo. Now I see she is far, far smarter than I gave her credit for.”
“Did you want to go meet her?” August queried, taking a sip of his wine that he had sorely neglected during the countess’ preening session. “She just stated your rank is as good in the west as the east. You have the right to request audience.”
“What would I say? No, she has important business to attend to this night. Her true allies will flock to her support. Her enemies and critics will seek to use this to bring her down. She is using this event to gauge who will be what.” The orange drake turned to the black one, his eyes seeking out August’s mismatched ones. “I hope you will give us the same consideration?”
“Who? The Reformisten?” August asked, frowning as he took another sip. Something to do to fill a second, and he refused to give in to nervous tics.
“Indeed. I’ve often wondered why you are so hostile to our Order, when we should only be natural allies. Integralist and commoner Reichsarmee, risen from the chaff and up to prominence. Yet even at the Trial, you’ve been…” The feldzeugmeister paused, searching for the right word. August found that odd, given how blunt and forthright Feher Zugravescu had always been. “Hostile? Perhaps passive-aggressive is the right word. I would stop short at outright hatred, as you did have to remain unbiased at the court martial.”
“If that’s your impression, I would advise you put it out of your mind, mein herr. I do not hate the Integralist Reformisten, the Black King or your vaunted Knights.”
August set the glass down curtly, leaning back to examine Zugravescu. This was the kind of interaction he was made for, the one of soldiers talking straight to one another, instead of examining courtly courtesies and trying to sidestep the words of one another. Zugravescu considered the statement, thinking it over.
“But you don’t trust us.”
A statement, not a question.
“I don’t trust anyone easily. Looking at it from my view, you are an Order of reformists, not revolutionaries you say, who are outsiders that declare to want in yet are more than willing to use physical and political force to get your way. Would you trust such an organization so easily?”
“You speak of such ruthless tactics as if you look down on them, herr Duskwing. I too read your book. Unlike most, however, I both understand it and pity it. As an example, a small tangent, you advocate that the commitment to victory always carries a price, and a general should always accept this cost as essential to victory.”
“Where are you going with this, Zugravescu?”
“Just a small question, ascribing Reformisten brutality against yours; would you say the same thing if the army being sent to suffer this price had your nephew in its ranks? I know the dilemma has come to you before.”
August narrowed his eyes, taken up rather short. He had indeed faced this same thought. With his promotion, command of the force Cyril served in had come under him. He had done his best to ignore this fact, though consequently he had used his position to quietly nudge Kampfgruppe Lehr out of danger on more than one occasion. Not too often, or it would have gotten undue attention, and it always left him asking questions of himself afterwards.
Here and now, he forged on.
“I think the cost is what it is, and the price cannot be negotiated or else the surety of victory is no longer a certainty.”
They both knew, deep down, that he was lying.
“No cost too great is a fool's dictate. We are not so willing to spend lives to buy victory. Victories can hardly be called such when you are surrounded by mountains of corpses of your own. The officer's job ultimately is casualty prevention. I’ll grant you that your viewpoint is far more results oriented than many of your associates. But that is one place we Ostlanders are not so heartless. And you are certainly no fool.”
“If you read my book, then you also know that’s not a consideration a general can always take.”
Zugravescu nodded slowly, understanding Duskwing’s point. August went on.
“I have full confidence in your fighting drakes. I have seen your commitment, and I understand much of your methods and means. But for now, you are still a wildly uncontrollable factor. And it is my job to take control of such things. We can work together, I know we can. And I’ll make the best out of what you’re willing to give me. So long as you understand me too.”
“I think I do, herr Generalfeldmarschall,” Zugravescu smiled, slipping his dark lenses back over his eyes. “Or I’m starting to. You are indeed much more like us than we had thought. You would have made a good Reformisten kommandant. I look forward to us working together in the future.”
August smiled back, and for the first time in a long time, it was an honest and genuine smile.
“So do I, herr Feldzeugmeister.”
Their conversation, as it happened, was cut short as Beekyarov, Vigilus and Dvorjak returned, claws loaded with platters of gourmet fish and pork, several sides collected to fill several bellies. For now, politics and stations could be forgotten.
The landscape was torn open under her, rent in twain by the river of fire. Chasms dove down through the earth, sometimes only a few hooves deep, sometimes kilometers below, until all she could see was a faint glow. She flapped her wings as she rode the air currents, trying to avoid the clouds of ash that blew back into her face. At times, she could see an occasional ruined town or village jutting up out of it, places long since rent asunder and destroyed. What had done it, she wondered. Some great monster of fire and force? A volcano, perhaps? She saw no signs of either, but something had ruined this land.
Whispers cast into her head, beckoning. Guiding. Pulling at her. She tried to follow it, tilting one way or another. It seemed to want to pull her towards a nearby ridge with ruins on it, so she came in on final approach, pulling her wings in as she settled, sending clouds of ash into the air. She seemed drawn to it like a bird following its natural sense of migration, as irresistible as iron from a magnet. For some reason, it was hard to fly, hard to get above the ash and fire below. She barely made the ridge, landing in a cloud of debris that flew everywhere around her as she coughed and rose from her rough landing. Buildings rose around her, ruined apartments, stores, cracked and ruptured streets, even a tower or two that in a few years might have developed into a high rise. Broken statues, ruined parks, demolished automobiles, a river once mighty and wide now dry and cracked, the shattered wreckages of boats scattered around like discarded toys. Blast craters thronged the lanes, giving some hint as to what had befallen this place, and even the occasional ruptured tank or downed aircraft whispered about a struggle taken place here long ago.
And the skeletons. Not bodies, not corpses. Skeletons. The remains of thousands, tens of thousands of ponies out on the street, lying in piles or hanging out of car windows, halfway out of annihilated storefronts or dangling from office windows. Some massive conflagration had swept through the city, and Paige felt fear and dread twist her gut. The thing that had done this was clearly long gone, some monstrous aerial marauder by the bomb craters. Something so powerful as to raze a city to the ground. But she still felt the apprehension, the primitive equine response to the signs of a predator around. Flee, it told her. Turn tail and fly away, now. But her wings felt too heavy to flare and her hooves too heavy to run. So instead she trudged on through the devastated apocalyptic landscape, nursing that small, curious part of her out from under the fear. She had little choice. That urging, magnetic pull was still drawing her on ahead, into the bombed city.
She passed by a ruined tank, and didn’t recognize its make. Compared to changeling or even Equestrian tanks it was bulky, boxy and not very efficient. Maybe she had read about it somewhere? The answer swirled in her mind and then fled just as quickly, and she pushed on. The city center was ahead, and she thought she recognized the layout somewhat. Good, she would be able to tell where she was. The clouds of ash concealed her way ahead, and she had to be careful for the occasional gout of fire that erupted from under the street, likely the marehole covers and sewer entrances. Rubble and bones clattered under her as she tried to push onwards, through the screen of ash and mist. She was almost there…
And then she was through, and her eyes went wide with shock as she realized she should have run after all, should have fled from this hellish place that Tartarus might look on with envy. The city center was the Sabor of Rijekograd, the parliament building of her former home. In front of it, three pillars rose in front of the ruined structure, and as she looked closer she was horrified to see the pillars were made of bones, of skulls and ribs and legbones all piled on top of one another and locked together in a patchwork structure rising high above. On all three of these pillars was a flag. One was that of the River Republic, torn and dirty, shredded and burnt. The next was a flag she remembered from the news, recovered from basement hideaways and flown at rallies, a red banner almost identical to the Republic one, that of the city’s socialist party who had brought the land of her birth so many frustrations and woes. The third flag was that of Equestria, and it was pristine and flying even higher than the other two. Why was it there? What did Equestria have to do with the horror wrought here?
The drone of aircraft engines came to her mind, and she stumbled backwards, trying to find shelter. Her hooves stumbled, and she glanced down to realize the streets were covered in bones as well. Horrified, she forced herself onwards, towards the one place she instinctively knew must be shelter. The rumble of aircraft grew louder, closer. It must have only been one plane, but the noise in the stillness of the abattoir boneyard around her was thunderous, deafening. She found her strength again, and galloped down the streets. No longer covered in bones, she raced through the hellscape, dodging around twisted wrecked cars and turning corners as she traced the steps towards home. Her family’s cellar would work just fine as a bomber shelter, assuming it didn’t take a direct hit.
She glanced back over one shoulder, and there it was. The single, lone bomber. Four engines, blocky double finned tail. She realized, with a ghastly shock, that she knew that bomber, even from this far away. She would always recognize White Castle. Her formerly faithful crate piled on towards her, engines a flame, smoke pouring from the ruined cockpit. No matter how many turns she made through the destroyed city, its nose was always following her, and it kept coming closer, and closer as if it were a dragon swooping down towards its prey, locked in with a starving focus. But the bomber was no longer alone, there behind it was the changeling ace, the Sv.410 with the glowing engines and the magitek Spellfire cannons strobing, beams punching into White Castle over and over again.
In this city of the damned, her former home gutted and long dead, she was locked into an impossible race. Robbed of the ability to fly, she knew she needed to get home before the bomber craft plowed into her, and she knew it needed to catch her before that fighter shot it down. She somehow needed to outrun a massive bombing craft with four massive engines diving after her like a heron on a fish. She needed to get home. It was, after all, where the magnetic pull had been taking her.
At last, she turned onto her street. Every house around had been flattened, burned down to the foundations. But her house, her family house, was all the stranger. Instead of a scorched out, decrepit ruin of misery and destruction, it sat pristine, exactly how she remembered it when she left home all those years ago. Even the lawn was green and healthy, and even from here she spotted the garden her mother had so lovingly tended, the fence her father and brother had built together and the doorframe she herself had painted lavender with swirls of white around its edges. It was home, in a way Equestria could never be. And it would save her.
She galloped up the path to the approach, bolting past the mailbox and practically smashing in the front door, glancing around. The screaming of the bomber’s approach was growing ever louder, and she knew she wasn’t completely safe yet. She needed to get below, put as much earth as possible between herself and the treasonous machine beast that had once been her loyal steed. She fled past the dining room table, hoof carved by her father, past the wall of clocks her mother had lovingly restored, past the photographs of the happy family throughout the years, past the kitchen where she and Brook had helped her mother make countless meals. She fled to the cellar, the safest part of the house she had grown up.
Except there, she met more horror.
A single, bare bulb illuminated the cellar. As well as a few chests holding various items, brooms and buckets and mops, a few shelves with jars full of preserves, she looked past to see the corpses of her parents lying in a heap against the wall. They were dead, but unlike the countless ponies outside, these deaths looked to have just happened minutes ago. Her father’s expression was locked in rage, her mother of desperation and fear. Both had bullet holes in between the eyes, with blood sprayed across the walls. Her brother was not present with them, and her mind only spared a moment to wonder where he was in all this madness.
Standing over them, in the black coat and silver pins of a Reformisten soldier, was a familiar griffon. A drake with a single metallic wing, feathers of gray and a beak resembling a raven. He turned as she stood there, frozen in terror and anguish, and she knew for certain it was him.
“You’re finally here…” he said, smiling at her with all the warmth she remembered and all the exhaustion she knew he felt on a daily basis. “Providence has brought us together at last.”
Then Cyril Duskwing, proud soldier of the SchwarzeArmee, the monstrous knights of the west come again with wicked vengeance, raised the pistol in his claw and shot Paige from ten paces away.
August 29th, 1012 Bucksdale Airbase, Baltimare, Principality of Equestria No. 2 (Bombing) Group, Number 99 “Bloody Nightmares” Squadron
She woke with a shriek. Bad dreams and terrifying nightmares were nothing new to her, she’d been having them since 1009. Ever since she’d seen the monstrous creatures with her own eyes, witnessed Sombra’s Umbral aberrations and seen the price of war for herself. But they had settled, for a time. Now, they were back. And none had ever been so vivid as this one.
What was worse, it refused to go away. Paige pawed at her eyes, rubbing them as she willed the mental image to flee her mind. This didn’t make any sense. Her nightmares always fled from her memory when she woke, leaving behind only hints of their existence. Now, fields of flame, mounds of bodies and pillars of bone, Cyril. All of it remained in her memory, as if she had actually experienced it and the trauma of the scene had imprinted itself on her soul. She let out a sob of despair.
The light clicked on. Static was there, gently moving Paige’s hooves aside, trying to get at the mare beneath. Paige floundered, struggled a moment as she failed to perceive who it was assailing her, then relaxed as familiarity asserted itself.
“Easy now, Sweetness,” Static cooed, gently taking Paige up in her forelegs, holding her friend tight. “Easy, I’ve got you. Just breathe.”
Paige sucked in air, but it came out in a choked sob. Why couldn’t she stop panicking? She felt tears run down her cheeks and belatedly felt the shame to go with them. Why couldn’t she wipe the nightmare from her mind? That had always been her key defense. Now, it refused to leave, lurking just over the next thought or emotion, waiting to spring on her and inflict its horrors anew like some creature descending from the rafters.
Finally, gradually, eventually, she got control of herself. Her sobs receded. Her tears stopped running. She managed to control her thoughts. The nightmare she locked away with a mental trick she had learned, barricaded inside a mental vault and sealed with the memory of Static holding her. If she ever came close to stumbling over the nightmare again, she had a mental warning now. It wasn’t perfect, the mind was so poorly understood even by the most accomplished of dreamwalkers. Clearly, with the Princesses so distracted with the war, the realm of dreams was no longer secure. Was this an attack by Sombra himself? It was known his magics could sour ponies’ dreams and cause unrest, he’d done it in this war and the last.
No. She decided. Too much fire. She’d suffered an attack by Sombra’s creatures before. It had been an entirely different experience. This one, sadly, was all produced by the war and her own mind.
She finally pulled away, and Static let her go. Paige nodded, slowly, wiping at her eyes again.
“I’m okay…I’m okay.”
“That was a nasty one. It’s been a long time since you’ve woken up like that. And you’re usually okay after a few seconds. Do you…want to talk about it?”
A flash of dream Cyril streaked through her mind, interposed over the photo he had so thoughtlessly sent her.
“No. No, I…not now. I’m okay.”
Static looked dubious, and Paige forced a smile to assure her friend and crewmate.
“Really, Dragi. I’m okay. What time is it?”
Static took a moment before she glanced at the alarm clock, groaning in displeasure.
“0427. Almost time to get up anyway. Dammit, I wanted to get a little more sleep out of this.”
“You go back to sleep. I think I’ll stay up.”
Paige waved off Static’s look of concern, the off-white mare trying desperately to get the red one to just give it up. Her concern was touching, and they had been there for each other for years. But now, just now, Paige wanted to be left alone to exorcize her demons.
“It’s fine. I’ll go for a flying lap, get myself sorted out. I’ll come back right at reveille.”
Static watched her for a long moment, as Paige began preparing her light uniform to get ready to go. She wanted to believe the off-white pegasus was being honest, but it was clear she was agitated beyond what she was admitting. Paige kept dropping things, mumbling to herself, glancing up at Static and starting at noises outside. Something was clearly still wrong, but it was just as clear that trying to force her to stay and talk was not going to work out. Whatever had her so shook up was lodged in her head, and it would stay locked up there until Paige was willing to let it out. Regardless of the attempt at obfuscation, Static could guess at least some of what was bothering her friend. It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots on at least some issues in the Rijekan’s mind.
“Okay. Okay, you go do that. But the instant you’re ready to talk, I’m right here for you. Okay, Sweetness?”
“Okay. Thanks, Static.”
“Promise me.”
“Obećajem, I promise. When I can talk about it, you’re the one I talk to Dragi. Now, get some sleep.”
“We’re all here for you. Me, Ace…Cyril.”
Paige’s head shot up sharply, and their eyes met. Static held it, trying, willing to use what she had to ground Paige in the here and now, bring her back to earth. Far from the logic-driven savant she was normally, the pegasus was frantic, jumpy, irrational. She needed to be reminded that those fears and insecurities in her head didn’t govern her life. Those could be pushed aside, or else the real fears of anti-air fire, explosives and changeling spies would get the better of her.
Finally, Paige nodded, slowly, glacially. Her eyes were wide and her muscles tense, as though she were about to bolt, but after a moment they both relaxed a hair. She may be frantic beyond any reason, but something had gotten through at last.
“I know,” she said in reply, barely above a whisper, tensed and full of strain. Static had known Paige for almost four years now. In all that time, she had rarely heard her sound so…afraid. Not just simple fear of her situation and surroundings, but a deeper fear, a sharper fear of some hidden specter that couldn’t be seen with the naked eye.
With that, Paige gave her a light tap on the shoulder, and then she was gone. Static stood there, alone for several minutes, trying to ponder through what had just occurred. She did not go back to sleep that morning.
The moment Paige got outside, she spread her wings instantly and took off, towards the swamps of the south. She needed to fly, far and fast, away from cities and aircraft and away from the ground and all the ships and planes that gave the faint hint of escape to Griffonia. She needed to go, and get away from it all, even if just for a few minutes.
As the green, tangled growths and muddy water below streaked past her, shrouded by the predawn darkness hiding whatever was within their murky depths, she felt her eyes begin to water up once more, and despite pegasi having natural protections to resist the urge to tear up when blasted in the face by high airspeeds, she felt herself start to cry.
”Power is a drug. It is heady, addicting and potentially all-consuming. Beings of all races will kill to obtain it, and kill to hold onto it. The more you obtain, the more you desire. It is more addictive than nicotine, than opium or alcohol. But power is also like a drug in that it corrupts. It corrodes. It wears down. You will age three times as quickly on the throne or in office. And if your opponents do not kill you, your time in power most certainly will. Only sane beings know when it is time to give it up.” -Benjen V Kudlinen, Yaril of all Hindia, Stagpal and Llambet
September 3rd, 1012 Imperial Palace, Griffenheim
Duchess-Regent Gabriela Eagleclaw-Weijemars was an avowed supporter of the throne, cousin to one Kaiser and adoptive guardian aunt of another. Many believed that meant she was a conservative at heart, and that was largely true. She was all for preserving the power of the nobility through the modern age, whatever that took to hold onto it. To many griffs, that seemed to imply she still had her head in the age of Grover II, in the ancient era where sword and sorcery ruled the land through fuedalism.
But a closer look at her behavior and methods proved that wrong. True, she was not as progressive as her husband (who politically was quite liberal though pragmatism meant he reserved his deepest thoughts for their own private conversations instead) but she was an avid reformer. The Imperial palace, for example, no longer had such primitive things as oil lamps, skeleton key locks or wood-fired dispersed heating. Modern inventions like electric power, retooled key locks, central air conditioning and many other such progressions had been seen as dishonoring the legacy of the grand structure, but she had disregarded such criticisms to renovate the palace specifically to preserve the structure and those contained within. Some things had to be cast aside in order to allow the whole to survive.
This mentality was her true political philosophy. After seeing the Griffonian Empire very nearly slump into its own death throes even before the Revolution, Gabriela had resolved to do whatever it took to restore the Empire as a center of the modern age. It went beyond the new military tricks coming out of Burg Krallestein or the new works being set up at Var Silfur or even the various contractors and companies lending their genius to the war effort. It was all about the automobiles in the streets and making them available to the common griffs, it was about ice boxes to preserve food in every house and new industrial and agricultural techniques, it was about the ever spreading power and rail lines branching off the work of Grover V across the Herzland and telephones in more and more use, of the power of radio and commercial availability of airship travel, the widespread adoption of medical practices and professionals to administer them, distribution for stores and factories through massive railroad webs and fleets of cargo trucks and a million other small things upon which a mighty empire stood aside from mere military and political power.
Four short years ago, the Empire had barely pulled its head out of the gutter the Revolution of 978 had left them in, a collective malaise and economic depression decades running with a weak ruler at the helm. Now, in spite of constant wars of reclamation (or perhaps because of them, some would say) the Kaiserreich was well on its way to once more standing on equal ground with the other modern powers of the world, all because of the measures she, her husband and her claw-picked inner circle had implemented to accelerate the changes that had so long been left on the back burner. Their work wasn’t done, certainly not. But it was coming along nicely. It reached beyond the political and into the ethnic, trying to reforge a unified pangriffonian identity for all these various nations being pulled together. In the past, Kaisers had attempted a mix of direct and indirect control to keep the Empire together, and that had eventually resulted in resentment and the vassals accruing enough power to break away and rebel. Though she was loath to admit it, Gabriela knew she had to take a page out of radicals like Kemerskai and Verany, and present a third continental identity for the people, one with the Empire and the power of reformed tradition behind it. They had to come not as conquerors, but liberators and unifiers.
All they had to do was win this war and smash every challenger to come after, she thought bitterly, sighing in aggravation as she stared down at the paperwork before her. She was lucky old age had been gentle to her, and she was not forced to use corrective lenses like Gerlach’s monocle.
Her office should not technically exist. According to the traditions of the past, she should be taking care of all her business as Regent in conference, where her wisdom and control could be witnessed making important decisions and exerting her and the throne’s power before handing off her decisions to ministers and functionaries to do the hard work of translating her words to law. But she was a modern Regent and decided it was time to reform the process.
Gabriela had taken over one of the numerous studies in the palace as her own, transporting all the necessary reference documents and filing cabinets she needed as well as various textbooks on things like politics, history, agriculture, mechanical works, finance and far more on the bookshelves, transferring the poetry, art and fictional tomes that had previously filled this room to the Grand Library. Her desk, carved from black pine, was covered in endless streams of paperwork and a very modern typewriter. She had a secretary, of course, his desk seated outside in what had previously been an antechamber (a major reason she had chosen this study in particular) but she insisted on doing what work she could on her own, and as such her typewriter could usually be heard chattering like a machine gun as she went through report after report, issued edict after edict and wrote letter after letter like when she had handled the business of Erdbeere Duchy from afar (when she could, at least).
While Gerlach was at the front, she essentially ran the Empire from the keys of her typewriter and the tip of her fountain pen, and her hours often started before sunrise and ended long after sunset. Some days, she wondered why she had ever put herself up to this job considering how much work and how little reward it held. Regents in the past had lavished under such power and gained as much as they could in terms of wealth and political control, but that would mean exploiting the Empire and neglecting its proper rulership. She had put too much into this nation to resort to decadence now and let herself kick back while the Empire fell apart. No, if anything she had discovered just how much the Kaiserreich -needed- a firm claw on the tiller, or it was like to run rampant into self-destruction. The potential for ruin from mere neglect was still too high.
Another letter passed her desk. She scowled. Ceron Greytalon, the great and mighty industrialist aristocrat that he was, had lodged a short protest to the new war taxes and levies of capital brought against him in relation to the Middenheim Declaration, as her brief speech had come to be known. The Industrierat (Industrial Advisory Council) had been formed to help rebuild the Empire’s flagging economy and modernize the industrial framework that had fallen behind the rest of the world, with wealthy tycoons at its helm and focused cooperation from working griffs. With this, they had established a new standard of measure, plotted new land estates in the reclaimed areas of the Herzland to finally put the Neiderer Adel to some use and opened several new resource veins across the Herzland and her colonies that stayed loyal. This, as a result, gave those industrialists who had become a part of the Industrierat a massive incentive to hoard their power all to themselves, and influence over the economic edicts issued by the throne. The Industrierat was a double-edged blade, however, as it gave Gabriela a central point to threaten disconnection from all of this wealth, and everygriff knew it. So, they played along. To a point. The under the table deals (tax cuts, exclusive military contracts and priority claims to new resources taken in annexed land) had already been put in place, and to ask for more was Ceron flexing his muscles. With her new measures calling the nobility to task in the war effort, those same industrialists who had gotten rich off rebuilding the Empire’s economy were now suddenly at risk of losing a substantial portion of that fortune, despite the fact that they would still be fabulously wealthy after the fact.
Well, tough. Ceron had been given enough idols and exclusive deals to make him richer than any other griffon outside the Imperial Treasury itself. He would have to suck it up and cooperate. He was a partner, yes. But the capitalist had to be reminded that a tycoon still knelt before the throne. She penciled a quick memo to give him a piece of her mind later. Perhaps a quick chat about redirecting funds to a few smaller firms out of Angriver would make him do a double take. Mentioning those new drilling rights in now subdued Greifwald being granted to Hertogelijke Schelp should also seal the deal. As Schelp was one of Ceron’s true rivals in the oil industry, he could not afford to let a threat like that go so casually.
She reached for another report, this one attached to a letter from Hellquill. While King Wingfried had departed for the front the moment his doctors had told him he was healed enough to travel, he had left his wife, his son and several officers behind to manage the Ostreich during his absence. Chief among this brief regency was Kronzprinz Erich, clearly being handed this responsibility as a test to show his mettle and viability for the throne (it still smacked her as bewildering that the former leader of an anti-pony militant fringe order had come around to adopting one as his son, but it was a strange world these last few years). Erich’s letter declared a message of support from their sister realm, proclaiming the surety of the work Gabriela and Gerlach’s stewardship of the Empire had accomplished and backing the Middenheim Declaration without reservation. It also helped, Erich stated in his missive, that defending the Ostgriffonisch style of nobility had won her many allies in the east, ensuring that whatever tensions might exist between griffons individually or on a personal level, politically the Integralists were completely behind her regime going forward. She smiled. The Dual Monarchy system had been a tense experiment to unite west and east together, and had suffered many setbacks. Some had fears of Wingfried eventually splitting off to form his own successor nation, a challenger to the Empire and a threat to the realm. Too different, it was said. Too much disparity. But the truth was that both needed the other to survive this hostile world around them, and now she had all assurances that any divides were now closed. Unorthodox and strange as the grenzwalders were, she could move forward with the surety that in but a few decades the east would be fully integrated to Griffenheim and not a threat. Good news, to be certain.
Another report. Another one she nodded at with satisfaction, a concluded study from the Regionale Abteilung Für Rekrutierung on projected conscription numbers in the former rebellious parts of the Herzland. After the slaughter of the Regency Council, she had worked to found the Reichsbeirat, a more compact, controlled group consisting of a smaller number of representatives. Regency Councils of the past had grown fat and corrupt off their power while in control of the nation, but she had no intent to let history repeat itself. The wiping of the slate that had been Ferdinand Dawnclaw had allowed her to take what was left and establish her new successor organization with little to no opposition (well, nothing that couldn’t be silenced, at least). With the new Reichsbeirat (Imperial Advisory Council), she got more done with less effort, even as the Regency Council attempted to regain their power.
A good example of the streamlined work they had done, her new measures to impose extended conscription services on a more inclusive basis had finally been implemented in Yale, Angriver and Katerin now that these regions had been pacified and could be considered fully reintegrated. Previously, they had spent all this time sniffing out remnant Holy League forces that had gone to ground in the forests, hills and swamps of the south, a pacification campaign that had stretched on even years later, if a little less intense. But by using local loyal Landwehr troops and implementing the Kaiserliche Hilfsfreiwilligen, they had freed up Imperial troops to fight and managed to make use of volunteers trusted to stand next to them. Now, all creatures residing there would have to serve at least two years of military or state service in peacetime, and in the war that raged now the age brackets had been moved to straddle those individuals between seventeen and thirty-five for the next round of draft candidates, for which some would have to serve the duration. Unfortunate, yes. But waging war against an entire continent required such extreme measures, and she had additional plans for moving the conscription bracket again in case of various emergencies. She only prayed to Eyr’s mercy she would never have to institute them. Still, this was a good piece of news as a drop in a sea of bad. She slipped it away, her actions affirmed and her goals clear again.
With these two mighty institutes at her claws, the unfettered support of the Reichsarmee, the temples long since politically defanged and the Middenheim Declaration in full force, she had seized the Empire in a way no griff else would be able to uproot until Grover turned eighteen and took his rightful place on the throne. She and Gerlach fully intended to hand over power, as well. They had been in the leadership game for long enough to know that you either lived long enough to die the feeble old memory or walked away while you still had time to reflect on life. That meant she had nine years to settle all the nation’s outstanding issues and give her nephew the best possible chance at a peaceful, stable rule ahead. The only way that was possible was to reclaim the old borders, settle all political issues therein and establish an ironclad military and economic policy to ensure he could pick up where they left off, with as little potential for disaster as they could shape. She sighed, scribbling herself another memo as she once more contemplated the grand task ahead of her.
She had brought exactly two luxuries to her study. A wireless radio to listen to the news and a phonograph for listening to music. Being the modernist that she was, the vinyl she had chosen played club jazz, the kind that was normally found in exclusive nobles’ society houses, played by up and coming artists who were the latest fad in popular trend, though many of those came from foreign nations. It helped her process her work during long days and took some of the edge off when she had to deal with difficult choices. For just a minute, she turned in her chair to look out across the Griffking, staring at the sunset as the smooth saxophone notes from an Arisian club song rolled over her. It was an interesting kind of music no doubt, quite different from what she had listened to when she was young. It fit the roiling clouds to the east, reflecting the nightlife of the city already coming alive behind blackout curtains, trains rumbling by and automobiles honking as they rumbled in their great teeming masses, blind in the darkness as they tried not to collide into each other, robbed of streetlights. Flying griffons, pegasi and changelings flittered by on the wing, trying to reach their destination before the nighttime curfew against wing travel was put into effect and the Landwehr and polizei struck them down with baton and fist. The smokestacks in Industrie spewed on eternally, preparing for the late shift, while the noble estates attempted to retain their grandeur from bomb craters and crashed airplanes. Blackout curtains and hooded headlamps tried to hide the city from the almost nightly air raids that blitzed Griffenheim these days, and hundreds of anti-aircraft guns, searchlights and heavy machine guns couldn’t even bring down a majority of those craft. But they did hurt the Aquileians.
She cursed herself. Her mind never wanted to stay relaxed, always wandered to some form of business or another. Even now, in her own private sanctum where she was alone, where she could ignore the business of Empire if she wished, her mind raced to a thousand tasks she had yet to do. In a word, it was exhausting. When she had first started the task of Regency, she had mostly been overshadowed by Grover V’s death. Poor Grover. Her cousin had been afflicted by both poor health and poor preparation. His father had died when he was young as well, and the old Regency had taken advantage of their power. Though not yet collapsed at the time, the Empire had certainly been on the downward slope. Grover V’s Regency had given him little in the way of preparation or training aside from a scholastic education, locked away and only paraded out when the Kaiser needed to be displayed. When Wingbardy had broken away a year after he had been crowned, followed shortly by Aquileia, the die was cast for the Revolution of 978. What was he to do after that? To his credit, what damage control the young Kaiser had managed at least had kept the Empire alive, even if it left more work for her to clean up after his death. A bloated bureaucracy, disloyalty in the temples and aristocracy, the Archon’s rebellion and the failed rising of the Holy League leading to the Herzland War.
Even in the brief period of peace when she had taken advantage of the slaughter of the Regency Council, the work had been endless. Forcing the nobles to cooperate at bayonet point, the business of establishing favorable relations with a questionable sister realm under the domain of Lord Protector Wingfried (and hadn’t that been a dark horse if ever there was one) and attempting to navigate world politics while rebuilding a fleet and investing in the colonies to keep scarce resources flowing in all the while repairing the damage left behind by the Herzland War.
All of it at once. It had been a nightmarish barrage that, more than once, had made her question her more proactive role. Would this be the standard going forward? How would young Grover VI (a mere nine years old now and just starting substantial education) navigate this incredibly complex world?
As she began drifting off into her mental river once more, a soft knock came at her door, and she snapped to awareness. Sitting up and pulling a few papers back over so it did not give the impression she had been daydreaming, she called out “Enter.”
The door opened, admitting her secretary Thorim Dunstachel. A minor clerk in the bureaucracy who had lost his job when much of the fat had been trimmed and the useless department he had been working for had been shuttered, Gabriela had picked him more for the appearance that they were giving every potential functionary who was being shafted the chance to continue working if they were valuable. It lessened the backlash from striking these useless bureaus and offices from the books. But Dunstachel, though a boring and dull drake, had wound up the perfect griff for the job. Devoted to his job to an almost scary degree, he took on much of the tedium she didn’t have the time to manage, deflecting many of the bootlickers and petty grievances away from her door to let her carry on with actual business. It didn’t matter he had a personality only slightly less passionate than stale crackers or droned on in a flavorless monotone. He was damn good at his job and it took little to keep him loyal or motivated.
“Your Grace,” Dunstachel began, reaching up to adjust his glasses as he did so. “The changeling ambassador is here. He is requesting an audience.”
This was not so unusual. The Imperial Quarter held over a dozen international embassies and consulates, representatives from nations eager to maintain and improve relations with the Empire. Some of them, as expected, traveled quite far and could not keep reasonable schedules, their ambassadors forced to commit to business quickly and move on to the next place. But the Queendom of Greater Changelingia had held their embassy in Griffenheim for years, they knew how things normally worked. If Leeks Peftalo was knocking on her door this late when normal business hours were long over, it must have been an issue of some urgency. She was even willing to ignore the fact that he had no appointment. After all, the Queendom was the Kaiserreich’s most important strategic partner.
“Admit him. I still have a good hour or so,” Gabriela stated primly, straightening up and swiftly running her claws through her plumage and around her eyes, making sure to smooth ruffled feathers, straighten her jewelry and unrumple her clothes. True, she was exhausted. But a late night off the books meeting with a visitor of this import required her to be sharp, attentive and looking like she was in absolute control of one of the most powerful nations in the world.
The door opened again seconds after she had finished (trust Dunstachel to have delayed just long enough to give her time to straighten up), admitting a knight of the Order of the White Lion, her polished leonine helm shining in the low light as she bowed her head, a claw coming to a fist over her enchanted breastplate in a salute. Following the knight was none other than Ambassador Leeks Peftalo, leader of the diplomatic mission from Greater Changelingia to the Griffonian Kaiserreich. One of the Royal phenotype, Leeks always seemed to carry himself with the authority and assurance of one who spoke for a powerful nation. On that point he was technically not wrong, as with the Queendom’s successes over Equestria and her allies in the last year it certainly seemed Chrysalis’ star was on the rise. Many in the Reichsarmee still spoke of their opposite numbers quite fondly, even long after their departure. Occasionally, one could even spot small clusters of changelings on the streets of Griffenheim, living their lives in a city so closely tied to their home. Leeks had several things going for him. By changeling standards, he was rather fetching and spoke with a smooth baritone. His use of telekinesis was pinpoint precise, allowing him to use magic with such mundane ease it worked in his favor to impress, distract or intimidate whoever he was speaking with, and it was easy for him to make friends and alliances with others. But he had one enormous downside as well. As ambassador, he was expected to act within full interest and representation of his monarch. And that monarch just so happened to be the ever temperamental and tactless Chrysalis of Vesalipolis. While Leeks was simply doing his job, his natural talents meant that swinging around his weight on his High Queen’s behalf turned him into a demanding tyrant, though in his defense he tried to pad the worst of it.
As he stepped in, briefcase hovering behind him in a green magical aura as he straightened his tie (his suit the newest style out of De Vleugels, she noticed) and trotted forward, head raised high as red eyes glanced around to absorb the details of her office for only a heartbeat before settling on Gabriela herself. She stood from her desk. Duchess-Regent or not, one still stood to greet a guest, and she extended a claw as he did the same with a hoof.
“Herr Peftalo, I had not expected you at this hour. Please, sit.” As she took her claw away to indicate one of the chairs in front of her desk, she took notice of the state of his carapace. It was fuller than she recalled the last time she had seen him, with fewer holes in his shell. His eyes glowed with a greater intensity, and he seemed possessed of boundless energy. Clearly, the conquest of Equestria was doing someling good. “Can I get you some refreshments?”
“I appreciate the gesture, Your Grace,” Leeks replied as he took the offered seat, his case levitating to lean against the chair. “But no. I’m afraid I am here on a matter of some import. I’d rather get straight to the point, if that’s alright with you.”
It was. In response, she nodded and gestured for him to go on as she retook her seat. Considering the hour, she would rather get the affair over with so she could retire to relax with some Erdbeere wine. With Gerlach at the front, her night would be quiet, short and alone. Young Grover would be attending a meeting of the Reichsbeirat with her tomorrow, and she needed to be as alert as possible in front of him. So, whatever unfortunate thing Peftalo had for her, she wanted him to just blurt it out.
Leeks Peftalo seemingly deflated a moment, his fangs clicking in a nervous tick she recognized as trying to summon up the words and courage to say what he needed. Clearly, he had been tasked to speak on some uncomfortable topic. Fortunately, he didn’t take long before he finally came out with what was on his mind.
“High Queen Chrysalis has a request to make of her valued griffon allies. While she recognizes you are of course occupied with your own conflicts here on the continent, she wants to make it plain that making this request is a show of faith in the Empire’s capabilities to handle your current circumstance and the following; we are formally requesting you join into the war against Equestria and her allies.”
And there it was. Ambition and a blatant request, laid bare.
Gabriela sighed, letting her facade of absolute control slip as she directed her attention to the knight.
“Can you ask Dunstachel to get me a bottle of ‘32 red please? It’s going to be one of those nights.”
The knight, smart and sharp, merely bowed and saluted before turning and stepping out the door. Leeks did not say anything further, and at least had the grace to look awkward for making such a grand request. And, if she did not miss her mark, a bit relieved now it was out there. The two sat in awkward silence for minutes that warped into days. The knight returned with Dunstachel shortly, who carried both bottle and decanter. But the Duchess-Regent had little patience for such niceties at this hour, however much such a vintage drink deserved them, seizing the bottle and popping the cork before splashing the deep crimson liquid into a glass she retrieved from the cabinet behind her. After taking a deep pull (during which the knight resumed her post and Dunstachel left once more), Gabriela set the glass down on the desk, letting out a long sigh. She did not bother offering a drink to Peftalo.
Now came the unpleasant part.
“So. Chrysalis wants us to cross the sea.” It was not a question. “She does realize we have no landing, correct? Even after our victory over the Entente and seizing Haukland, we are far from the dominant power in the Celestial. We cannot take on the Royal Navy.”
“Not alone, certainly,” Leeks replied coolly, though Gabriela did indeed notice a slight pulse to the light emanating from his eyes. The red had become far less elegant and inviting and more…sinister. He had picked up on the fact that the pink formel had yet to fully decline the request. “But you’ll have the Kriegsmarine and her U-boats at your back. I believe you’ve been hosting several of them in Haukhamn. The Spa Islands give us a much better forward deployment harbor, and Hivesadmiral Recina has been making some drastic overhauls of the fleet system, and those are producing tremendous results.”
“Spare me, Herr Peftalo. I saw the reports of Tall Tale.”
Leeks winced at that one. The systematic annihilation of a city was one thing when such a move was a strategic necessity. To do so while full of civilians and already in your occupation was a large step closer to straight up slaughter. However this war shook out, the reputation of the Kriegsmarine and the Queendom as a whole was marred by that black spot on top of an already dark record. But the ambassador persisted.
“Perhaps I need to start again. The offensive has run into many unfortunate delays. The Royal Army has mobilized and modernized far faster than we assumed. The weather and terrain of the Crystal Empire has severely slowed our troops and the inclusion of communist forces far sooner than we had planned for has meant we are meeting more modern and capable troops in the field where we had expected…less. Canterlot and the Crystal City will fall, we are on their very doorsteps, but it is taking far longer and has been far more expensive than anticipated. The Royal Navy, as you pointed out, still poses a massive threat to our future operations, and the threat of the hippogriffs throwing in behind them is…no longer theoretical. Putting it simply-”
“Putting it simply,” Gabriela interrupted. “You expected a walkover and are stalling out because you didn’t plan for a long campaign. Now Chrysalis wants somegriff else to bail her out.” It was an especially blunt and sharp way of speaking, and if they had been in council or surrounded by more witnesses she would most certainly have found a gentler way to reprove Peftalo. Now, however, it was just her, him and a single knight who would rather fall on her own sword than spill these words. She had little patience for such theatrics behind closed doors.
But Leeks nodded as he sighed in resignation. “That is…not inaccurate. Her Highness had not anticipated the Equestrian military to put up such a resistance. If I’m being candid, Your Grace, by all rights we should be to the sea by now, drawing up plans for the various Protectorates and preparing to take care of New Mareland. Or, so the High Queen says. My personal opinion…well, the General Staff’s new opinion is that enough anomalous factors have emerged that Alicorn Sunset is no longer feasible as it was drawn up. However, Her Majesty believes bringing in our own anomalous factor is enough to set it right once more. You’ll notice I have not spoken much on what will occur after Canterlot falls. And it is because we no longer know if that will be enough alone.”
Gabriela chewed on this suggestion for a second, taking another sip of her wine as she collected her words. They had worked together for years now. She had been part of court since the Exchange had been established and embassy established, and been one of the first griffs to ingratiate herself with Peftalo. She knew him. She knew this changeling was doing his job, and she knew what she wanted to say about it. But she needed to gather them in a way she would not do further damage to this already fragile alliance.
Unfortunately, just as she had put herself together, patience and self-restraint abandoned her. She laughed out loud, more of a guffaw. Leeks, for his part, remained aloof in expression. His eyes did widen slightly, however. With that, her diplomatic nature fled, and she let out her true opinion in a flood.
“Your queen wants me to throw the Kaiserreich on the pyre to save her from failure. You -do- know we are engaged in total war on two fronts, yes?” She didn’t give him the chance to reply. “Did you know I have two hundred thousand griffs concentrated in the District of Westkeep, which we blundered into seizing by the incompetence of one of my generals with a hundred days of battle, all while a plague outbreak ravages our southern front? Are you aware the city of Cloudbury has been fighting beak and talon to keep us from taking it with a passion and fervor to make most knights feel insufficient? Have you checked the skies and watched the bombers that come visit us nightly? Some of those are Levants now, though I bet you already know that. Have you checked the reports, I know you get them, of just how much of the economy has to be dedicated to the war effort just to keep up this quagmire we are jammed into? Two battles of attrition north and south to exhaust enemies who have every reason to refuse to quit? Leeks, I stopped reading the casualty lists a month ago. -I- have to find bodies to fill those slots, so my generals can send them into the meatgrinder. And the only way to end this fight without the Empire crumbling again is to take every inch of ground. Skynavia hasn’t even joined the fight yet. We know they will, they have to eventually to save their Revolution. So, I have to send my forces to keep marching north across an empty mountainous wasteland where any roads or rails that exist will have to be built by us. Don’t even get me started on Wingbardy, they’ll find a way in eventually.”
Her tirade abruptly ended, Peftalo watched her warily, eyes still wide. The red glow was more subdued, no longer as insidious. She did not trust it. Yes, the ambassador was his queen’s instrument. But he was also dedicated and good at his job. Her furious explanation about the state of the war would not be enough, she knew.
Clearing her throat, her anger somewhat spent, Gabriela continued.
“It’s just not possible. We would go from a long, extended two-front war, while we are surrounded by enemies and still trying to undo the damage done by the fighting to engaging on foreign soil with little to no support in place and an equally long list of potential enemies to add to it. If we had won by now, it might be a different story. But we have not. And it is not. Chrysalis is asking the impossible.”
She had stopped herself from saying ‘demanding the impossible’. That would have been a line too far, on top of the abuse she had already heaped on. But Gabriela knew what this was. What this had been since the Imperial Exchange had ended so abruptly. Chrysalis had gotten what she wanted, what she thought she had needed to get her revenge on Celestia and her ponies. When it turned out to be not enough, she came back for what she saw as the ultimate card to play. Thranx’s reports back to the Empire had proven as much. There was nowhere in Chrysalis’ future plans for the Kaiserreich or any part of Griffonia to play after she had used both for her own ends.
Peftalo grimaced at this, clearing his throat.
“Need I be so bold as to remind you, Your Grace; we have both gained from our alliance. Officers have observed tactics and built doctrine together, our technology base and your experience have made several of the greatest armored fighting vehicles on the planet. Were it not for us, your understanding of mobile warfare and rocket artillery would be sorely lacking. Her Majesty is merely attempting to bring such a relation to its natural conclusion. After all, it would hardly be fitting or fair for us to maintain your claim towards Nova Griffonia if you were not there to help us in our time of greatest need. Your ports have been very...secure havens for our U-boats to conduct their campaign.”
Now -that- was a threat. Gabriela’s eyes narrowed. Especially when combined with what she knew of Thranx’s covert reports back to Imperial intelligence, she became even more infuriated at the sheer gall, not just of Peftalo himself but Chrysalis and her realm as a whole. Who in Tartarus did that oversized bug brat think she was?. But the Duchess-Regent had something to reinforce her wall of refusal with, another brick in the solid fortification she no longer felt guilty about building. They were well past trying to walk this back, it was time to get everything out.
“I should remind you that the Exchange dismantled several valuable programs with little notice. We invested a lot of capital and material into supporting your mission, most of which was housed here in the Empire I should remind you.” Leeks shifted, but did not reply. He did not want to be reminded, and he had clearly hoped she’d forgotten. “A lot of our programs were built specifically to rely on the information and expertise you provided. Gods above, Synovial and Thranx were essentially commissioned officers in the Reichsarmee! If they had stuck around, they may even have commanded troops in -this- war! We sent knights and generals to watch and learn from you! We hosted Jagers to pick up on their tactics and we allowed you to build panzers in our factories! The Joint Technical R&D Department was only just set up when the order came for everything to be shuttered! Years of work torn down! And what did that matter to your queen? Not further than what she could harvest from our factories! Chrysalis doesn’t see us as ‘allies!’”
She spat the last word as if it were a blasphemous title of contempt, causing Peftalo to wince again, though he still didn't speak. His silence, rather than be the awkward gesture he likely intended it, only incensed her further. Now came the harshest she had inside her normally diplomatic frame.
“She sees us as a testing ground and a template to copy from. You and your…adaptation. You wear our uniforms, copy our rank structure, even speak our language. You come with words of friendship and cooperation and asserting ourselves against the world, retaking Our Place in the Sun. Then without warning withdraw all of that with no recourse or mind to the expense and effort. And we've been left on our own. Now, when Chrysalis finds herself taking a -little- longer than she thought she needed to, she wants to come back with the same words extended hoping it would work even better than last time. You’ll excuse me, Herr Peftalo, if I don’t feel like watching my country burn for a nation that would gladly let it happen to ensure their own prosperity. We’re not in the habit of pointless suicide.”
Peftalo’s muzzle twitched, hackles threatening to raise in a snarl that would expose his fangs. He was no longer acting simply as Chrysalis’ mouthpiece. Fair enough, Gabriela had laid out enough of a verbal ass kicking that this had likely touched several nerves. Now, it was personal.
“No, you’d much rather line dissidents and civilians up against a wall and have them shot, wouldn’t you? I suppose burning neighborhoods to the ground is more your speed? Or the employment of chemical weapons?”
No ‘Your Grace’. No tones of pleasant conversation or quiet pleading or eager bargaining. This was Leeks Peftalo without a sense of tact or negotiation. The red eyes flared again, and Gabriela suddenly became aware once more that she was sitting in her office, late at night, arguing with a spellcasting shapeshifter, who could be considered always armed. Her eyes flicked to the knight, who already had claws on pistol and sword. If need be, the Duchess-Regent’s desk also had a P01 pistol tucked away in the top drawer, loaded and ready at all times. She doubted Leeks would be foolish enough to lose his temper and attack her. It would be suicide both personally and politically. One could never be too sure, however…
But Leeks had already fired a shot, if merely a verbal one. And that appeared to be all that he would do. After checking to make sure her safety was assured, Gabriela reached for the wine bottle once more, claw tightening around the neck of the dark glass, talons sliding on the glass as she gripped it tight.
“Bombing campaigns cause collateral damage in the pursuit of legitimate military targets. Everyone knows this. It's an unfortunate fact. And if civilians in our occupation want to keep lashing out, the cost has to be made high. After that, it’s their own damned fault. I can sit here and defend the Empire’s military actions and their civilian cost all day long. But I don’t think you have a leg to stand on for the city centers you empty out for your work camps. Those you don’t turn into smoking craters, at least.”
Leeks’ eyes were narrow slits at this point, almost like a predator waiting in ambush, narrowing in on a target. His horn glowed a light green, indicating he was manifesting magic but hadn’t cast a spell quite yet.
“Funny, Your Grace. I was going to say the same thing about your situation and mine...only reversed.”
The tension in the office was so palpable, one likely could have cut it with a blade. How had they gotten to this point? Former allies, partners who in peacetime had helped kickstart the largest arms development effort in world history, the results of which were laid out for all to see as impossible victories were pulled time and time again in separate theaters. The changelings had adapted to Herzlandisch culture and mannerisms, accepting them more and more into their own while the Empire had learned adaptability and subtlety, reaching out with the claw instead of the sword in many of their dealings. Now, they were here and could be about to get violent.
Or, they were until the door opened and Dunstachel, just as boring and milquetoast as ever, stepped in after knocking to announce himself.
“Your Grace, Queen Taillow of Ost-Griffonia has arrived. She’s requested an informal meeting with you.” Dunstachel glanced up from his notepad, adjusting his glasses as he took in the situation with the same bland, bored expression. Finally, he asked “Shall I quarter and have her call on you in the morning?”
The banality of the secretary’s arrival broke the tension in the room. Leeks and Gabriela glanced at one another sheepishly, both attempting not to give away how awkward they suddenly felt and both failing. The knight still held to her ready position regardless, and Dunstachel glanced around the room with his same flat expression, as if he were merely offering another form to sign.
Leeks Peftalo stood, briefcase levitating up from the floor in a green aura. He smoothed the front of his suit, and his voice was quiet, his temperament softened and deferential, attempting to shrug off the near violence that had encapsulated the room like a molting shell.
“I should go. It is late, and I have a train to catch.”
Gabriela stood, gesturing to the ceiling. She too wanted to move on past their terse indiscretion and near insult. Leeks was a friend at the end of the day, whatever issues she had with his sovereign. She owed it to their past business to at least remember common courtesy.
“Already? Did you not just arrive? I can arrange guest accommodation if there’s no place at the embassy.”
The changeling ambassador smiled sadly, clearly wishing he could take the Duchess-Regent up on the offer, but also clearly bound by his own obligations.
“No, it’s not that. This was always going to be all the time I could spare. My orders from Vesalipolis demand me elsewhere. I apologize, Your Grace.”
As he bowed, and Gabriela bowed back, her mind was racing. Where was he going? By train? Internationaler Flughafen-Griffenheim, the city’s civilian airport, had been bombed several times, but repairs were constantly underway to get it operational again and restore commercial airship and long-distance plane flights. Then again, attempting to fly across the Celestial Sea was a poor idea indeed with multiple wars wrapping up both continents. So a train meant he was going a long distance in a short time overland. To a port? With the Entente blockade broken, the Combined Fleet shattered and Haukland in Imperial claws, Sky Bay was firmly controlled by the Kaiserliche Marine with little contest, and the northern half of the Celestial Sea meant long distance flights were once again possible through a Haukland connection, much faster than a passenger airship.
As she came out of the bow, her eyes narrowed slightly. Who were you ordered to meet with, Peftalo?
Out loud, she said “I regret your abrupt departure, mein freund, but I know the needs of state come first. I hope your next visit will be much more pleasant and we will have time to enjoy it. Perhaps your next visit we could arrange a showing from Talonsberg. The Kaiser has become quite enamored with moving pictures, and he has several that have become his favorites. You might enjoy them.”
Ambassador Peftalo smiled, and from Gabriela could tell it was genuine. Surprisingly sad, but genuine. That threw her for a moment, and drove her suspicions into overdrive.
“Of course, I would appreciate that. The Queen has come to like them as well. One of her personal goals is to see Applewood restored to its previous splendor. You’ll see movies back out on the world stage before too much longer.”
It’s stated purpose once it was restored was producing pro-changeling propaganda flicks of course, but she didn’t say that part. It didn’t need to be said. Talsonberg had long ridden on Applewood's coattails when it came to the entertainment industry, and with the interruption that the occupation had caused, the Imperial film center had finally overtaken the Equestrian (now Changelingian?) studios. But both were instruments of the governments, and all knew it.
They exchanged bows once more, muttering pleasantries, and as the ambassador turned to depart, Gabriela couldn’t help but feel the sensation that a decision had been made somewhere, that her refusal to come to Changelingia and the Hegemony’s aide had split the gap between their nations. Oh, the cracks had existed for some time now. But with this, it felt like an ironworker had hammered a wedge in there. This felt…wrong. Like she should stop him, sit him down again and they try to work things out.
The door closed behind the ambassador and the knight. He was gone.
“There are no aristocrats in Ost-Griffonia. Only nobles.” -War Correspondent Sarika Basu after a rare set of interviews with Reformisten soldiers, Vanguardigo Front, September 12th, 1012 ALB
The Duchess-Regent settled back in her chair, sighing in exhaustion. The weight of the conversation, of the whole night, of the two-front war and the pressure of running the Kaiserreich as a whole settled onto her shoulders again, so heavy it could figuratively drag her back by her wings. She reached out and grasped the wine once more, not even bothering with a glass as she lifted the bottle to her beak, tipped her head back and took a long pull, savoring the paradox of its bittersweet flavor and the burn of alcohol down her throat. It didn’t make her feel better about what had just happened, but it did lift a bit of the strain from her wings.
Her mind cast into a thousand places as it usually did when she was left to idly ponder. The veiled threat implied by Leeks Peftalo was hard to shake. He was chief ambassador to the Empire, that was what she had always known him as. It was rare for ambassadors to meet with other national representatives from foreign powers, as ambassadors were supposed to be experts in the society they were meant to negotiate with. Changelingia had known this, so why was he meeting someone else? If, as she suspected, he was off to visit Wingbardy, she would find out by the next day. The southern rail lines cut from Angriver into occupied Greifenstein and into the swollen mass that the Regno d'Wingbardia had become, it’s neighbors consumed by Beakolini’s ambition. Greifenstein, Sicameon and the former Barony of Arantiga had been conquered by military action, but Falcor, Talouse and Francistria had all become absorbed through diplomatic negotiation and saber rattling. In their immediate sphere of interest, only Rumare had escaped annexation, though they had signed a pact with the devil in the south. This all added up to Beakolini’s Wingbardy being a near peer threat to the Empire, certainly as strong at least as Aquileia, with legions of willing and experienced soldiers at his claws and a society that had grown, reformed and seen much prosperity off Il’Duce’s rapid expansions and exploitation of overseas territory.
Could Chrysalis be eying Wingbardy as a more compliant possible replacement for the Kaiserreich? As proven, relations had certainly suffered a breakdown between the Empire and Queendom. But would the changelings betray them over such tensions with the state of both their conflicts? The issues between them were, for now, minor disagreements. Of course, this latest exchange might cause some escalation, but for Chrysalis to turn to the Empire's once and future enemy was unthinkable. Wingbardy may possess the largest and most modern navy in Griffonia, but the might of the Regia Marina alone couldn’t bring the Empire to its knees. It could, however, cut Equestria off from New Mareland and the United Kingdom of Aris. If her intelligence and Peftalo’s statements were to be believed, Queen Skystar was working hard behind the scenes to overcome her peoples’ isolationist tendencies now they had recovered from the aftermath of the North Zebrican War. The creation of the Chiropterran Republic (an obvious puppet state of the hippogriffs if ever there was one) was a clear indication that the UKA now possessed the resources, numbers and industrial output to rival even the Kaiserreich at present, with an ever-growing international economy that made them possibly the richest nation on Faust at present. And the UK Navy was a juggernaut of nautical power, already projecting themselves across the Middle Sea to Equus with their battleships anchored in Puerto Caballo. Could the Regia Marina fight them? Would Chrysalis be desperate enough to burn her oldest allies for such a fleet?
Gabriela groaned again, deciding against another drink. She needed to focus. The issue of the changelings and Peftalo would not answer itself for her tonight. Tomorrow was clamoring for her attention, to the thousand and one things she needed to accomplish. Going over her itinerary helped her order her thoughts, keep her priorities straight.
Tomorrow, she was due for a tour and meeting with the noble board of the Zentralbank, the Empire’s centralized network of wealth. The war was causing the Imperial coffers to bleed out idols at an extraordinary rate, and new lines of investment, credit and economic growth needed to be quickly secured while the new taxes and tariffs from the Middenheim Declaration rolled into effect. She thought of the new class of graduating officers from Helheim she was to give a speech to later in the day. They would likely be bound for Aquileia, which had turned into a plague and mud-ridden hellscape meatgrinder even after the Battle of Westkeep was won. This new Aquileian offensive that had halted their progress in the west was impossible to contain so long as their troops were collapsing in coughing fits. Something had to be done about the Wet Plague, before it robbed them of their progress, and the De Charbon vaccine was only effective to those able to rest off the effects in comfort and good care, something the troops at the front lacked.
After that, she had a scheduled meeting with Abdul ben Raschid, the ambassador of the Arabian Republic. Though forming a harmonic republic after they won their revolution, Arabia was still considered rather conservative and willing to negotiate with traditional monarchies. Through the ambassador she needed to broker new trade deals with them to gain access to Arabian oil and metals, or at least keep them from trading with the Entente. Now the Empire was a naval power of some strength again, many other world powers were suddenly taking them seriously, and despite being natural allies to the Entente, Arabia had not swung to support one side or the other. Gabriela suddenly remembered a few encouraging remarks from Yarila Eva Kudlinen of Hindia, and made a note to follow up on that potential relationship more attentively.
A petition from several farmers and landowners had the Landwehr clearing bomb damage from fields and compensating for lost livestock and crops, as the massive quantities of food to keep the nation running needed to be maintained, and Gabriela knew she would need to address that tomorrow in order to ensure its sustainability. Farms and ranches caught in the crossfire had suffered, and without such agricultural support (perhaps some word with Ost-Griffonia to secure grain imports?) the people would starve until there was no choice but to stop. As such, she had to make sure these farmers were protected, appeased and given stipends to encourage them to continue their trade.
And of course her mind cast to her nephew, Grover. Now nine years old, his lessons were going well. His tutors and instructors had reported to her that he had easily grasped mathematics and history, poetry and basic elementary economics. If she raised a Scholar-King, that would be just fine after the rather lacking management capabilities of the last few Kaisers (she felt a pang of regret at casting her late cousin into such company, but there it was).
Her ruminations were, thankfully, interrupted as the door to her office opened once more. The same knight entered, followed by a drake dressed in the black overcoat of an Ostheer officer, a bolt-action rifle slung over his back, and a very noticeably pregnant Queen Taillow von Hellsword und Livani, the Pearl of the Grenzwald, the White Queen of Ost-Griffonia. Previously the ruler of Cyanolisia, then the Friestaat when her land came under minotaur occupation, her marriage to Wingfried von Katerinburg had placed her at the right claw of Ost-Griffonian politics. From what Gabriela had understood, it had started more as a marriage of political convenience after the liberation, so hasty in fact there had not even been a ceremony, a way to unite two such disparate cultures. Now? Well, the Duchess-Regent had it on quiet word that things had significantly thawed between the two.
Gabriela cast her eye over the soldier, taking note of his appearance. The rifle was an Imperial standard Kralle instead of the larger bore weapons previously in use by Ostheer landsers before they too adopted the Gerund battle rifle. The scope mounted on this weapon told of his specialized use in it. Just from his appearance and what she knew of Ostheer figures of interest, this could only be Major Beldrich von Meyr, the infamous sniper who had finished the treacherous Baron Leer. So far as she knew, the Reicsharmee did not train specialized snipers, merely handing scoped rifles to the best marksgriffs of each training cycle, but the Ostheer held up a rigorous sniper training program which Beldrich was no doubt an accomplished graduate of. According to stories, the Imperial Fallschirmjager sent into Gerashofen to find the traitor had almost missed him, even as they swept his hideout at lightning speed. Beldrich, who had accompanied the elite Imperial troops to the site, had spotted his quarry attempting to slip out via an upper balcony, drawn a bead from the nearby hill and shot the drake mid-flight. The shot literally coming out of nowhere had earned him the widespread nickname of “Bogeygriff” to which line troopers attributed all manner of strange occurrences on the frontline. To find him as the personal bodyguard of the White Queen was both unsurprising and rather befuddling all at once.
Despite her condition, Taillow bowed graciously before Gabriela, bringing her beak as close to the floor as she could without touching before she rose again.
“Your Grace,” she intoned.
Taillow had been the victim of quite a lot of misfortune over the years. When the Empire had collapsed, she had only recently come to the throne as she had married into the latest generation in the Sumpfkiel Dynasty. While idealistic in her youth, she had been forced to abandon notions of peaceful cooperation with the minotaurs when they rose up during the chaos. Isolated from the Herzland and with an unstable Kingdom of Brodfeld (the dynastic name of Prywhen) and the marauding Blackrock bandits on her borders, she had been forced into the same authoritarian measures she despised to keep the peace, retain control and protect the griffon minority. Decades later, after the death of her first husband, the Asterionese revolution during the Herzland War had essentially dismantled Cyanolisia, and it wasn’t until Operation: Tartarus that the land was finally liberated by the Reichsarmee and Hellswordian forces.
Asterion was now a demilitarized Reichsmandat, the threat finally done and over with, their fleet sunk and their cities robbed of the resources they’d need to build again. That was a lot for anygriff to shoulder, but Taillow stood before her now, a dedicated stoic and clear patriotic supporter of the Empire. If any formel would be the one to ease the iron-hard demeanor of Lord Protector Wingfried, she would certainly be the one to take on the task.
Her eyes flicked over to Major Beldrich. While the drake had assumed an appropriate place of both deference and defense, on the other side of the door as the Knight who still towered over him (Knightly orders tended to choose especially large griffons to fill their ranks) his face bore an expression almost bordering on both boredom and intense attention. She judged him frustrated, as if understanding his duty and accepting of it, but not pleased to be on what some might call a babysitting detail. A valuable sniper, a combat veteran bodyguarding an important formel such as Taillow; it was an honorable duty, he clearly knew that, but not what he wanted to do.
Gabriela intoned her head, giving her the same courtesy as to a noble of significant standing.
“Your Highness,” she returned before frowning. “Should you really be traveling in your condition? It is late, after all.”
But Taillow merely waved a courteous claw of polite dismissal, settling into the seat Peftalo had abandoned only minutes before.
“The Ost-Griffking rail line has had much improvement since the Großtatze engineers were tasked to upgrade it. I have only been traveling for six hours. An amazing achievement.”
Despite herself, Gabriela smiled tiredly. “It was always my cousin’s ambition to connect the whole Empire by rail. ‘Arteries of steel’ he called them once. Sadly, he only saw the Herzland united in such a way, and even that was never fully completed. I’ve done my best to keep investing in the network as we go.”
She didn’t need to say that the war had certainly disrupted those efforts. Fortunately, with most of the fighting now out of the Herzland proper, repairs had come along well to reinstate the Kaiserliche Eisenbahn, a network she hoped would one day become transcontinental. One rail gauge, one cooperative pool of locomotives and cars, one comprehensive set of rail laws and tariff rates and an integrated schedule, all to reunite the Kaiserreich in a way it never could have before. Repairing the rail network had massively helped the war effort as well, contributing to the Empire’s logistical supremacy when coupled with their fleet of trucks and cargo airships. The Empire could now move war material and troops much faster than either of their enemies, and they could get more of it where they needed to. Even as the Aquileians bombed the rail network, the Kaserreich’s engineers were getting better and better at repairing the damaged sections. The railheads and stations were also well defended in most cases, making them less of an open target for bombing or infiltration sabotage.
Taillow nodded, one claw rubbing her swollen belly as she leaned back. The Duchess-Regent considered the Queen carefully, and with some curiosity. Though she’d never been a mother herself, for a brief time she had lived in the realm of romance fantasy, with stories of noble knights swooping to save the princess from the dragon or out of the dungeon of mad Riverponies dotting her dreams. There had been a point where she’d wanted to marry and be a mother. Unfortunately, the realities of the world quickly smashed many of these fantasies to pieces, pulled back the gilded veil and exposed how out of touch many of these gallant tales really were, and so she had devoted herself to the Empire and never looked back. Though she and Gerlach were now married, the sad fact was she was too old to really look forward to motherhood herself. When the time came, Erdbeere and Feathisia would be passed on to their relations, rather than their children.
She shook herself. Enough ruminating on a past that never was. She was here for Grover. He would be the future of the Empire, and she needed to focus on that. Nothing would get in his way. For now, she had business to attend. And right now, that business was attending to a monarch from their sister realm.
“To what do I owe the graciousness of your visit, Your Highness? I wasn’t told you were planning to visit.”
She managed to avoid glancing at the clock.
Taillow huffed, shifting awkwardly before she nodded slowly in response.
“You were not, Your Grace. I have made it a habit of traveling in secret for years. It is a difficult trend to break. The number of attempts on my life have made me…admittedly overly cautious. My husband approves of the measure, though he believes I should have more security, especially with this one on the way.” She rubbed her belly once more, the edge disappearing from her voice a brief moment. “You have to know what it's like, to be in the crosshairs of others' ambitions. You survived the Regency Massacre, after all. And, despite the fact that the Imperial City is being targeted so heavily, I knew I'd at least be safe here in the palace.”
“I am quite flattered at your confidence, Your High-...would you like to drop formalities for the time being? It is just us here, after all.”
Gabriela glanced at the knight, but the leonine helm did not so much as stir. It had occurred to her she didn’t know much about Taillow from a personal perspective. It wasn’t essential before now, all Gabriela needed previously was the facts. She had come to the Imperial Banquet in 1007 at great personal risk crossing a hostile countryside despite also facing the juggernaut of minotaur invasion, and had been one of the few breakaways to do so. After that, Gabriela had sought to learn more, but the Herzland War and fall of Cyanolisia had both pushed that to the back of her mind. The former countess resurfacing should have reshuffled the Regent’s priorities, but other things had been on her mind of late. Putting the Queen at ease would help things along, certainly. Taillow shuffled uncertainly. She had been raised in Imperial court all her life, and like Gabriela living in such an environment had long conditioned her to a certain way of thinking. Taillow however had lived in isolation for decades, where Gabriela had lived in a place where words were measured and pragmatism trumped all if you were going to pull ahead. She knew when to abandon such courtly airs, and now was certainly the time.
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
Taillow would not be the first to breach the barrier. Very well, then.
“Taillow, I appreciate your confidence in the Imperial city. And while I will say the bombing has certainly -lessened-, I still would not call Griffenheim -safe-. I really would have appreciated some word of your arrival, so I could be prepared and take proper precautions.”
The White Queen considered her words before, with another sigh, she shifted again in her seat to lean forward. With her large belly the task was clearly quite taxing, but Gabriela merely watched impassively. Inwardly, the Duchess-Regent sighed in exasperation herself. It was quite late, and given what had happened with Peftalo and the very real chance that relations between the Empire and Queendom would have ultimately soured beyond repair in one night, she wanted to go to bed and get what little rest she could manage to ruminate and prepare for the next day. She couldn’t show any aggravation at Taillow’s waffling, though. The Dual Monarchy was in a precarious enough state when the two were cooperating, the last thing she needed was to drive a wedge between them.
After a moment of struggle, Beldrich stepped forward, gently putting a claw on Taillow’s back and giving her enough stability to straighten up, and after giving her bodyguard a brief nod of appreciation the White Queen turned back to the Duchess-Regent.
“You are right, Your…Gabriela. I apologize, but I felt I needed to leave. It has grown difficult of late to govern the east in my state. With my husband in the north alongside yours, I’ve had to fall back on Prince Erich and Princess Flare. Good kinder, both of them. But now they’ve come to essentially run Ost-Griffonia with me in the way. Something told me I’d be of more value here in the Imperial City where I can watch and listen, than getting in the way of things being run in Hellquill.”
“I suppose I can sympathize,” Gabriela stated plainly. She could to an extent. While her life at court had resulted in her accruing much political power, there had been many years where she had felt little more than a sidepiece in the functions of the Empire and her own Duchy. Not the same as being rendered essentially off your throne, but given what she’d had to do to get here, experiencing Taillow’s situation was unthinkable to her. “Then I suppose the question becomes what you’re willing to do here?”
Taillow raised a claw to gently halt Gabriela’s thought process.
“First, I apologize. An inadvertent faux pas that I hope you’ll forgive. I know calling on you at such an hour with no warning is quite presumptuous, especially in wartime. As such, I wish to present to you a gift of proper courtesy.”
She gestured, and Beldrich reached into his coat, pausing as the Knight shifted to lay a claw on her pistol. After a moment to make sure he wasn’t about to get blown away, the marksgriff carefully withdrew a flat package, about as large as the vinyl records that Gabriela kept for her phonograph, wrapped in brown paper. Beldrich stepped forward, holding the plain looking package out to Taillow. The formel smiled, holding it out flat and placing it on Gabriela’s desktop.
“If the wrapping seems plain, that is on purpose. All of Ost-Griffonia is giving to the war effort, and the Crown is no exception. It would make no sense to bring something so elaborate, even for one as high ranking as yourself.”
Touched and understanding the logic, Gabriela excused such behavior and picked up the package. Now she had it in her claws, she felt a slight extra weight on one side, presumably some extra piece attached inside the wrapping. As she tore the paper with a talon, Gabriela chuckled as a thought entered her mind.
“And Ost-Griffonia has only just entered the war. I know the east is rich in resources, at least. Wingfried has some long reaching vision to be exerting these austerity measures so soon to gather such material.”
Taillow merely returned a slight smile.
“I consider him a simple drake with great ambition and the will to carry it out.”
The paper fell away in short order, and Gabriela carefully turned the gift over in her claws, examining it with a critical eye. The object was made of wood, recently cut and shaped into its current form from the smell and feel of the grain. On one side, black and white squares offset each other in repeating patterns, and the extra weight was revealed to be a small box on the underside that held thirty-two pieces that were also new and recently made, but painted by the claw of a skilled artisan. The black pieces gleamed like onyx, while the white were pale as ivory. She removed a white rook, examining the crenellations closely. Most sets were made from marble or stone, though recently the trend had been towards metal like pewter or steel. This chess set had to be worth a small fortune, as the wood was carefully carved and detailed with the utmost skill.
“The game of schemers and planners of high caliber. Much of the metal in the east is being reserved for the war effort. Most of the investments made by Imperial nobles and businesses have been industrial in nature, but we are still building the economic base we need to adopt your level of war footing. We have the soldiers, willing as they are. Material is taking more time. We have to shift some of those investments from resource extraction to manufacturing, and austerity measures are hitting the commoners hard as we get…spun up, I believe the term is. Thus using a non-strategic material for this gift. A sign of our dedication to the cause.”
Gabriela agreed that the reasoning made sense. She carefully set the white rook down, extracting the black knight and setting it down as well, the helmeted head carved as if off a living model. Black knights defending the shining city. In a slight fit of dramatic inspiration, she drew both queens, also setting them next to each other on the board and pushing them forwards as she did so. Taillow watched the display with a neutral expression, eyes flicking between Gabriela’s face and claws.
“It is a very thoughtful gift. Humble too. I’ve received tributes and bribes clad in sheets of the finest wrappings on the continent, silks from Zebrica, gold leaf embossed on the paper. But this simple, honest board tells me a lot.” She cast the paper aside, setting the chessboard onto the desktop. “If we have time, we should play sometime. It used to be a favorite of mine.”
Taillow bowed her head to acknowledge the praise, the ghost of a smile on her beak.
“I am pleased you like it. It comes with the assurance of further military assistance, now we are fully committed. Divisions bound north and south to shore up the frontlines. At this rate, Ost-Griffonia’s reserves are emptied of all we can spare. The Ostwall can no longer be compromised, and I’m certain you know about the army in Schwarzhohl.”
Indeed Gabriela did know about that, though she said nothing binding. Ever since the Reformisten had reestablished control over the southeast in Unternehmen Tartarus, the forces they had positioned on the border of Greifenstein had swollen in size and status, taking the best equipped and trained the Ostheer possessed. The reason was not lost on anygriff in the Empire. Just on the other side of a single mountain range, the birthplace of griffon civilization lay in Wingbardy’s clutches, a feather in Beakolini’s cap and a real factor if he wanted to press a claim to be the inheritor of the Empire’s legacy. While lacking the numbers of the more densely populated Herzland, Ost-Griffonia had clearly made it a mission to be ready to retake the holy city if the opportunity presented itself, devoting a huge number of divisions to what was essentially a holding action. With this dedication and their watch along the eastern borders, sending troops west to fight the Entente had to be putting a strain on their population’s ability to provide recruits and workers both.
Taillow continued on, taking the pause for the silent acknowledgement it had been.
“The good news is we already know what to do. Our information sources state you are having a difficult time with partisans behind the lines. Understandable, this is a new age of warfare. Simple landsers cannot also effectively suppress resistance without resorting to extreme measures. But Major Beldrich’s Gebirgstruppe have much experience hunting Blackcloaks and socialists in Hellsword and Prywhen. They can easily fill in where you need them to.”
It was a sad truth that, as much as the Kaiserreich had struggled to face off against the revolution and bring dissidents back into the fold, their ability to fight guerillas was sorely lacking, focused so much on smashing enemies in the open field. Kemerskai’s Republic had always been a step ahead on that front, always lurking in the shadows and striking when least expected. While Reichsarmee Feldjagers, Vollstrecker and MfÖS agents had accrued much expertise in policing, suppressing and countering enemy resistance troops, that still did not make them dedicated anti-partisan soldiers. The news was heartening, as the more they alleviated this problem the more they could send those divisions where they were needed at the front.
“You should know they’ve received much training in Reichsarmee strategy from the instructors sent east,” Taillow continued. “It is rather odd. As much as your generals prefer to wield frontline formations like hammers, your elite forces are much more surgical in application. An interesting mixture. Perhaps, if I am not too bold, we might bring the Neuland Act back to the floor of your Council to discuss granting land to retiring veterans? Their expertise would be invaluable to help the Ostheer integrate with the Reichsarmee.”
Ah, the Neuland Act. While largely an Ost-Griffonian declaration, its original acceptance by the Regency Council (and more importantly Gabriela’s own Reichsbeirat) had allowed a flow of Imperial citizens to escape the confines of battle ravaged cities and settle in the far more sparsely populated east. This move had been a catalyst to allow the Order of the Tower and Sword to move their chapter house to Hellquill and make themselves official vassals of the Black Knights. In the short term, it gave a place for refugees to escape the warzones the Herzland had become, as well as process the empty land that Ost-Griffonia needed to be worked if they were going to finally utilize all the resources they possessed but never had to griffpower to harvest.
But Gabriela was tired of business tonight. She wanted this all done with so she could finally go and get some sleep. In her exhaustion, her manner began to slip, and she became more blunt.
“We can discuss revisiting the Neuland Act tomorrow. As you said, it is late. And I have much to do in the morning. There is perhaps only one more thing I would wish to discuss with you tonight.”
Taillow stiffened, an expression of wariness slipping behind her façade of controlled calm. Behind her, the two bodyguards glanced at one another, suddenly tense at the shift in attitude.
“And that is?”
“The visitor before you was the changeling ambassador,” the Duchess-Regent threw out there, with all the disgust she felt behind such a statement. “He brought with him a very firm request from his High Queen. One I had to refuse.”
“Oh gods, they didn’t ask us to join their war?”
Gabriela nodded, and for the first time Taillow didn’t look uncomfortable or controlled or neutral. She looked furious, a deep scowl pulling at her beautiful features, feathers bristling under her crown.
“And he is only just returning with your answer?”
Gabriela shook her head in response.
“He stated he had somewhere else to go. I have known Leeks Peftalo for years. If his business was to return home as fast as possible, he wouldn’t obscure that fact. He misses the hives, he’s told me. This was very much a reluctant errand.”
“It’s Wingbardy,” Taillow declared with all the confidence as a smith certain his hammer would flatten white-hot metal. “Has to be. Chrysalis knows the hippogriffs are coming and needs someone to keep them off her back while she finishes up in Equus. As much as we’ve done with the Kaiserliche Marine, defeating the Entente Combined Fleet is a vastly different task than standing up to the UK Navy. The Arisians would wipe us from the seas. The Regia Marina is a different animal entirely.”
“I wouldn’t put it past Chrysalis to commit such an action, however foolish it is,” Gabriela agreed coldly. “Beakolini has made no secret of his ambitions for Griffonia and Zebrica, but he has no sights set on Equus. All she has to do is offload some wunderwaffe in Karthin with a few engineers and he’s all hers. Whatever her Queens and ministers say, she holds absolutely no loyalty to us. We’re just an armory to her. I would entirely expect her to cast off everything we’ve built together.”
They were quiet a moment or two, studying each other as they came to such an agreement. Their thought patterns ran in clearly similar tracks, whatever the nature of the nations they had come to rule, a streak of pragmatism and common sense politics that stripped the veneer off any other sensation set before it. In that moment, Kaiserreich and Ostreich came to an unspoken consensus.
“What do you need from me?” Taillow asked briskly, her gravid struggle seemingly forgotten.
“I don’t know yet. I have a lot of things I need. What can you do?” returned Gabriela, the fatigue of the day and the late hour shrugged away like a cloak off wings.
“I heard your director of intelligence is still recovering from the assassination attempt. Very nasty affair, car bombs. Impersonal in nature. The MfÖS has been run by…who in the meantime?”
Gabriela winced, sighing as an old aggravation was hauled to the fore anew.
“Her deputies. Ela Grimwing is a very distrustful formel, so she didn’t leave a single successor, in case an opportunist tried to kill her. But now she’s left her Ministerium in chaos as those three pretend to work together and scheme behind each other’s backs in the meantime. It’s made getting anything done intelligence wise an exercise in counter-productive bullshit.”
Taillow nodded in understanding, her expression grave.
“Perhaps it might interest you to be reminded that I essentially ran my own County’s intelligence network from the throne for years? Nothing so formal as a department, of course. I lacked the resources. The number of times the minotaurs tried to kill me while I fought tooth and nail to make things work…I tried to bring them to the negotiation table so many times.” Her expression darkened, her eyes hardening to reveal that the formerly quiet, curt and proper formel had some steel underneath after all, despite her condition. “Eventually, I gave up talking.”
“So you’re offering to take over in Ela’s stead?”
“Was I? I believe I was only relating a story of my own experiences in Cyanolisia. You did after all ask what I could do.”
Gabriela nodded.
“I did. And now I know. So…do you want the job?”
Taillow smirked back, an expression resembling a cat just offered a heaping saucer of cream crawling over her beak as her wings twitched in barely suppressed excitement. After a moment, Taillow reached out, gently shifting the chess set until it sat more or less between the two of them.
“Perhaps you have enough time for a quick game? If you are as good as I believe you are, then one of us will claim victory shortly.” Her eye gleamed with a mischievous spirit that told of deeper intents than a mere game between peers. “It will give us a chance to discuss a few things before we retire. That is, if you believe you can stand against me long enough.”
The teasing tone aside, Gabriela caught Taillow’s intent immediately, and drew the box full of pieces out to begin distribution. By some unspoken agreement, the white pieces went to her, while the black went to Taillow. It only took a few seconds to get the board set, and then Gabriela moved her Bishop Pawn forward, freeing up her queen to act.
“An interesting opening,” Taillow mused, shifting her King's Knight forward. “Then again, I suppose it would behoove you to empower your Queen.”
Perhaps, the both of them thought, this late night disaster might yield something of good use after all.
Griffing, Barony of Angriver 3 hours later
As it happened, the rail line that lead from Angriver into Griffonstone had suffered some critical damage. Trade still flowed between the Empire and Wingbardy, after all, and every piece of material coming in was more raw resources for the war effort, every piece of cargo going out more wealth for Imperial coffers. So it was that, in tonight’s round of bombing raids, an Aquileian Levant had strayed rather far out of its way to harass Angriverian logistics and defense posts. Anti-air cannons had thundered through the night, aircraft buzzing overhead in a futile attempt to challenge this vrillium behemoth in the sky. It had fired some of the new enchanted shells, the ones that could direct their path mid flight as if guided by a string or a brain of their own. As a result, the line leading through the southern Scheißwald was cut, and work crews were only just beginning their repairs. No trains would be heading south this day.
“I’m sorry mein herr, the damage is just too great,” the Imperial railroad attendant was telling Leeks.
Angriver was almost completely griffon populated, as their populations of ponies and dogs were so slight as to be almost non-existent. Given the Barony’s own relative poverty and the still leftover state from the Herzland War (both of which had been near to reversed before the Entente had invaded) there were many griffons who lacked a proper education here in what was essentially their backwoods, despite efforts to reverse this trend. So it was that, having never seen a changeling before, many of the locals were gawking at him with curiosity, wariness and even anger or disgust on their faces. Leeks sighed internally, trying to tamp down the exhaustion and frustration bubbling up inside him. He’d been the ambassador to the Griffonian Empire since 1004, and in that time he had come to understand much of the way of how Imperial society worked. He couldn’t blame those griffs around him really, they had been so shut off away from the outside world. Until the Holy League’s destruction in the Herzland War, many of them had likely never even left the Barony, sick and poor as it had been in the past. To them, he was a strange creature with more in common with the monsters inhabiting the surrounding swamps.
Finally mustering a response, Leeks glanced over at the map, which frustratingly did not hold many options for crossing the south border.
“I have to reach Griffonstone. It’s quite a matter of urgent business.”
“I understand that, Herr Peftalo. But your diplomatic credits will not shape demolished tracks into place.”
The attendant glanced up, shifting his visor to observe Peftalo’s own security. As an ambassador, the changeling did require some protection abroad, but Leeks’ own guard was nothing so glamorous. A single Jager, dispatched from the embassy in Griffenheim, glared right back with a silent aggression in her silver eyes, which pulsed with a slight glow. The ticket drake gulped, glancing away as quickly. Leeks sighed once more, wondering why in Tartarus he’d been saddled with this duty. Bad enough he had been forced to burn the bridges he had spent so long building, now he had to jump to a completely different country too. But orders were orders, and he had been promised another diplomat would take his place once he had laid out the groundwork. Of course, how Vesalipolis would do this in the middle of a raging naval war, he wasn’t so sure, nor how long it would take.
Abruptly, he spotted a solution. He jabbed a hoof at the map, noticing a spur of rail going eastbound.
“Is the line to Naniwich still operational?”
The attendant glanced down to a ledger, flipping through pages before checking a memo or two pinned to a corkboard nearby, nodding as he gathered the information.
“Ja, the Ost-Griffonian Schwarzhohl Line. It leaves in two hours. I have nothing here about battle damage that far east. It will delay you, however.”
“By what? A day?”
“Perhaps two.”
“I can tolerate that,” Leeks said as he began signing the papers presented by the attendant, using the Imperial sponsored certificate that allowed him use of such transport on the Kaiser’s idol. The irony of using the Empire’s funds to visit one of their rivals smacked him deeply, and once more he felt a pang of sadness crawl over his soul.
‘Hives below. I never wanted it to end up like this,’ he thought to himself, remembering Gabriela’s squinted eyes and harsh tone.
And so, Leeks Peftalo and his escort climbed onto the Schwarzhohl Line. This rail would take him to Romheim, into the now Reformisten County of Schwarzhohl, through the town of Naniwich and, if he caught the right line, on to his original destination of Griffonstone by way of the town of Coalfall. A bit more roundabout, with more than a few transfers and connections. Not for the first time, Leeks pondered if he should have commissioned an airship after all. The thought rattled around in his mind as he transferred to the new train, settled into his cabin bunk in first class and quietly told his protector to mind the door. Might as well catch some sleep, he thought. If the train was moving into Ost-Griffonia, they’d surely be stopped at some checkpoint or another.
He wanted to make sure he gave the Reformisten no reason for them to suspect his true destination, or what kind of business he would engage in once he arrived.
”My Dearest Cadence and Flurry Regret unable to come visit you City needs me, battle uncertain Sombra not yet on field, still have chance to throw him back Need you to stay strong and stay safe Will come find you as soon as I am able I love you both -Shining”
-Prince-Consort Shining Armor, August 29th, 1012 Sent via Royal Union telegram after telephone and radio to the Crystal City was cut
September 7th, 1012 Eastern outskirts of the Crystal City, Crystal Empire 4th Crystal Armoured “Love Thunder” Division, 11 Crystal Brigade, 6th Royal Regiment of Crystal Artillery
According to sources, the magical relic known as the ‘Crystal Heart’ was supposed to isolate the city from the ravages of the land outside, the magic fueled eternal winter that wrapped the Crystal Empire. From photos and paintings, the Crystal City was supposed to be a verdant, warm paradise, protected by a magic shield that belied the elements and allowed the ponies inside to live peaceful lives, protected from blizzard and attack by outside forces. This, of course, was no longer so. The Crystal War in 1007 had seen the return of King Sombra, and his shattering of the Heart meant the city had ceased being a sheltered paradise. Like the rest of the land, the ponies here were exposed to the elements, and even the glamor of the starburst shaped city was battered by the constant storms and snowfall outside. The city had adapted, of course. Higher walls and magic storm barriers kept out the worst, while more sturdy construction during the rebuilding had allowed the houses and districts inside to remain stalwart in the face of it. Warm clothing and a focus on hot food allowed the crystal ponies to survive. The guidance of Princess Cadence and Prince-Consort Shining Armor had kept the crystal ponies pushing ever onwards. But they all knew it would never be like the old times.
And now, even peace and survival were at stake.
“FIRE!”
She pulled the handle, and the quick-firing 25-pounder roared, the breechblock jerking backwards as thick black smoke joined the blasting frost around them, sending another shell up and out into the oblivion. A month ago, the artillery battery had been positioned in Crystal Park, firing on Hegemony forces on the horizon as the Allied army fought to keep the battle in the outskirts. But that was mid-July, nine weeks ago. Six weeks ago, the fighting had moved from just outside the city to the west in prepared defenses and trenchworks into the outer neighborhoods, where the complex web of streets and diagonal lanes allowed Timberwolves and T-34s to move swiftly and respond to enemy breakthroughs. By making great use of mobile reserves and pegasi couriers as well as crack teams of veteran troops, the bottlenecks had swamped the Hegemony in the lanes for weeks. To the changelings, the sheer number of dead Thralls didn’t seem to concern them at all, as the waves were sent into the meatgrinder time and time again while the bugs and bears preserved their own ranks.
But two weeks ago, things had changed. The Hegemony had become even more determined, and the weather had worsened to the point where trying to fly in an aircraft was suicidal, and pegasus weather control teams were helpless in the face of it, forced to fly below rooftop level. Without air support, and the worsening weather and increased difficulty in casting spells, the Allies were slowly pushed back, step by step.
Now, the battery were parked on a road outside the city itself, shelling those neighborhoods that had for so long held their own lines. Positions the Allies had fought, bled and died from to hold the tide off were now filled by the foe, though by now many of those had been obliterated by shellfire. The simple fact was staring them in the face; they were being driven out.
Private Vapor Flake glanced over her shoulder as one of the loaders yanked open the breech, tossing away another empty smoking brass casing to join the mountain of thousands of its brethren nearby. Without pause, another pony stepped forward with a new shell, ramming it into the open breech before the block slammed shut. A small adjustment was made before the order was hollered again.
“FIRE!”
The command was bellowed at full scream, despite the fact that Sergeant Yukon was no more than three feet from her ear. The battery was in full barrage mode, endlessly launching volleys of shells from the eight guns at a rapid rate. Further on, more batteries were alight, trying in all desperation to bury the foe in a mountain of steel, lead and explosive material. They’d been doing so for a month constantly, only pausing to rotate crews, wait for ammunition, haul the guns to a safer position or let them cool down as desperately needed maintenance was done to keep them firing. At this point, Vapor couldn’t even hear when Yukon spoke to the fire director, she just helped make adjustments as ordered and kept launching death into the blizzard that had plagued the city since the siege began, with no indication of if her fire was doing anything at all to the enemy beyond.
The gun fired again, the breechblock flew back once more another empty shell discarded. She could only hope, in the end, that they were giving the bugs and Sombra’s Thralls Tartarus on Faust.
Spread across this road were also batteries from the Equestrian Royal Army and the Severyanian Red Army, hurling their own waves of death towards the foe. Now and then, she could even spot the flashes of rockets as Soviet Katyusha trucks loosed their payloads, countering the less mobile changeling Nebelwurfer rockets. So far as she knew, they had the Hegemony outgunned around the Crystal City, but not by an extraordinary factor. When Commonwealth troops had stood the line with them, the New Marelanders had brought quite a lot of artillery themselves, but their transfer south to deal with additional pressure around Canterlot and Hoofington had left the Crystal Army leaning more and more on aircraft, Soviet support and, curiously, their Skynavian volunteer groups.
Most ponies she knew had been astonished to see the socialists from Griffonia appear in the Severyanian ranks. Not a lot of griffons flew in the Allied ranks, mostly only mercenaries hired to protect army bases and some volunteers brought over with the New Marelanders. Even more surprising, they brought with them ponies themselves. Severyanians were odd enough ducks, but most of them at least spoke a bit of Equish. But Vapor didn’t know a lick of Herzlandisch or Cloudburian or whatever the catbirds and their strange ponies chattered in. It didn’t matter much to her what the foreigners said anyway. They were here, they were reds and she didn’t really talk to them much anyway.
Just another twist of fate in this already confusing war.
Another shell slammed home. The breech closed again. Another adjustment was made.
“FIRE!” the order was given.
And so, just like she’d done a thousand times, ten thousand times, a hundred thousand times before, she obeyed.
Urban combat was a nightmare under normal circumstances. Close quarters firefights, with enemies able to use rooftops and alleyways to appear from all sides, every room of every house potentially packed full of enemies. Limited visibility, tight access, difficult to acquire air and artillery support. Every house, building and intersection could be fortified in a hurry, and clearing them out required ‘Griever cocktails, flamethrowers, shotguns, gas or just plain old overwhelming numbers. Defending during a city fight should have given them the advantage.
Krasnoarmeyskiyponi Artyom Federov could confirm that, in this instance, it did not. If anything, the tight urban sprawl of the Crystal City, its long and organized lanes and the lack of sufficient weather shielding infrastructure meant defending the city for the past month had been a nightmare instead. Though most elsewhere it would be too early for snow, the seemingly cursed land of the Crystal Empire was subject to it all year round. Today, the windstorm that battered the city may not have been entirely natural, considering their opponents. As the Red Army battled the enemy through evacuated city blocks next to Crystal Loyalist troops and Equestrian Royal Army forces, it seemed around every corner, attacking from every side was another cluster of black armor plate, grilled face masks and glowing green eyeslits. Worse, Sombra’s Thrall forces weren’t alone. Changeling Jagers sniped from high roofs, armored polar bear shock troops brought down walls with their plated paws alone and shadowy umbrals were able to teleport past defenses with impunity. Here, the Red Army paid for their lack of crystal weapon development. Bullets, shells, grenades, even tanks barely seemed to phase the shadowy butchers as they went from street to street, killing entire platoons as they tore down the lanes. Only Red Army flamethrowers, Equestrian crystal rifles and powerful unicorn spells could put the spectral brutes down, and all of those were few and far between.
Another house detonated spectacularly, sending a cloud of shrapnel through the windows. Federov had barely avoided it by hiding behind a sturdy table to fire at the Thralls outside, but several other Red Army troopers nearby hadn’t been as lucky, and were shredded by the deadly barrage, blood as red as their flag and scraps of tattered fatigues were thrown across the room like a foal’s toy and Federov expelled a gasp as he realized how close he’d come to being shredded.
“Fall back! Back to the next line!” came the shout from the street behind the house he was in. The cry was taken up by several other voices, speaking in three different languages, and Federov needed no more excuse as he scrambled towards the door, fumbling to keep hold of his weapon. Cohesion had broken down as a hundred remnants of a dozen units fled in the same general direction, desperate to reach a safer place, away from the enemy that was already tearing them to shreds.
The Amethyst University was on fire. He could see that from here, its roof split open by changeling and Thrall bombers before the storms had grounded all aircraft. Entire blocks had been wiped from existence by artillery barrages and the Red Army’s attempts to rig up explosives to stem the tide of the enemy advance. But Sombra, as it turned out, had not been particular when it came to mind-controlling ponies. Though those from the Crystal lands were the most susceptible, those from Equestria and even Severnaya could be drawn in by the dark magic. Every time another wave of flesh and steel crashed over their lines, it was a ragtag mix of Sombra’s Thralls in battle armor, the white uniforms of Crystal Empire troops, Equestrian tans and socialists with red patches. On top of this, the old, the young and the injured were pressed into service, their choice and ability to resist stolen from them as they took up arms and rushed into the fray. Stolen tanks and fighters were turned on their former owners, and for every Thrall the Allied army took down, another of their number filled in the hole in the enemy ranks, bolts of dark energy overtaking them. The Allies had taken to immediately shooting those of their number who fell to his influence in their ranks, rather than let them turn their weapons on the Allies.
Another street. Federov rushed past several Twilight tanks on Crystal Reale Avenue, one of the main ‘spokes’ of the city. They were lined up behind a rough barricade of overturned cars and debris, behind which several Crystal and Soviet machine guns were set up, spraying fire down the lane. An Equestrian 6-pounder AT gun cracked, the shell smashing into an opposing Muletilda, the enemy tank buckling and lumbering to a halt, all movement from the vehicle ceased. The friendly Twilights didn’t take any chances, splashing it several more times, shells punching holes into the Thrall vehicle as it brewed up. But the slain tank didn’t halt the enemy, as from the smoke came the onrushing form of more Thralls, backed by the hulking outlines of polar bear warriors, shrugging off automatic fire from their starsteel plate armor like little more than spring rain. Mortar shells began falling on the barricade.
Federov did not stay for that exchange. This position wasn’t any more secure than the one he’d just abandoned. Instead, he continued on, ducking his head as he galloped in an effort to avoid shrapnel and bullets. Artillery shells continued falling all around like rain, and even from this distance, he heard the roaring sirens of a diving Stuka as it fell upon the barricade he had just left. The massive detonation indicated that its payload had landed accurately, and more screams sounded on the wind. Over his head, through the sleet, he could see the faint forms of pegasi flitting from building to building, flying headlong into the gale force winds as they had their own micro dogfights with changelings and Thralls also bold enough to take awing. The storm killed several from both sides, but the fight overhead still raged on, merely in the upper floors of the city instead of thousands of feet in the sky.
He kept running. And running. An umbral suddenly appeared ahead from a blast of dark smoke, diving on an Equestrian unicorn who wrestled back with magic, blue aura struggling against purple black. Several crystal rifle beams cut out of a nearby house, tearing into the umbral and causing it to roar with the scream of tortured souls. And Federov kept running. Finally, he burst out of the avenue, and into the Castle Square.
The Crystal Castle’s defenses had been built up several times. Once by Sombra himself when he had taken the city in 1007, and then a few more rounds by the Crystal army themselves. Watchtowers made of solid crystal were capped by machine gun nests, from which came swarms of tracers into the air across nearby rooftops, strafing the streets on approach. Federov glanced up, and one tower took a shell directly below the nest, but the machine guns kept firing. Then a brace of incendiary rockets smashed in, and he had to wrest his eyes away from the nest as burning forms tumbled from it to fall more than forty feet to the ground. At the foot of the Castle itself, the remains of the Allied defenders congregated, machine gun nests and sandbag barricades allowing tanks and mortar pits to be set up. The return fire from parked howitzers thundered out, and anti-aircraft turrets were surrounded by mountains of spent shell casings, firing streams out into the smoky sky. There clearly hadn't been enough time to try and dig entrenchments in the frozen soil.
Federov spotted a Crystal Loyalist rise up from behind a snow-covered sandbag barricade, waving a hoof at him through the sleet and smoke.
“Over here!”
There was no time to argue commands and differing armies, and Federov wouldn’t have cared in the first place, scrambling over the barricade to land next to several other Loyalists and a few Equestrians. Behind him, three more Soviets stumbled over as well, their uniforms covered in soot and grime, frantically trying to reload their weapons. Glancing over, he could see the stream of retreating ponies here beginning to peter out along Crystale Reale, mostly down now to a few straggling squads and one or two T-34s retreating in reverse, firing their guns into the smoke as they went.
“Where’s the rest of the army?” Federov gasped, glancing around. Aside from the ponies who had fallen back here, he could see the other lanes and avenues leading to the Castle. Of the twelve main thoroughfares arranged in star formation, five of them were already blocked off with barricades, tanks and machine guns firing at the enemy beyond. Mortars were falling on the Castle grounds, sending ponies scrambling for cover. Medical orderlies rushes forward, dragging the screaming wounded into the Castle itself, past the barricades at the doors, others taken away presumably to evacuation beyond the plaza. But the entire city was supposed to be full of defenders. Were the streets left open because those lanes had held on? Or were they dead and the enemy was approaching down those streets?
“What army?” hollered an Equestrian regular nearby before tucking back into his Grump gun, chattering off another burst of heavy caliber fire downrange. Federov could see he was right. Stallions and mares (and the occasional Skynavian griffon) stumbled into the square, making for the safety of the defensive works at the foot of the Castle, but they wore four different uniforms and were acting more as a mob driven by instinct, even the officers with them who commanded their different sections. There was no direction as a whole, just a pouring of bodies into the frozen trenches and sandbags.
Another artillery barrage landed, wiping out several buildings nearby. Federov half ducked by instinct, realized he was not in danger and cursed, brushing himself off before yanking out the magazine of his PPSh-10 and slotting a new one in its place. While the SVETA was a very good rifle, he had discovered the tight confines of a city street were more appropriate for a submachine gun, and had acquired one off a dead Udarnyye Soldaty. Elite trooper she may have been, the unicorn clearly had no more need of her weapons, though Federov hadn’t been able to salvage the Stalnoi Nagrudnik armor. Still, the Burp Gun had been worth the find, and he’d kept his weapon supplied from munitions dumps that didn’t ask why he had one and the dead he came across. Many Frontoviki had also abandoned their rifles for these weapons in the tight city confines, and it outgunned the changeling MP 10 with rate of fire and dependability. Finely made as they were, the bug guns had a jamming problem with sustained fire.
“This way!” he suddenly heard a voice call in Equish, and Federov turned his head as he realized a unicorn stallion was nearby, calling a Crystal medic over to a fallen Soviet strelki, turning the stallion’s head and checking for a pulse. “Okay, he’s still alive! I need stretcher bearers, now!”
In response, two Equestrian medics with a combat stretcher slung between them leapt forward, galloping to the unicorn’s position and bundling the strelki away back through the lines. The unicorn remained, quietly conversing with several other ponies nearby, most of them dressed in golden armor, the rest in Crystal Army officer’s uniforms. The coin finally dropped for Federov, and he realized just who he was staring at; Prince-Consort Shining Armor, commander of all Loyalist forces left in the Crystal Empire. Federov wasn’t quite sure how to feel about that. On the one hoof, the unicorn was a monarch, which the Dialectic had always taught him meant he was looking at a bourgeoisie oppressor who sapped his ill-gotten wealth from the proletariat. He was to be hated, despised and conspired against to liberate the ponies under his rule. But Federov also knew that the General Secretary had signed a temporary alliance for survival’s sake, and despite being a cowardly monarch and an oppressor, Shining Armor had been in the field with his soldiers since the beginning, even suffering through blizzards and under fire. He had moved his wife and daughter out of harm’s way while he took point to rally his fighting troops in the ever enduring struggle against the all-consuming swarm and the savage creatures of the north. By all other standards, he was a figure to inspire, as brave as any other hero of the revolution.
It was rather paradoxical, the young strelki considered.
Prince-Consort Shining Armor turned away from his officers and guards, moving back to the line as he stepped up next to each soldier he saw. To each, he spared a quick word, whether they were Equestrian, Crystal or Soviet, clapping their shoulders and encouraging them as he went.
“Are you doing okay? Do you need ammo, food?”
“You hit anywhere? No, good? Okay.”
“Are you cold? Very funny soldier, I mean colder than usual?”
Those who were wounded he called to be evacuated away, and those who were dead he solemnly left where they fell only after confirming they were no longer among the living. As he worked his way along the line, he came to Federov and he nodded as he occupied the same spot as the young strelki, bracing as a blast of cold wind hit him in the face.
“What’s your name, soldier?” he called out over the gale, blue mane whipping him in his snow-white muzzle from under his hood. Almost as an afterthought, his horn glowed and the hair was yanked back again. Federov could see that he had a face mask and goggles, but they were pulled aside despite the worsening conditions. He wanted to be seen and heard.
“F-Federov, sir,” the submachine gunner replied, stammering equal parts through the chattering of his freezing jaws and from his insecurity at just how to act. “Krasnoarmeyskiyponi Federov.”
“That’s a bit of a muzzleful,” the unicorn replied, a smirk on his frozen face. “Got a shorter name?”
“Artyom,” Federov returned. It felt strange on his numb lips, a term he hadn’t spoken in months. Even on rotations to the rear for rest, he had not used his given name for anything but checking in. Aside from letters to his parents, he hadn’t seen or heard it in a personal way in a long time. To tell it to this stranger, a monarchist oppressor, a servant of the vile Celestia, instantly felt like a mistake.
But Shining Armor’s horn glowed, and in a moment he had tugged the scarf off his neck and draped it over Federov’s own, the magic even tucking it in nice and snug, the purple crystal snowflake emblem on it smudged by soot and smoke, the white smeared with a bit of blood. This was a garment that, while fresh, had come back out into war. The prince-consort clearly did not see fit to sit back on his laurels and watch from afar.
“Well, Artyom,” Shining Armor said as he stepped back to admire his work. “If we see each other again, I’ll see what I can do to get you some extra soup. No point winning the battle if you die of frostbite. But I’ll be right back here, just behind you. You remember that, okay Comrade?”
The party title, used so casually between socialists on so many occasions, sounded foreign and natural coming from the stallion’s mouth. Foreign because to hear a prince say that word seemed wrong, so wrong on a deeper level than just auditory. And natural because he didn’t force it, and it rolled off his tongue like water. He must have spoken with dozens of Soviet officers and soldiers today alone, who knew where he had picked up the habit.
“Yes sir,” Federov replied automatically, straightening up a bit more as he held his weapon tighter. “We won’t let you down sir.”
“I have every faith you won’t,” the white unicorn replied, adjusting the weapon over his back before turning and moving down the line to the next knot of troopers, a trio of armored bodyguards sporting glowing crystal rifles tagging close behind.
Federov turned back towards the blizzard obscured streets, watching as artillery pounded the lane. Friendly, enemy, who knew and who cared? It was a veritable storm of steel out there. But he felt a bit more heartened now, surprised to find quite a bit of the despair lifted from his soul. A monarchist oppressor Shining Armor may have been, he was no coward and no fool. Federov felt his spine harden a little more.
Strange as the exchange had been, he had to admit he was not quite so afraid of the coming final stand, as he and hundreds of others stared out into the wall of white and gray beyond their makeshift revetments.
* * * * *
“Hurry now!”
General Crystalline Opal, commander of His Majesty’s Legion of Mages, peered out of the window at the Crystal Castle beyond. The sheer audacity galled her, that the foe would pick this of all places to fortify and infest with their filthy presence. Machine gun nests, cannon emplacements, tanks, row after row of barricades. It was enough to make her sick.
But she took a deep breath, quietly stabilizing herself. They were about to correct that, and hand the city back to Sombra and his loyalists, the true rulers of the Crystal Empire.
”And there’s nothing those weak fools in Canterlot can do about it,” she thought to herself.
When Sombra had first returned five years ago, she had been one of several officers who had been released from the mind control magic when it was proven they were more than willing to stand behind the King of old against the weak-willed pretenders of Equestria’s puppets. With willing Legionnaires and mind-controlled Thralls, they had carried the fight against the alicorn sisters for almost two years before their defeat, and Sombra had been forced into exile. The truth had been on the wall; the Empire was too weak from a millennium of idle decay. It could not yet stand on its own, as powerful as their monarch was.
Sombra had left instructions for his faithful before he disappeared into the west to gather allies, and Crystalline and her comrades had sworn that they’d been mind-controlled like the thousands of Thralls, forced to turn on Equestria and fight for Sombra. And, while foolish hardliners too proud to use common sense were taken away, most of the loyalists had remained in hiding, even retaining their positions. The absolute hubris of it all, that Celestia trusted they were all being honest.
Now, as the second coming of Sombra swept over the snows with the backing of the insectoid changelings of the northwestern wastes, his loyal agents and soldiers had emerged once again, casting off the snowflake of the pretender to bear the triple diamond of the true Empire, Sombra’s Empire. And Crystalline’s place in it was to take command of the Cult, summoning crystals of darkness, the shadowy beings of the umbrum from the other side and to enact rituals to empower both the King and his loyal spellcasters. It was a great honor, and it all led to this very moment, this one battle.
“The King will take the field soon,” Crystalline chided as she trotted away from the window, moving around the ritual circle to inspect the work her magisters and acolytes had commenced. “Everypony must be in place.”
They had a total of four such ritual sites like this, hidden in the structures surrounding the Castle plaza. Dodging the Crystal Puppets, their Equestrian overlords and the Soviet apostates as these ponies erected fortifications in the buildings as well hadn’t been easy, but hiding away had actually flushed out some hiding civilians, the better to use for the war effort. When the time came, the King could count on them.
She looked down at the circle, at where several POW Thralls placidly lay, staring up at the ceiling as they awaited the moment their lives would end. Carved into their chests were more runes, encircled by painted sigils to power the ritual and absorb their energy for the Dark King. This kind of operation took time to execute, and they had been lurking here for a week in advance while the Hegemony advanced on the site, all to make sure they were in position at the exact right moment.
Crystalline was muttering to herself, eyes flickering over every detail. They had added many of the newly discovered civilian Thralls to the ritual to bolster it, and their life energy would help empower the King as he took the next ultimate step. He had the relic, which he had spent so long absent from the front to locate. Now, all he required was for his loyal magisters to complete the ritual, allow him to ascend, and finally give him back his rightful Empire.
“We will be mighty again,” Crystalline muttered. “This is the last day of Cadenza’s reign. Whatever it takes.”
* * * * *
With the Crystal Castle as a rallying point, more and more Allied forces fell back down the avenues. Equestrian, Crystal and Soviet ponies continued to pour in. Out of the dozen streets leading into the center, perhaps five of them were clearly still held in Allied hooves, the rest in some degree of contention. Federov couldn’t tell which were in full retreat and which only had a trickle of wounded or panicked sprinting in, but with the fortifications of the Crystal Castle and Prince Shining Armor as an anchor they began to rally, maneuvering through the entrenchments and tank traps, falling into open places in the defenses, officers from all three armies hollering to direct the flow under the orders of Shining Armor. Before long, machine guns bristled from every sandbag emplacement, mortars were armed and sighted, T-34s took up positions next to Timberwolves and Crusaders and hundreds of rifle barrels were aimed out over parapets and barricades, just waiting and daring the enemy to come at them.
It felt like it took forever, just staring into the ungodly blizzard, that cursed wall of white that could not have been the product of natural weather. Natural weather, even some unnatural ones, could be blown away by pegasi weather control teams. This stubbornly refused to depart, and even though it was Autumn in Equestria right now, it may as well have been the deepest of polar frost here in the Crystal City. For weeks, the defenders had been making the attackers pay for their audacity, forcing the Hegemony to clear them out house by house, room by room, all while accursed sleet tore at their bones. The problem was, this weather was an ally to the enemy, as changelings and polar bears were naturally attuned to the chill bite of winter, while the Thralls simply no longer cared. While winter came hard to northern Equestria and most of Severyana, what they suffered through and abated was nothing compared to what the races of the north were acclimated to endure.
And so the snow blew into their eyes, blinding those who even wore goggles, balaclavas and fur-lined hoods. The avenues channeled the gale towards the Castle from seven directions sending chills through all spines present. Thoughts and reminders of their fellows who had frozen to death came unbidden, and many had memories of finding their comrades stiff and solid in a short time with no word or warning. They shivered from more than just the cold.
The flow of reinforcements had stopped. Anypony left out there were either digging into the side lanes, forcing the enemy to come root them out from apartments and basements or isolated and about to be overrun. Or they could be hiding, trying to escape notice. The gunfire in the distance didn’t stop. Snaps and bangs and crackles of it, the rattle of automatics, the dull thuds and booms of cannon. Engines growled, and joining them was something primal and unnatural, torn from hundreds of snarling throats, the roar of polar bears, changeling battleshifters and accursed umbrum tearing into the pony holdouts before them. Channeled down the avenues, the sound unnaturally echoed over the plaza, the grim assembly of defenders treated to the sounds of their enemy battling and killing their comrades and being killed in turn, like some sick radiodrama that was more than real. On a few faces, tears ran sluggishly from eye sockets. They were exhausted, dehydrated and the tears were freezing in their coats. Just let it come, many thought. Just get it over with already, instead of leaving them to this insidious waiting as they froze to death…
Finally, the unspoken wish was granted.
A barrage of shells tore down on them, splitting the frozen ground and ruined street open, a blanket of munitions tearing stone, frost, sandbag, wooden barricade and simple flesh apart. It only seemed to land sporadically because the separate detonations were from multiple directions, but they moved swiftly, spiraling outwards to cover the whole square. Shells smacked into the Crystal Castle, the structure protecting dead center (though some few explosives angled in regardless). The shots fell and tore up fighting positions, flinging bodies every direction, some in more pieces than before and others almost unrecognizable as little more than crimson, steaming meat splashing on the snowy stone.
It felt like it lasted an hour and claimed a score of the defenders, but in all honesty it could have only been a minute, and killed perhaps two dozen. A typical changeling barrage, short and intense to maximize the shock value over the quickest time. The screams, of course, began almost instantly. Medics flung themselves forwards immediately. It didn’t matter who wore what uniform. Soviet griffons tended to Equestrian regulars, Crystal unicorns to Red Army strelki. They swiftly began dragging the wounded towards the aid tents, in the protected shadow of the Castle.
Then came the umbrals. Appearing like smoke out of the blizzard, the purple-black forms descended in a wave of fell malice, beings of dark magic that knew only of the orders from their master and their desire to kill. There had to be at least forty of them. Standing bigger than the largest earth pony stallion, they fell on the defensive positions with massive hooves and gnashing jaws full of fangs. They trampled ponies into the ground, turning them into flat, quivering masses of flesh, blood flashfrozen to the snow or sandbags or other troopers around. Several of them roared, shrieking like damned souls into the faces of those nearby. Bolts of dark magic energy shot from the creatures, striking Allied troopers around them, and while several fell dead, just as many began stumbling and slurring as the Thrall Curse began to overtake them, bringing them into Sombra’s magic web before they were finished off by their fellows standing next to them, a bullet or bayonet to grant them a merciful end. Many soldiers panicked, hooves flying in fright as their brains locked into the reaction of only getting away from the danger that had appeared in their midst. Shots rang out, most to no avail. Bullets phased right through the monstrous forms, sometimes flying off into the air, sometimes into the fortifications around them, sometimes striking their comrades down. The few crystal rifles in the line blasted the umbrals, bearing them down to earth in melting, shrieking piles as the creatures seemed to crumble under the onslaught before disappearing again like vapor. With the whumpf of igniting fire, several Red Army flamethrowers spat tongues of heat that wrapped around the spectral foe, and while not as effective as a magic rifle beam or a spell from a unicorn, the incendiary weapons still had some effect, driving the monsters off and even slaying a few of them. They were terrifying, and more kept arriving to augment those banished from this realm, but they were not invincible, and not as much of a shock as they used to be mere months ago.
Even as the positions tried to recover, their officers hollering orders to urge them back to the barricades, the next wave of linebreakers arrived. Changeling battleshifters from the Queen’s Guard, those bugs able to not only hold a shape long enough to fight with it, but take the forms of the most ferocious monsters from across the world. Giant arachnids, massive chimeras, hydras, thunder lizards, sinister predators, digging creatures and the like. Building fronts around the square exploded outwards as these massive creatures launched themselves forwards, barricades crushed underfoot, hoof and claw. They killed scores with each swipe of their massive claws, snapped with bloody mandibles and smashed ponies in direct, devastating strikes. A shifter in the form of a maulwurf brought a massive clawed fist down on a Crusader tank, crushing it nearly flat with one blow before the crew could escape. Nearby, a T-34 swiveled its 76mm cannon up, blasting a battleshifter in the form of a Thrax worm, the head detonating spectacularly a split second before, with a flash of green magic, the decapitated changeling corpse flopped to the snowy street, only to be trampled by those following behind.
Federov’s PPSh-10 rattled endlessly as he emptied drum magazine after drum magazine, searching for chinks in twisted carapace, trying to ignore the compulsion to direct his fire towards the purple specters. Nearby, an anti-tank gun boomed, striking a battleshifter in the form of a praying-mantis shaped Myrestalker. The creature’s chest suddenly blossomed a hole the size of a dinner plate, and in a flash the dead Queen’s Guard fell to the ground.
“Stay strong!” called out a familiar voice nearby, shouting through magic projection like the Royal Voice of Canterlot to be heard over the screams, shrieks, explosions and gunfire. “Hold them back! We can do this!” Prince-Consort Shining Armor stood nearby, firing his own magic rifle into the advancing horde of monsters, refusing to take even another step back. “This is our city! Our land! Our homes! Not theirs, never again!” From those who could hear him, a ragged cry of defiance rose up.
Machine guns chattered. Ponies hollered, both in fear and blind adrenaline soaked battle fury, battleshifters and umbrals roaring and snarling in a hundred different fashions. Shotguns boomed, rifles cracked, submachine guns chattering, flames snapping and crystal rifles searing the air. All was chaos. All was desperation. But they were holding.
And then came the conventional forces. The rumble of engines, the growling of heavy, armor plated throats, the onrushing thunder of massed hooves. Like a tide, three of the lanes poured Thralls, their blank gazes and various uniforms a wall with no gaps in it. Some of them didn’t even have weapons, merely joining the onrushing tide of hundreds and filling the gap with their bodies. Behind them came the real heavyweights, the massed ranks of polar bear troopers and panserbjørne and changeling panzers. Behind even those were changeling grenadiers and the despicable Legionnaires, those of Sombra’s ranks willing to join his new empire even without mind control.
With a shout from a Soviet officers, three machine guns mounted in the surrounding buildings opened up on the Thrall horde, swiveling from their previous targets to concentrate fire on the living wave. Dozens fell in the first strafing, though the Thralls showed no visible reaction to the deaths of their fellows, merely pressing on with their grim task, some firing as they moved, their faces impassive and blank. A changeling Tiger plowed on through the piles of corpses, grinding them to red and pink paste under the tracks without a care on Faust. The massive 3.5 inch gun swiveled in the turret as fire from just about everything thrown at it bounced off the thick plates with little more than scuff marks. The tank halted, paused a moment, then its cannon spoke with the sound of apocalypse, annihilating an anti-tank emplacement and its crew. Another Tiger entered the plaza behind it, changeling panzergrenadiers spilling from its back like rain.
Madness. This was absolute madness.
Abruptly, a shriek cut the air as artillery shells whistled overhead, the sounds of freight trains approaching to a crescendo before impacting with earth shattering force. But the shells didn’t fall on the Crystal Castle or the desperate defenders fighting and killing and being slaughtered in its shadow. They fell instead on the streets around the Castle, on the lanes and the streets where the attack was surging forwards to swamp the overwhelmed defenders. Impact after impact, detonation after detonation. All was lost in the chaos, as the barrage began walking itself backwards down the streets. A creeping barrage, launched towards the foe. 25-pounder and 152mm shells fell like rain, carpeting the enemy advance and paying back the same savagery that had been dropped on the heads of their fellows. For a moment, many of the Allied defenders simply stared, watching the explosions slowly walking away from them.
“NOW! Stallions and mares of the Crystal Empire, charge!”
At Shining Armor’s signal, many of the Loyalist Crystal ponies rallied and, bayonets fixed, swiftly counterattacked. Quick on the uptake, their Equestrian cousins followed soon after, not wanting to be found lacking. Last to be informed, and last to respond, the Soviets still answered in kind with just as savage fury. The foe they still had was fierce, even if they had been caught by surprise. Umbrals were blasted apart by flamethrowers, spells and magic beams. The few battleshifters remaining found themselves the exclusive favorites of tanks and anti-tank gun teams. Where those were lacking, infantry ponies clambered up legs and shoved grenades into armor plates before ducking away from the inevitable explosion, both of gunpowder and gore. The few surviving Thralls crawled onwards, only to be mercilessly bayoneted and shot where they fumbled to pick themselves up. Stranded panzers found their vision blocks and hatches occupied by ponies with grenades, submachine guns and 'Griever cocktails, and in short order these were swiftly hollowed out with various bloody results. The ones that burned left the crews screaming in agony for what sounded like an age.
It wasn’t all their way, of course. Umbrum and battleshifters were arguably even more dangerous when injured, however few of them there were. Nearby, an umbral reared and disembowled two Equestrian regulars before a Red Army strelki doused it in flames, chasing the equine shaped monstrosity off before it stumbled, collapsed and disappeared in a burst of purple and black smoke. A battleshifter brought a razor sharp claw the size of a car down on a trio of ponies, bisecting two and carving the left limbs off the third before the combined fire of several soldiers and a finishing shot by a Crystal anti-tank gun finished it.
They had no time to relish in their victory, however. The surviving panzers, panserbjørne and regular assault troops were finally free of the barrage zone, advancing on the Crystal Castle as their ragged formations spread out, seeking cover in battle rubble, collapsed buildings, destroyed cars, anything they could find. Allied machine guns chattered, mortars thumped, Timberwolf and T-34 tanks began to press once more, dueling with Panzer IIIs and IVs in the square. The fighting resumed anew, a type all sides were familiar with as fireteams and squads moved from cover to cover, suppressing with machine guns and tossing hoof grenades as they tried to dislodge the foe. Near Federov, a panserbjørne reared up, flashing his starsteel gauntlets and the long, flashing claws as he reaved a Skynavian griffon in two, roaring as blood splattered across his muzzle. A Panzer IV’s main gun boomed, coring a T-34 before an Equestrian Celestia heavy tank blew off the changeling’s track, machine guns chattering as the crew attempted to bail out, only to be cut down in the snow.
It was mayhem. It was slaughter. It was war, pure and distilled.
But, Federov noticed, they were holding. Certainly, Allied losses were already grievous and still mounting. But they had seen off the first devastating waves and, for now, had the enemy stuck fast. He glanced over his shoulder and there, enchanted plate gleaming in the dim light, nearby explosions making his white coat stand out sharply from the grimy storm around him, Prince-Consort Shining Armor stood tall, even as a Crystal trooper nearby clumsily fumbled a Loyalist banner salvaged up from somewhere, planting the flag next to the prince.
“Damn,” said Yefreytor Aptoniva nearby as she spat blood out of her muzzle, fumbling another magazine into her SVETA. “Guess for a monarch, he ain’t half bad.”
But before Federov could reply in the affirmative to his comrade, they were interrupted. Not just them and their conversation. But the entire battle. For a moment, there seemed just a scant second where no creature fired, all movement seemed to pause, engines seemed to seize up and even the screaming of the wounded faded from the audible perceptive range.
For a moment, it seemed the entire battle was frozen. Just for a heartbeat.
”Enough.”
The voice seemed to resonate from all around. A deep, darkly oppressive presence that crawled into Federov’s chest and skull. He gasped, simultaneously out of breath and suffering a splitting headache all at once. He stumbled, barely holding his weapon as he steadied himself on a sandbag barricade, trying his best to peer up and over the top, find out just what was this new threat that the changelings had pulled out. But as he looked up, he realized something had erupted out of the dirt nearby, something that had not been there mere minutes ago.
A large, pony height gray crystal shard, sticking up out of the frozen soil, roiling with purple and black energy. A quick glance at the surrounding battlefield had revealed several more, having erupted from the street and even some shoving wrecked tanks aside, all of them brimming with energy.
“Dear Celestia,” mumbled an Equestrian nearby, her voice dripping with unfiltered terror as she clutched her Lavender .303 closer, a near death grip. “It’s -Him-. He’s -here-.”
Federov didn’t need another clue to know exactly who ‘He’ was.
New movement caught his eye. He leaned sideways, peering around the corrupted crystal, his throat thick with dread fear and apprehension. And he saw exactly what he expected. There, emerging from one of the boulevards, the storm and snow bending around him, dark energy roiling from his pelt as he strode slowly and confidently down the lane, was the armor form of the Dark King. Sombra had finally taken the field. There he was, no more than a hundred meters away from Federov’s position. He moved with a direct stride that told he was in no hurry, glowing green eyes and red pupils fixed on a single point, focused and locked in, red horn glowing with power. Dark energy seemed to snap and fire off around him, not counting that which coiled from his livid, fiery gaze. On the gorget over his chest, he wore a triangular amulet of some kind with a red gem seated in the middle of it, though Federov was too far to make out details. Surrounding King Sombra were a half dozen other equine figures, all moving just as slowly and purposefully as their sovereign. These were a new kind of strange, not umbrals and not Legionnaires or Thralls or changelings. Something else. They were large, covered in dark armor plating. All of them were unicorns, and like their lord, dark energy seemed to emanate off them in billowing streams, like smoke off a fire. Their helmets were not like those of Legionnaires or Thralls either, seemingly to consist entirely of interlocking black plates, with no sign of eyeslits or goggles to see out of.
None of them seemed to care about incoming fire, or shells. Whenever a bullet lanced the processions’ way, it bounced off an invisible barrier; whenever a shell arced towards them it detonated a safe distance away, shrapnel scattering in all directions away. An errant purple beam diffused halfway to Sombra and merely fizzled out on one of the guards’ armor, leaving a small pockmark. Powerful magics or telekinetics protected this royal guard and their charge, and they didn’t even seem to give the battle raging around them any heed.
The inverse was certainly not true. As they advanced it was as if they projected an aura of dread around them. Panzers and half-tracks accelerated to clear out of the way, soldiers skittered to the side, changelings, polar bears and Legionnaires alike. Even one of the last surviving battleshifters carefully maneuvered her monstrous bulk around the procession, even when it put her in perfect shooting range for a Soviet unicorn to put an arcane bolt into her chest.
And the prince absolutely noticed.
“SOMBRA!” Shining Armor hollered, rising from his position, crystal rifle held at the ready as his horn glowed pink with energy, his aura clearly charged and ready. “It’s not happening this time, Sombra!”
”Foolish Prince,” came the suffocating voice once more, causing Federov to fumble again, weapon slipping in his hooves as he tried to regain some semblance of control. His ushanka suddenly felt stifling where before he had been freezing, and his skin crawled as if on fire. ”Did you think you could take my city, -my- CASTLE and make your pitiful last stand in it, and it would be enough to cast me back?” The voice even sounded pretentious, a silent but present chuckle inserted at the end of the cursed statement, one of amusement at a small child having come to an incorrect conclusion so ridiculous it was humorous. ”You are but a foal playing in a box fort, Little Prince. Though, I suppose I should call you Prince-Consort, after all. It’s never been your own box fort, merely your -wife’s-.”
With a leering grin, Sombra strode past his procession, all of whom had halted in their tracks, standing by and watching the exchange. The Dark King’s eyes glowed with energy, as the magic roiling off him intensified until it almost seemed that plumes of smoke were emanating from his back like wings. Something glowed red on Sombra’s chest, at first a small light that grew ever brighter, cutting through the snowstorm all around them until it was vivid and blinding. As thousands in the Castle plaza looked on, even with the battle raging in the background, the glow seemed to spread away from Sombra’s chest, up over his royal cloak and onto his back to join the wings of smoke. In a flash, the smoke instantly coalesced and solidified, and the cloak flew upwards like it had been caught by the so far eerily absent wind. From underneath, a pair of black and red feathered wings spread, dark magic energy spilling off him in waves as his physical body swelled to near twice his original size. Sombra reared up, cackling in victory as he did so, eyes and horn glowing red with magic power anew.
Federov gasped. Like all loyal and reasonable socialists, he knew gods and alicorns existed, and could possess much in the way of power. But the state’s teaching had said that such creatures were entirely unworthy of such worship as was poured onto them in Equestria. That their own interests and power were entirely geared towards their own selfish ends, accruing wealth and adoration and riches. But Federov could now see that when it came to the tales of an alicorn’s power, none of those had ever exaggerated.
For what he was witnessing now was the ascension of an already extremely powerful unicorn into such a creature. Before the eyes of all around the Castle, Sombra had just reforged himself into an alicorn.
With an audible boom and a blast of arcane pressure, Federov and everypony around him were flung backwards. Some rebounded off their barricades, some off buildings or gun emplacements. Some didn’t hit anything at all and were flung several yards back, skidding across snow and stone. The most unfortunate ones were tank and panzer crews, as even the multi-ton armored machines were thrown back. If they survived the battering or were killed in the process, Federov never knew. Ponies, changelings, Thralls, griffons, polar bears, all were knocked askelter by the blast, as if it knew no loyalties or mercy.
Sombra flapped his newfound wings once, twice, then cackled in victory once more, his entire body surrounded by red lightning bolts, arcane energy shooting off in all directions. His eyes not only glowed red, but had become boiling points of magic as he stared directly as Shining Armor. A pink lance of magic arced out from the prince-consort, fortified and built upon and charged. The spell would have killed a sea monster outright, but against the alicorn-empowered nature of King Sombra, it was halted several feet away. Screaming in defiance and frustration, Shining Armor raised the crystal rifle, sending shot after shot at the creature of umbral darkness.
”As you wish. Farewell, Shining Armor. At least nopony can call you a coward.”
Before Federov could respond to what he had suddenly, horrifyingly realized was about to happen, Sombra’s eyes lit with power once more. The colors had reversed. The magic was now black, with bolts of red energy lancing through the spell, tinged in deep purple and green. The dark alicorn held the spell only a moment longer before he cast it out as a swift, dark wall firing in all directions. The wall passed over Federov, and he suddenly felt a deep, sharp coldness in his soul, more intense than any other sensation he had ever experienced, more frigid than the deepest winter frost. He tried to call out, but his voice, his breath, his intent had been stolen from him. The last thing to escape him was a short, mute, wordless gasp.
Then he teetered over.
He was dead before he hit the snowy ground.
He stood amongst the ruin of his city, suddenly quiet in the aftermath. Not silent, by any means. Some ordnance was still going off, fires still blazing, wounded still crying out. Well, Hegemony wounded, that was. He took a deep breath, listening to the whistling of the wind as it blasted down the lanes. He was finally, at last, home again. His city had taken some time to bring down, but he had been busy after all. No chance to take to the field from the front as he had desired. All these months he could have simply strolled right in, shrugging off bullets and spells as he cast his power around. The loss of time made him, for the first time since his resurrection, feel a pang of regret. The loss of lives did not bother him. The Crystal City had been evacuated for the most part, so when he cast the death spell it had blown away only combatants, though he could had snared more of those under his power. Regardless, he knew he had enough Thralls to get the job done, and with the annihilation of this army the feeble strength of the ponies would collapse.
Now, to follow Chrysalis’ instruction and wheel south, or continue towards Stalliongrad while it lay vulnerable and then on to the coast? Suddenly the thought of constructing a fleet of battleships in the Celestial Sea was very appealing.
No, he decided to himself. The Alicorn Amulet still burned with dark energy, roiling on his chest as he considered its power. She had given him this relic as a gift, and one who could acquire such astounding artifacts was surely one he had to lend a somewhat respectful ear to. After all, how did the old saying go? ‘Happy wife, happy life?’ That was the one.
Besides, he considered with a wicked grin, hosting a wedding ceremony in the ruins of Canterlot Castle as Hegemony forces paraded through the city on their way to conquer the rest of Equestria was a delectable thought. What a way to take his revenge on the alicorn sisters.
He heard a scrape behind him, and turned as several figures approached. One of them, eyes foggy and staring off into the distance despite his tight military bearing, was none other than Deimos Falafel himself. Still alive then. He had wondered where his trinket had gone, if this would be the fight where some stray fire claimed him as he clung to Sombra’s side, a nice little trophy to flaunt around to all that could see.
The other was none other than Vaspier Orn Kladisium, the Great Nobody, head of VOPS and currently Sombra’s chief envoy from his wife. Behind the changeling, a trio of Queen's Guard quietly stood by, their glowing crystal weapons illuminating their gask masks. Sombra ignored these, turning instead to his puppet.
“Ah, Deimos! I had wondered if you were still around. I do enjoy our discussions after all.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. I am still alive,” Deimos returned tonelessly. Sombra chuckled. Somewhere in that tortured mind, some part of the Crystal general was still aware of his fate, and was screaming in agony both that he could not escape his fate and that he had no control over the puppet his body had become. The dark unicorn felt the stirrings and internal torture through his mind control, and witnessed the occasional flicker of awareness in Deimos’ eyes, powerless as he was to truly break free. The thought put a smirk on Sombra’s muzzle every time as he considered the stallion’s suffering anew. There was military value in keeping Deimos alive, as it happened. He’d been a star in the papers due to having survived his first possession, so keeping a public figure like that near had intrinsic value above just the secrets in Deimos’ head. Not only could Sombra tap into years of military training and experience (just as he could with all the soldiers under his mind control) but he could flaunt the general in plain sight of those who knew him. It all combined to turn Deimos into Sombra’s favorite Thrall toy.
Vaspier cleared his throat, ending Sombra’s amusement.
“A great victory, Your Majesty,” the Great Imperial Nobody began, and Sombra could practically feel the two-faced compliments coming already. “Though perhaps I should wonder why you decided to commit to such a brutal and forceful attack? Without even extensive artillery support?”
Sombra snorted, his new wings ruffling in irritation. Vaspier hadn’t been in Chrysalis’ good graces for some time. As well as his numerous intelligence failures, the head of VOPS had a tendency to act on his own initiative when left alone, and when around the High Queen tended to descend into condescending simpering and kowtowing. While the latter often softened Chrysalis’ mood somewhat, Sombra couldn’t stand such a pathetic display. His willing volunteers were all proud and properly deferential, but that was it. If they weren’t mind controlled, he didn’t need them to humiliate themselves to make himself feel superior. He already knew he was superior, any theatrics after that were simply pointless.
“The city was the goal,” Sombra returned, remembering that he couldn’t simply smite the fool, however much he wanted to. “I can always acquire more Thralls from our conquests. But anything we destroy here must be repaired. And I especially cannot let my Castle suffer anymore.” In a rare bout of sentiment, he glanced sadly up at the structure, marred and scored from artillery and airstrikes. “Such a pity we could not take it intact.” He even sighed wistfully, and almost felt genuinely regretful. Vaspier grudgingly nodded, understanding the logic though he clearly did not agree. Ironic of a changeling to think so.
More figures emerged from the throng. The plaza had turned into a mass of activity, as engineers cleared away the Allies’ own ramshackle fortifications, recovered what equipment they could and inspected the still idling tanks to see what could be turned to their use. Damaged vehicles were already covered in teams with cutting torches to salvage the steel and parts, and wounded changelings, polar bears and Legionnaires (the wounded Thralls could wait) were being attended to by medics, all while more Hegemony forces poured into from the other avenues, now the fighting had so abruptly ceased. But the spot where he himself stood was an oasis of calm as trucks, panzers, half-tracks and endless foot troops flowed around him, all skirting away from where he stood as if naturally repelled. Which they were, by Sombra’s own active spell. But those of his procession and inner circle, he let close.
His Shadow Guard were his closest, most trusted willing guardians. Imbued with magic themselves, their enchanted plate armor protected them when Sombra’s own magic couldn’t, and as they were all properly unicorns they could retaliate from all ranges, their own magic empowered by their sovereign. Warden Commander Solid Shot led these elite warriors, and had been one of Sombra’s most enthusiastic converts in this war and the last one. It was he who approached, while the rest of the Shadow Guard kept a respectful distance, still as statues.
The other figure was General Crystalline Opal. Another instance of an enthusiastic willing follower, she had kept the faith in his absence, and thanks to her when Sombra had returned she had immediately rallied several divisions to his call, both depriving the harmonists of troops and bolstering the Hegemony force as it tore across the land. It had apparently never occurred to the alicorn sisters that Sombra’s upper command structure -hadn’t- been mindless Thralls. Foolish hubris in and of itself.
“It worked, My Lord,” Solid Shot said, enthusiasm clearly brimming over in the unicorn’s voice, the tip of his horn glowing in his excitement. “Such a display of power. You are ascended to godhood! Incredible!”
“Did you have any doubts in your King?” Sombra queried idly, though he doubted that was actually the case. Just as he expected, Solid Shot fervently shook his head in denial.
“Never, Your Majesty. I just did not expect it to be -so- effective. Reports are coming in that all Allied troops in the city simply dropped dead. It is better than our wildest dreams.”
“The rituals were always going to do the job,” Crystalline chided, clearly annoyed at a laypony questioning her work. “But combined with the Alicorn Amulet, we could only guess what the ritual would lead to. Sadly, unless we get the opportunity for such a setup in the future, it will be a procedure that will be difficult to replicate.”
“A circumstance we will rarely have,” Sombra agreed, grinning toothily and exposing the fangs in his muzzle. “As from here, nothing the Allies throw up to stop us is going to hold for very long.”
“Yes, my King,” said Solid Shot and Crystalline automatically, bowing their heads and crossing their hooves over their breasts. Vaspier followed a little slower with his hooves on the uptake, though he did not say the words. The impudence annoyed Sombra immensely. As Chrysalis’ husband, he was the king of all Greater Changelingia as well as ruler of the Crystal Empire. This simply would not stand.
With a ripple of magic energy, his eyes glowed green, emanating magic power a shade of purple tinged with red. A dark crystal erupted from the ground directly behind Vaspier, startling the changeling. Before the trenchcoated bug could respond, a cloud of purple, black and red aura snatched Vaspier up by the throat, holding him eight feet off the ground. The Queen's Guard snapped to, their weapons raised and prepared, only to pause as the Shadow Guard abruptly surrounded them, horns glowing with charged spells ready.
“It is customary for a subject to grant their ruler -all- of the honorifics they demand,” Sombra chided coldly, staring up at Vaspier with a furious glare, eyes still glowing. His royal cape rippled in a sudden breeze, and from nowhere behind Sombra, two umbrum emerged from shadowy portals, shaking themselves off before standing directly behind their master, empty eyes glaring at Vaspier, who was almost on eye level with them. “You are lucky I am not so committed to such elaborate protocols as my wife. Nor am I so quick to strike one down for a simple mistake. But my wrath is far greater should you upset me. And Vaspier? I think VOPS might thrive under some…alternative leadership. Do you understand what I am saying?”
“Yes!” the Nobody gasped out, straining against the magic deathgrip as his wings buzzed and hooves kicked in panic. His own horn glowed green, an instinctual reaction to the fear coursing through him, but he was smart enough not to try any spells or shapeshifting.
“Yes what?” Sombra prompted, squeezing the accursed hold even tighter. Solid Shot and Crystalline watched on impassively. Several dozens of the passing soldiers tried not to be obvious about watching the spectacle either, though many clearly were. Good, Sombra thought. Rulers should inject some fear into their peons from time to time, remind them of the consequences of their poor decisions.
“Yes, Your Majesty!” Vaspier cried, head almost forced back as his throat constricted. He had almost choked the words.
Abruptly, the changeling came crashing back to earth, gasping and struggling for air, his cap knocked off his head and horn and laying in the snow beside him. Sombra’s magic aura faded, the sudden wind fading as he settled his arcane power. The Shadow Guard stepped away, their readied spells fading. The two umbrals remained, however, unmoving aside from the occasional bolts of energy that lanced off them in random directions, glaring down at Vaspier with sheer malevolence held in check only by their master’s will.
“Much better,” Sombra stated coolly, as if he had simply been given a better vintage of wine, the changeling spy already forgotten. Some advisor. At least the generals Vaspier had brought with him were capable commanders, or Sombra would have ordered them to go back to his wife, panzers or no. “Now come. I want to look upon Shining Armor’s corpse myself. I have some words for him now I have won.”
Truly, he thought. It was a good day to be Sombra. But then again, every day was a good day to be him.
He quietly chuckled to himself as he strode over to look upon his prize and take possession of his Castle.
On July 14th, 1012, King Sombra lead an army from the Changeling Hegemony consisting of Northern Protectorate troops, magically induced Thralls, Crystal Legionnaires who willingly followed Sombra’s will and orders and several panzer regiments of the Changeling Royal Heer. They were opposed by Equestrian forces, Crystal Empire loyalists and Soviet troops of the United Ponies Alliance, commanded by Prince-Consort Shining Armor and Field Marshal Nestor Lunin. Their battlefield was the Crystal City, once more under siege for the second time in a decade.
On September 7th, 1012, that battle abruptly ended.
Using exceptionally powerful dark magic, Sombra entered the city and wiped out all who opposed him. In the blink of an eye 373,000 souls lost their lives. Frontline soldiers, support personnel, medical volunteers, reserves waiting in the outskirts to respond, officers at command posts, engineers and even thousands of civilians remaining after the city had been evacuated. A single spell, empowered by a ritual enacted by his most loyal followers, wiped out three entire armies. Among the dead were Prince-Consort Shining Armor, General Ice, General Arstotzka Reptov, General Idol Hooves (Royal Crystal Army), Field Marshal Nestor Lunin, General Cogwheel Ponyarchuk and General Ember Flare (SSR Red Army), General Moonshadow Crunch and General Steel Comet (Royal Equestrian Army). Nearly their entire respective command elements were also wiped out.
The Crystal Empire had fallen to Sombra. And with that, the Hegemony’s path into Severyana and a way to finally break the deadlock with Equestria had been made, forged in blood and smoke and accursed sorcery.
It is argued that this was one of the critical tipping points in the Great War and changed the conflict entirely.
The Crystal City was beautiful, even under a layer of magically induced snow, flakes of which continued to fall around her. Arranged as always in its starburst pattern that so resembled its snowflake banner, it reminded her that such a place had existed nearly as long as ponykind had lived in the southern half of Equestria. Though they looked cute and quaint, most of these buildings were actually centuries old.
Most of these buildings that lay in near ruin.
For as she strolled down the avenues, she could see the battle damage. Craters in the streets, collapsed buildings and bridges. Some structures were barely hanging on to the name, their fronts demolished and spilling the debris out onto the streets. These ponies would take years to recover, if they ever did. Aircraft, artillery and armor had ripped the Crystal City apart like a predator attacking a carcass, an apt comparison in her mind. There was no doubt the spirit of the city had been dying since the Crystal Heart had been well and truly shattered, years ago. Now, it was certainly dead. She and Twilight had never found a remedy to replace the Heart, and Cadence had never been the same since. Oh, she continued to be the Princess of Love and kept up the cheerful, optimistic facade. But she, Luna and Twilight all knew that’s all it was. A facade. With the news of what had happened to Shining Armor, she had become a shell of her former self.
She passed by a ruined Celestia tank. It had been wrecked from a massive explosion, peeling open its side like a can opener. No single shot had taken this great lumbering beast down easily. It had died hard, and it had taken overwhelming force. But it had died nonetheless, its crew torn apart as its protection failed, armor plates shorn and buckling as the fire swept in and immolated them. Had they felt it, as their guardian died? Did they have a brief moment of terror and anguish as their lives were snuffed out?
“I’m sorry,” she said, barely audible under her breath. In the silence of the dead city, her whispered apology echoed in the stillness. She wondered what had brought that on, as a single tear rolled down her cheek. After all, the dead could rarely ever respond. Tartarus made very few exceptions about who or what could reach back out.
“You should be,” said a voice nearby, and she froze. That voice was very, very familiar. And very, very terrifying. “It was your weakness that let this happen.”
She turned her head, already knowing what she would find. And indeed, there she was. The effect was unnerving. The creature practically wore her skin, though she was notably taller. Flowing, ethereal rainbow mane and tail had been replaced by living fire, and instead of rippling as if caught in eternal and unseen wind, the creature’s own writhed and flickered like a blaze consuming all before it. Her finery was not pure gold, but some kind of enchanted bronze or another kind of magical alloy, bearing symbols of the enduring sun in full blaze. The Cutie Mark too had been subsumed by a sunburst, though this one sat in the middle of a splash of orange across the flank, as if even its master could not contain the full power on display.
But it was the eyes Celestia most feared. Instead of enchanting lilac, the creature bore golden irises on deep, endless burgundy where the whites normally would be, like the aftermath of a solar eclipse. Those eyes, so full of hate and fury and brimming with power overwhelming, were locked on her own with nary a glance or correction. Such intense focus, such loathing, such tantamount rage.
“I will not speak with you,” Celestia retorted, though she could not break their lock. “You have nothing for me.”
“It is far too late for that, O’ Prison of Mine,” said the creature as she approached, her hooves leaving burning marks on the street as steam wafted where the snow touched her. “You can no more ignore me than you can block out the sun. It may be gone for a time, but you always remember its presence. And you know it's always there regardless. And you know it always comes back.”
“I will not give in,” Celestia insisted, her voice turning into iron bars and stone bricks as she built herself a mental wall, a barricade of locks and obstacles. “Your path leads only to destruction and misery, as did Nightmare Moon.”
“Nightmare Moon? Ha!” The creature guffawed, a smile splitting her muzzle as she halted a mere foreleg’s length from Celestia. “You dare compare me to such a pitiful creature? Nightmare Moon was born from Luna’s insecurities and fears! She was nothing more than a shade of isolation. ‘Waah waah, I am alone in this world!’ Well, that and Sombra’s corruption, I suppose. I must allow that.” The fiery monster pondered for a moment before her sinister grin returned. “But I am so much more than that! I am fury! I am rage! I am power incarnate, the sun focused through your immortal form! With me, you would be able to scour Faust and rebuild it from the ashes! Demolish anycreature in your way and have it all!”
She cackled, and though the effect was similar to some kind of comic book or radio serial supervillain, a chill still ran down the sun alicorn's spine. She saw nothing hammy or over the top about this phantasmal horror. She knew what lurked in that thing's soul.
“Stop it!” Celestia snapped, unwillingly taking a step back. “You’re a maniac! A creature of darkness just as much as Nightmare Moon! The day can be just as terrible as the night!”
“Of course it can!” her opposite number bit back. “Fire is always a step away from consuming everything around it! Wildfires consume forests, houses and towns burn down in accidents, the desert heat saps life from every creature that sets hoof or paw in it! And the sun is the essence of fire, a star burning in the cold void of the cosmos in defiance of all set before it! But look around you, Princess!” The thing spat her title as if it were a vicious insult, a foul taste she needed to get out. “This is all your fault! Your weakness! A thousand years of peace and harmony, and for what? How many times did Equestria teeter on the edge because you refused to intervene? How many atrocities across the world happened while you just stood by and quietly tut tut tutted in disapproval?”
“That’s not true, and you know it!” Celestia’s voice cracked. She was right, but she knew she wasn’t completely. Her defenses were beginning to crumble.
“Would the Crystal City have fallen the first time if you had been just a teensy bit proactive?” The monster shrilled, flames leaping higher above her. “Would Severyana- I’m sorry, would STALLIONGRAD have been able to split away if you have just given the Guard the approval to move in and pacify the uprising? How did the changelings infiltrate and almost take Canterlot, Celestia?” The creature huffed, growled and shook in barely suppressed anger, as if trying to contain a full fledged meltdown (though given her power, that might be a literal statement). “How did they gain so much power? What happened to all the reports flowing across your desk about Chrysalis gathering strength? When you took in Queen Velvet, did you lift a hoof to reclaim her kingdom from the usurper? Did you think perhaps -that- might have helped contain Chrysalis? What about the Griffonian Republic in Cloudbury? If you were -so- committed to ‘harmony’ and ‘democracy’ why haven't you helped them in their hour of need? Face it!”
The creature was in her face now, muzzle to muzzle as she backed Celestia up against a ruined building.
“All of this! All of it is YOUR fault! The way the world is right now, you could have saved it! Could have stopped it! When the griffons collapsed and kicked off decades of chaos and suffering, you did nothing! When the Storm King arose and began ransacking Zebrica, again you did nothing! Nightmare Moon comes back and your answer is to throw six Mares who don’t even know each other or anything about the magic they carry in their souls at her while you hide off in the shadows! And when Chrysalis united the hives under her rule and built a powerful army with the express intent to come and attack you, you practically sat back and let it happen! Our ponies are suffering because you couldn’t be bothered to lift a fucking hoof and, for once in your entire miserable life, DO SOMETHING! All of this, all of the world could have been fixed if you had just grown up and done SOMETHING! You have the power of a goddess in your frame, and who is going to stop you? Nightmare Moon is gone, Discord was shut up in a statue for a thousand years, the griffon gods could hardly care anymore, Tiamat and An are so distant I’m not even sure they exist presently, the Sirens are still at the bottom of the ocean floor and Concord doesn’t give a shit if its not a kirin!”
Celestia tried, she really did. But even here, in this dream turned nightmare she couldn’t summon the strength to speak up in her defense. But really, what kind of defense did she have? The creature was just like Nightmare Moon in that it was a manifestation of Celestia’s own inner darkness. A core of her power, twisted and wrapped up in all the fear, doubt and self-recrimination inside her soul.
She wasn’t arguing with some fantasy of the mind. This was a shade of herself. These were her own thoughts yelling, screaming and cursing at her.
“This! Is -ALL- your fault!” the monster screamed, the flames reaching ever higher. “How many dead because you didn’t act? How many suffering? How many in fear and misery and pain because you were too busy telling yourself it wasn’t right of you to interfere, but never wondering what would happen if you didn’t? Well, I can easily tell you how many died -here!-”
Their surroundings suddenly changed. Abruptly, the two of them stood on the Crystal Castle’s balcony, with its grand sweeping view over the ruined city. It had been so sudden, Celestia wasn’t sure if they hadn’t been there the whole time. But she suddenly knew exactly why she had been brought here. Below, stacked up in piles and layers of grotesque horror, were corpses. Thousands of them. Hundreds of thousands, filling up the plaza and stretching up towards the balcony. Ponies, dead and thrown there as a grim monument of death. Most were soldiers, wearing the tan uniforms of the Equestrian Royal Army. Quite a few were Crystal ponies in their vibrant whites, while others were New Marelanders in their slouch hats and unique webbing. After staring at the pile for a moment, she was shocked to even see the ushankas and winter coats of the Red Army, though she had never stopped thinking of their lost cousins as Her ponies. Mixed into the uniforms were the civilians who had died in the city as well, a shocking number given the evacuations that had happened. Where had they all come from?
And, on the very top of the morbid pile, a very distinct white coated, golden armored, blue maned stallion who stared up at her blankly, his eyelids half closed and his jaw loose and hanging. She felt another pang of agony roll over her soul once again, and this only fed the monster showing her the gruesome scene.
“You could have stopped this!” the creature snapped from her side. “You could have come here yourself and struck Sombra down! Annihilated the changeling army before they ever even entered the city! Hundreds of thousands dead, because you did nothing! And why?”
Celestia didn’t answer, her eyes locked on Shining Armor’s dead gaze, empty and openly staring up at the dark sky above.
But the nightmare went on.
“Because you’re afraid of me. Because I am everything you are not! I am bold! I am powerful! I am aggressive, and I am willing to use it all! I am everything you locked away and pushed down and shut away in your soul for a thousand years because you were afraid of what you would do if you let it out!”
“The way you propose isn’t the right one,” Celestia finally spoke in a trembling tone, though unable to wrest her eyes from the tragedy below her. “You want to burn a path to Vesalipolis, immolate Chrysalis and rule the entire continent as a goddess.”
“Because it's what -you- want, deep down! I -am- you, foolish filly!” The being she refused to name came closer, like a predator finally closing in on prey that had long evaded it. “Under all the peace and harmony rhetoric, you want to keep everypony safe and stop all the fighting! All I am is a side of you that is willing to embrace the power needed to make that happen! Think of it; the changelings never again a threat to us, Equestria becoming the most powerful nation on Faust, no more wars and no more suffering because they'll all be too afraid of incurring our wrath, everypony living in safety and peace as we protect them!”
“At what cost!” Celestia barked back, feeling her anger surge over her. At the same time, the creature’s fire seemed to burn even hotter, her eyes glowed even brighter. “They would live under an empress who stamps out dissent through force and terror! Even your kindest, gentlest ideas you have proposed are terrifying! You-we-I would become even worse than Chrysalis! We would crush freedom in exchange for safety!”
“Only a fool desires freedom!” The monster bit back, snapping her literal fangs as she kept her movements mirroring Celestia’s, pressing ever closer seemingly trying to hem her into a corner, muzzles nearly touching as if they were two lovers about to embrace. “When freedom thrives, so too does anarchy! Who is in control to enforce the rules? If such control exists, then freedom is a lie, for it is only permitted by the control of another! If it does not, then where is the society to live in it as without control there can be no organization? Do you not see, intelligent creatures do not desire ‘freedom’, they desire order! Discord had his turn to run the world and you rebelled against him, the so-called ultimate expression of freedom! We can stand instead for the ultimate expression of control!”
“Chaos is -not- freedom!” Celestia felt her rage bubbling over, her rainbow mane beginning to merge its colors, the light from her magic aura glowing stronger. “Harmony must be protected! But it cannot be forced upon creatures! Freedom is a right, but it is up to those living under it to take it up themselves! That’s why you’ll never understand what it means, Day-”
Abruptly, Celestia’s fury abated, her mouth slamming shut. She had almost said the thing’s name. Names held power. If you knew the name of an ethereal being, you could exert control over it. But names also gave power back to the being in question, validated its existence and acknowledge its presence. She didn’t know where or when she had given this shade of herself the name, but having done so once, it now grew stronger every time she used it. She had done her best to avoid even thinking it, but now the monster leered in anticipation, licking her lips to savor the taste of the word as she inched ever closer, until their muzzles nearly touched once more.
“Say it! It was already out of your mouth! Imagine your worshippers, granting you power through their prayers and belief! Now imagine if you only embraced me, and thousands, no, millions said our name through the streets of Equestria and beyond! The continent! The world! Falling to grovel before our hooves! I can win this war -today-! What happened in Crystal City only has to be an unpleasant memory! A call to arms! A symbol of defiance! With me, you can march in a straight line from here to Vesalipolis, scorching the earth as you go, turning every hive in the north to cinders before us! We can obliterate Sombra and carve open Chrysalis' thorax to burn her HEART in a FIRE!”
“You’re insane,” Celestia whispered, realizing how swiftly she had lost control of this situation. This had long ago ceased to be a simple dream, though she hadn’t spotted it. This was a struggle for control, and she was quickly losing. Perhaps she had been for a while already.
“I AM -YOU-!” the monster raged as she practically writhed in ecstasy. “And I can achieve your deepest desires! I will win! And we will build a Solar Empire that can eradicate anything that dares stand against us! I! AM! DAYBREAKER!”
The monster, that dark alicorn corruption that had lurked in the back of Celestia’s soul for who knew how long, appeared to have grown three times her original size, looming over Celestia with a fanged grin, fire shooting off in all directions. The view around them had become a scorched field, with the wrecks of tanks and buildings poking up feebly from beneath the blackened plains, charred bones carpeting the ground. This was the world Daybreaker wanted to make. One where she burned down everything before her and rebuilt it in her image. Her twisted worldview. The struggle had gone on since the War began a year ago, and now with it reaching such a desperate pitch, the desperate effort inside her soul finally seemed to have come to its conclusion.
“And now,” the fanged maw grinned, sweeping over Celestia once more, the movement no longer intimate and careful. “Now, I no longer need you. Goodbye, Celestia.”
Daybreaker moved in, clearly about to strike the final blow-
Only for the hoof smashing down, covered in fiery energy carrying the power of the sun itself, to be blocked by a disk of indigo energy, through which some stars and constellations could be seen. The impact, even as incorporeal as it was, should have been immense. Instead, the power of the strike simply drained away, inert as if it possessed the strength of a foal.
And there stood Luna, directly in front of Celestia, her horn glowing with pulsating energy, her face hard and set, determined.
“I know what you are, Creature,” Luna said, her voice low and cast like stone. “I have dealt with your ilk before. This is still my domain, and you shall leave my sister alone.”
And then, a burst of energy.
And Princess Celestia woke up.
September 10th, 1012 Canterlot Palace, Principality of Equestria
She shrieked, half-rising from her bed before a pair of hooves pinned her down, mightier beyond any earth pony.
“Sister! Lie still!”
It wasn’t quite the Royal Canterlot Voice, but the shout was loud in her newly awakened ears, and she recognized the speaker instantly. Though her mind was sharper and faster than any unicorn, she still needed a few moments to flush the terror and unreasoning instinct of sleep from her mind. In that space, uncontrollable panic flew through her waking brain as she remembered the vivid dream that had, as it turned out, been a nightmare where she had almost lost control.
Daybreaker…
Daybreaker!
DAYBREAKER!
“Celestia! Focus on me! She is only as real as you let her be! If you give in, you lose everything to her! But she has no power if you deny her!”
Another slam. Celestia instinctually bucked against the restraint, her magic lighting off with a burst of firebolts that punched holes in the walls. In response, starry indigo bands lashed out and wrapped around her legs, pinning her down while another clapped over her muzzle, silencing her cries. In the near distance, she heard doors flying open with a crash, the clatter and gallop of hooves and armor, the rasping metal of automatic weapons being readied.
“Princess Luna! What is happening?”
“Stay back! She’s having a panic attack!”
Close enough to the truth. Luckily, Celestia was calming down by now, managing to avoid hyperventilation as she brought her heart rate back under control. Being an alicorn, it would take some time before she was starved of oxygen and actually pass out, but it wouldn’t do her any good to take the risk. She snorted, breathing hard as her spasms finally stopped. Her mane was a mess, and she would likely spend quite some time getting it straightened out, magic or no. That little mundane fact that wormed into her mind broke the rest of the panic, and she finally felt the tension bleed out of her as she lay there, panting and sighing even while muzzled, her sightlines returning.
“Sister?” Luna asked cautiously, moving closer as her horn glowed purple, clearly quite ready to launch into another series of spells. Her military dress cap was askew, her uniform torn and singed. Celestia was surprised to see her in such a state. Military command had hammered in a new sense of determination and purpose. She would never let her appearance stoop to such a degree. Had Celestia herself done that?
She nodded in response to the unspoken question, and Luna released the band over her muzzle. Taking a gasp, Celestia choked out “I’m okay. I am okay.” She glanced over towards her Royal Guards, five of them standing in the doorway with weapons readied. To her unease, two of them had their guns pointed in (noticeably not directly) Luna’s direction. Clearly they saw her as a possible threat as well. Where were Luna’s own guards, the Night Guards in dark armor plate?
If Luna noticed or took exception, she didn’t show it. Then again, hadn’t it been Luna herself who had helped reorganize their protectors’ training? Celestia's mind assured her that this was likely a contingency Luna herself had come up with. Anypony could be a changeling in disguise, after all.
One by one, the starry restraints disappeared. Celestia cautiously stood from her trashed bed, glancing around at the damage. Aside from her errant firebolts, several pieces of furniture had been smashed by spells. Wardrobes, vanities, mirrors. One wall even had a hole a cyclops could squeeze through in it. She felt shame roll over her. While far from the first time she had lost control of her magic, that had certainly not been a recent affair. It was unwelcome to see the reminder that underneath her alicorn divinity granted her so long ago, she was just as flawed as anypony else.
“Princess Celestia, do you require anything from us?”
The voice was soft, but still held authority, and she looked over to see Captain-General Soarin. He wore his uniform, slightly wrinkled and his decorations needing a shine. Had he been staying up late as well? He was desperately needing sleep too it seemed. He wasn't immediately launching to assumptions or barking out orders. He was stepping forward and giving her control of the situation. But Celestia merely shook her head, sucking in a rattling breath.
“No. No, I have recovered. I’d like some time alone with my sister. Please.”
“As you wish, Princess,” Soarin replied, nodding to the squad leader, who shifted his weapon so it no longer sat pointing in Luna’s general direction. “We will be just outside, should you need us.”
Celestia let out a slow, steady breath as Soarin and the other Guards left, the doors closing behind him. Even as he was out in the hallway, she could hear him giving orders to his subordinates. His proximity gave her a bit of grounding, and she could feel some of the tension in her body releasing. While he had sadly been unable to cope with frontline command, his ability to protect her and the Palace proved his place was here. She always felt that much safer with him close by, even when the bombers were going full blast. For now, they were not, and that helped contribute to her ability to regain control.
Luna watched warily, eyes narrowed, cap still askew from the struggle. The damaged uniform would have to be replaced (or at least magically repaired), but the Alicorn of the Night seemed not to care, instead watching her solar counterpart closely. She leaned in with eyes squinting in tight scrutiny, so close that Celestia actually felt a bit of unease return again. Finally, she had to say something.
“Luna, what are you doing?”
A pause, and then Luna’s fierce demeanor broke like a wave slowly cresting up a beach. Her brow, pinched and intense, slackened slightly. Her tight cheeks relaxed, and she blinked rapidly in anxiety. In only a few moments, fury and wariness turned into awkward self-awareness.
“I must admit…I am not so sure. I know the conditions myself, personally. How they feel, how they affect one inside. But it is a new experience to treat it in another. For years before my…descent and years after my return, I struggled with Nightmare Moon. How she stormed and raged inside my soul, trying to break free again.” Her look of confusion turned once more to concern as she focused again on Celestia. “And how it saddens me to see you so afflicted.”
Celestia winced, sighing as she realized there was no point hiding it anymore.
“So, you know. How long?”
“Tia, I have known for months. Ever since the bombing at the Royal Defense Ministry.” She nodded in reaction to Celestia’s flabbergasted expression. “You shone brighter than usual that night. And your mane was strangely off-color. So, I peered into your…well, your mind. Sister, this is dangerous. That thing in your soul, the apparition-”
“She’s real…” Celestia whispered. She had known the truth for some time, of course. Had heard the whispers in her mind and felt the urging to give in, surrender herself and ‘ascend’. But hearing Luna acknowledge the creature and express the same fear suddenly brought it all back home again in sharp refrain and definition. Suddenly, this was no longer an internal struggle of the mind. It was utterly, horrifyingly real and out there for others to see. “She’s real, by the Ancients she’s real! I still feel her, in the back of my mind. I tried to ignore her, shut her out, pretend she wasn’t there but the longer this war goes on, the stronger I feel she becomes!”
“Sister! Calm, you must remain calm!”
“How can I be calm when a part of my inner soul is trying to take over my mind?!” Celestia shrieked. How long had she lived with calm, serene peace inside her? Even as war raged in the world, it was always on the periphery, away and across the world. True, crises gripped Equestria again and again, but it was always manageable with the Elements of Harmony and then the Pillars. Even when Severyana had split, she had solved that with non-violence and negotiation, choosing to let go of them instead of having a province primed for revolt eternal. Even when Chrysalis first struck, even when Sombra returned again and again, even with the threat of the Storm King abroad. But then this war, and just yesterday, the news of the atrocity perpetrated in the Crystal City…
Perhaps that was it. Perhaps she hadn’t been okay after all. Perhaps it had all just…snowballed. The little pieces of worry and darkness as she watched Equestria endure one trial after another all combined together until it turned into...this. She might never know for certain, but she had no better theory.
Luna sighed, her magic aura removing her cap, the tattered remains of her uniform seeming to slide off on their own. For once, she looked exhausted. Celestia supposed it was appropriate, but it had been an age since she had witnessed Luna grow tired at all. Not since their little spat when they had switched jobs had she shown any kind of fatigue or duress, the period of the Thestral Reforms aside. It was a shocking revelation.
“I can only tell you what worked for me Tia,” she said quietly. “Well, what -works- for me.”
That sobered the mood right up. Celestia felt the tears stop, some of her panic fade, some of the clawing in her mind dissipate. She stared at her sister again, processing the words.
“You mean...still?”
Luna nodded, her face grave and strangely sheepish. Celestia blinked in surprise, considering the statement.
“And is she there now?”
“She is. And I fear she always will be." Luna sighed again, this one laced with both regret and aggravation. "I will admit, during the period around 1007 and the Thestral Reforms it was…rather difficult. That was a trying time, and I was very much out of my element. If not for you and the Elements assisting, I must admit I would have been overwhelmed.” The night alicorn gave a shiver as an expression of dread passed over her face. “I had visions…nightmares, I suppose. Of another time, another world in a sense. One where I tried on my own the colossal task of carrying out the reform campaign. It was the same as you admitted to me on that balcony, do you remember?”
Celestia nodded, but didn’t speak, letting her sister get the thought out, which Luna was trying to do. Those thoughts were clearly a jumbled mess as she tried to get them in order, tried to tell of her fears. Her expression, Celestia saw, was like many veteran soldiers she had met, a distant glazed over sort of look that said she was currently not living in the present. One Arisian war correspondent had gone so far as to call it ‘the Two-Thousand Yard Stare’. Others the world over simply knew it as 'shellshock'.
“I saw, in my own dreams, Nightmare Moon reaching out from my mind to touch the minds of ponies across Equestria. Quite a few thestrals of course, but all other ponies too. A great rebellion, gathering in secret, issued orders and instructions at night as I slept, whispered into the ears of officers by the Nightmare. And, when it all came to pass, an explosion that sealed my fate.” Luna shivered once more, then her expression twisted into cold fury. “You should have let me go to help the hippogriffs deal with Chiropterra.”
For a long moment, the two alicorn sisters sat there, listening to the silence outside the room. No air raids were flying overhead for now, and no anti-aircraft turrets hammered away at the sky. If the generals were right, the battle of Crystal City had given Hegemony forces a new surge of courage and energy. Where before they had been applying pressure to keep up the strain, now it seemed a new initiative was marshaling strength back at changeling-occupied firebases and airfields. At most they had a few more days until it was unleashed. But realistically, the renewed attack could come at any time.
“What are we going to do, Luna?” Celestia asked quietly, her eyes fixed on the carpet next to her bed. A scorch mark ripped across it from her errant, panicked spellcasting, and she followed the carnage with her eyes, wincing at the destroyed furniture, the ruined drapery, the scorched walls. While she could likely fix all of this herself, she wasn’t certain if her scattered mind and focus would allow her to. She certainly couldn't leave it to her poor servants.
“What we must,” Luna replied firmly, stepping away from the bed now back in control. She reached up, replacing her cap before glancing down at her ruined uniform. With a dismissive scoff and a flash of purple light, the cloth was fully repaired and folded properly, as if the attack had never happened, levitating next to Luna held in a magic aura. “We go win this war, and keep our own personal demons at bay. Truth be told, there’s nothing else. No other possibility we can entertain. Victory or death. I will go north, rally the troops and stem the tide.” Here, Luna flashed a wry smile at Celestia. “And you could possibly convince Novo to perhaps get those Marines she has sitting in Puerto Caballo off their rears and actually give us a helping hoof?”
Celestia smiled back, tired but reassured. She wasn’t sure if she was capable of resisting the creature in her head alone. But she knew that, with one as experienced as Luna helping her out and the support of those like Captain-General Soarin to lean on, something as simple as politicking a fellow regent into a defense pact should be simple enough.
“That’s got more to do with the isolationists in her Parliament. She can’t declare war, not unless she wants to infuriate half her ministers. Though, I think that may be changing soon. There’s been a lot of public uproar about Aris’ fence-sitting lately. Though perhaps I can get her to station them on our shore to 'protect Arisian assets'.”
“Do you think you can, how do they say, ‘swing it’?”
“Perhaps. A real life appearance of an alicorn showing up on their shores will at least entertain the hippogriffs on the Mountain to the possibility. I’ve been meaning to shake the last few cobwebs off my statesmare’s hoofbook.”
The two chuckled. Not a laugh, they did not have the energy after the conversation they’d just had, and considering what lay ahead it was certainly not a time for levity. But a brief moment of comfort, the reassurance that they were both there for each other yet again and always would be, was enough to allow them a second to relax.
And, inside of Celestia’s soul, the being raged at being thwarted once more.
”I WILL rise! And soon! Mark me, Celestia! The Age of Daybreaker approaches! You only delay the inevitable! I will BURN the land to ashes and build a better world on the bones of my enemies while legions of my followers bow down and worship me as I deserve! Do you hear me?! I WILL DESTROY YOU!”
Across the city, General Arcane Nova snapped her head up and around, listening with sudden, rapt attention.
"Behind every Nova Whirl, there is a Caramel Haze. Behind every so-called "democratic socialist", there is a tyrannical overlord waiting to be unleashed." -Director Arclight, Office of Harmonic Services, 1011
October 7th, 1012 Rijekograd, River Republic
When it happened, it began at dawn.
The city of Rijekograd smoldered in the dim light. Not because of enemy bombers, for what few the Princely Army possessed were concentrated on the Wittenland Front, but because of the riot the night before. Those were a constant occurrence these past few months, where the civilian population rose in protest of the current government and its de facto dictator, Director Arclight. It had long been an open fact that the Office of Harmonic Services had quietly overtaken the civilian government, leaving the Sabor and Chancellor River Swirl as little more than puppet mouthpieces. And this even before the war with Lake City, Deponya and Diamond Mountain had kicked off.
They promised things would change. The Republic had stood for almost two centuries, since its founding in 814. The monarchy was gone, the Sabor would lead the people into a better, brighter future where ponies would not be sacrificed on the altar of a monarch’s personal ambitions, where all would have their voice in court and there would be prosperity for all.
But it had been a lie. For decades, it had been the scions of wealthy families, some of them the descendents of aristocrats, that controlled things in the Republic. The common pony was forced to the background as poverty from the economic downturn ran rampant. And where were the voices of the Sabor? In court taking payouts from the families, telling the commoners to stay in their lane. So much for a Republic.
The tinder to light the spark had been the elections of 1007. The election of the Chancellor had been a sham. Despite all that Noval Whirl had done, all the popularity she had engendered, all the campaigning she’d done and the mess that the Harmonists had made, it was River Swirl who carried the day once more. Despite the fact that all of the nation’s woes had been carried on by River Swirl (who it was known had posted family members to cabinet positions) her lukewarm hooves-off policies meant her popularity had been at an all-time low. It had been time for somepony new to take the reins.
And yet, the incumbent Chancellor had been sworn in for a second term. This was where the Savez Komunista Rijeke began whispering darkly of a violent uprising. Clearly, democracy was no longer the guiding light in the hollow Republic. But stability had allowed the status quo to carry on for four more years. Until the OHS seized control, all to ‘respond’ to the threat that Lake City posed. And with that came crackdowns on the SKR. Violent ones, vicious ones. Ponies were dragged from their homes by both sides, shot in the streets for suspicion of being a secret socialist or an OHS spy. Protests were being regularly gunned down by the army. Car bombs detonated in front of government buildings. Even the War against Lake City and Diamond Mountain took secondary priority. Things in the Republic seemed to be getting absolutely unhinged.
And the final straw to break the camel’s back; the Diamond Mountain Uprising. Where the slaves broke their chains and rose against their masters. The King and Princess both slain. Such was the totality of the uprising that many of the King’s former generals switched sides, promising themselves to Clifford the Red’s service, the first Chairman of the Eastern Dogs’ Republic. Unsurprisingly, the EDR dropped out of the war, leaving Deponya and Lake City behind.
After them followed Bakara. The socialist oddity led by Bray Foam had long been known to be opposed to the war and maintaining the status quo. More than anypony else but Nova Whirl, Bray Foam had done his best to build his powerbase legitimately. He won the election, mobilized the nation and transformed the Bakaran Republic into a stable, orthodox socialist entity.
Five days ago, Bakara had dropped out of the war as well, proclaiming a declaration of peace and brotherhood with Diamond Mountain. The two republics held the north in a red grip.
Now, it was Rijekograd’s turn.
When they came, it was at dawn. All night, they had stood by and prepared. Mostly, the core of the 16th ‘Virmanevitica' Gardijska Brigada. The brigade’s commander was a personal friend of General Caramel Haze, the military muscle of the SKR. The entire unit was loyal to the cause. But others came to answer the call. Soldiers deserted their units, disappearing in transit or out of armories, hospitals and staging grounds. In their clusters they came, some only squads or platoons, some entire companies and even a whole battalion from the 4th Brigada. Garrison soldiers, militia and police from the city and surrounding villages, even some of the OHS’ own who had decided to switch sides. In a single night, armories were overwhelmed, the gates forced open. At some, the guards quickly opened the weapons lockers, eagerly joining the tide of revolution. At others, a shootout would occur. Either way, it was always over before long.
When they struck, they were no longer a ragtag collection of defecting soldiers, revolting workers and turncoat militia. They were now all soldiers of the revolution. They were one force united, hooves held high under the red banner. They were the thirty-thousand strong of the 1st Crvena Gardijska Vojska, the first of what were certain to be many rising up across the Republic. The rifles were handed out, the various groups were assigned leadership, political officers with SKR armbands urged the forces onwards, and they crashed on the remainder of the city garrison like a tide. The OHS’ loyal soldiers, police and militia goons were caught completely unaware.
The streets were full of milling bodies, packed into masses. The city had a population over three million, and with the violence that swept through the lanes, the frustrations over the war against Lake City, the outrage caused by the OHS and their Un-Harmonic Activities Committee, the further backslide into poverty and the sheer grinding toll of it all inspired thousands more to take up arms with the socialists. While the garrison tried their best to erect barricades and hold back the tide, they wound up overwhelmed regardless. Griever cocktails flew, blasting areas where soldiers tried to hold ground with bottled fire smashing into their positions, sending them screaming out as bright living torches. Machine guns strafed the streets from fortified nests. Armored cars roared down the lanes as they tried their best to fight back, unable to stop lest they be surrounded and overwhelmed. At times, it was hoof to hoof combat in the buildings and plazas, everything and anything turned into a weapon by both sides. Rijekograd’s flagstones ran red with blood.
By noon, the city’s defenders were either slaughtered or bottled up in contained holdouts. The frothing army swarmed the Sabor Parliament building. OHS agents and guardsmares held their ground until the end, bullets flying as they forced the red horde to pay for every inch into the center of government. But when it was all said and done, the red flag was flying over the Parliament building. This flag was identical to the old Harmonic one in every way save two; the green fields of the Republic were instead colored red, and the white star in the center changed to blue. Red for the blood of the workers spilled in the process of revolution, and blue for the nobility of the cause. It hung over a victorious army, already breaking into police stations and armories, government buildings and community centers. Weapons were acquired, ammunition distributed, ponies of high station hauled out of their offices where they'd been hunkering down. Nowhere was safe for those still loyal to the old regime.
The Revolution had won the city.
When they dragged the ministers out into the street, she looked for two in particular. Nova Whirl hadn't wanted it to happen like this. The gray earth pony would have preferred to take the government through the democratic process, using Josipean Strategy and careful diplomacy coupled with economic reform to bring the rest of the River Coalition to her side, to spread the Revolution through logic and reason and appealing to the workers and the downtrodden, like socialism should have worked. But fate had forced her hoof, and this war with Lake City would be their best chance to take the Republic and maybe, finally, do some good. Now she had to make sure things didn’t go further out of control. Hundreds if not thousands had died tonight. Thousands more would die before the Revolution was done and the Riverlands were fully united under the new Republic. If the gunshots in the distance told her correctly, many were still dying. But here and now, she could prevent this mob from lynching every Harmonist in sight. She would try to limit the keep the damage from spiraling beyond the repairable, and smother their new nation before it was even born.
With Nova Whirl and Caramel Haze there to enforce order, the HSR ministers were led away to waiting armored cars instead of being shot, lynched or stoned on the spot. Few of the old government would meaningfully defect. They would await trial in captivity, where they would be judged by a jury of the people, not a corrupt court paid off by wealthy businessfolk. It would honestly be a more fair hearing than they would have gotten under any other circumstances.
Finally, the Crvena Gardijska soldiers hauled out the two most valuable prisoners that currently existed in all of Rijekograd, dragged into a plaza choked by smoke from burning buildings, crammed with thousands of socialist revolutionary fighters all baying for blood, waving red flags, singing ‘L’Internationale’ and firing off excited celebratory shots with absolutely no discipline or care. All around the plaza, and across the city, doors were being kicked in by SKR fighters searching for hidden resistance. Screams rang out from the residents, more than one silenced by a furious burst of gunfire. Nova screwed up her face in exasperation as she tried to block that out. Later. Leave it to their officers. Despite all pretenses, this wasn’t a unified army yet. But they had won the victory to turn it into one.
The two ponies she had specifically ordered brought before her were finally dragged out of the crowd, through the ring of soldiers holding the perimeter. Around them, ponies were shouting and sneering abuses on the two, threatening them and calling for a gallows or a firing squad to be set up, some hollering for both. The two were forced before her into a sitting position, their heads forced back to look up at her. She looked down into the faces of Director Arclight and Chancellor River Swirl themselves, and the fact she was finally here almost didn’t seem real. Though both of them glared back at her defiantly, bitterly even, the former had an expression hardened into stoic neutrality. He was used to interrogations. He knew how to suppress his emotions. But River Swirl was clearly terrified for her life. A tenacious politician, and certainly attempting to maintain appearances. But she kept glancing from Nova Whirl to the surrounding crowd, especially when a particularly venomous threat could be heard above the crowd, cursing and seething and snapping off shots still. Nova held the lives of these two ponies in her power. She needed to be careful what she did with that kind of power, especially with these two.
“Director. Chancellor. I didn’t want to do things this way.”
River Swirl, at least, looked like she marginally believed Nova. At the very least, she remained quiet. Arclight, however, snorted so loud it could be heard over the baying crowd.
“Spare me your diatribe, ‘Comrade.’” He really spat the word like it was a curse, something to be ashamed of. “Don’t give me that bullshit. Stabbing your nation in the back in the middle of a war? You’ve already shown what kind of liar you are.”
Rage and fury swept through Nova Whirl. Before her was possibly the most powerful stallion in the River Republic before today. He had used his position to act through agents and hound her for years, arresting and killing members of her party and followers just for trying to improve their lives and those of the common pony, end the suffering put upon them by monarchs and nobles. And here, at the end of the years-long showdown between them, he met her polite words with derision and spite. She calmed down. She had already won. The two were in her custody, and it didn’t matter what they said. It only mattered now what she did in response.
“You’re the liar, Director. The OHS has done nothing but plant a jackboot on the neck of the workers of the Republic, maintaining the status quo, preserving the power of the aristocrats left in control. Agents on every corner, censored newspapers, mail read in the post office, the terror of the UHAC, ponies dragged from their homes and shot in the street without trial. You are the epitome of how far this country has fallen. And when time marches on, you will not even be given the dignity of a place in our history. You will be forgotten, a footnote on a page in a reference tome. Another stone we march on towards the Revolution.”
Arclight snorted again, rolling his eyes derisively. However, Nova noticed he did not say anything more, and he certainly no longer held his position of absolute authority anymore. He was powerless before her, and she felt the joy in her soul now there no longer any reason to fear him.
She turned to River Swirl, her expression and anger dimming, though they did not fade completely.
“And you. The student of Harmony. Gone to Canterlot for so long and come home to fix us. But you forgot who you were, and thought yourself above us. River Swirl…I hold no real hatred for you. Only pity. However misguided, whatever lengths you dove to, I do believe you did it all for the betterment of the nation.” Nova straightened up, glaring down her muzzle at her predecessor. “Just not for the betterment of its people. Well, the people have decided to take -our- fate into -our- hooves! The workers will no longer be ignored. But I cannot simply kill you. That would martyr you for the Harmonist world. You’ll be put on trial for all to see, judged by a jury of those who…lived with your policies. It will be fair and honest, more than any trial you could offer. We’ll let them decide.”
River Swirl seemed to consider the prospect with a careful, measured calculation like she was still trying to puzzle out an appropriate response in one of their debates, and while she no longer looked quite as terrified, she certainly seemed perturbed. While her chances of surviving seemed to have gotten better, she still had quite the ordeal ahead of her, and the displaced politician knew it.
“However,” Nova continued, turning her gaze back to Arclight, eyes narrowed. “I don’t have to worry about what to do with -you-. It’s rather obvious.”
Arclight’s eyes widened for just a moment…but that was all he had, as the rope fell around his neck, dragging him into the baying crowd as they cheered. The crowd closed around him, swallowing the flailing stallion away from view even as he tried to call out to Nova for mercy. River Swirl stared at the spot he had been just a moment ago, mouth agape as she turned back to Nova’s neutral, unmoving face. The Chancellor’s face had lost its resistant veneer of only a moment or two ago, replaced by shock and fear.
“You…you just-”
“Get a hold of yourself, Chancellor. You’re supposed to have a modicum of dignity. He’s not the first one dragged away by the mob and he won’t be the last. The Revolution has many loose ends to prune.” Nova Whirl’s eyes narrowed as she considered the white and blue unicorn. “Make no mistake…I’ve not shown you any mercy. Just the same…courtesy that you showed me when you teamed up with Arclight to falsify that election.”
Swirl opened her mouth, clearly about to protest. Before she could, however, an explosion went off in the square, to which the rioting crowd cheered and hollered. An OHS armored car had brewed up when a ‘Griever cocktail had smashed into its hood, the flaming liquid seeping down into the engine and igniting the fuel. As the noise settled, a massive buckskin stallion in green uniform appeared at Nova’s side, glaring down at Swirl with violet orbs that obviously told of his distaste for her. Like many of the 16th that had been with the uprising since it kicked off, he had ripped away all of his patches that formerly told his story and identity within the Republic Army. For now, they were replaced with basic pins and patches in red. The next step of producing official regalia and symbolism would come after they had secured the city.
“I still say you should hang her too,” General Caramel Haze snapped, baring his teeth as he tilted his head back, exposing the small brown goatee he wore. “Lipizzan is still out there. If he were to strike now, he could rescue her before she gets to the prison.”
“Patience, Comrade. We will do this right. Then the world will see we are just and truly righteous. It will strengthen our legitimacy, to follow the courtesies of law.” Nova snorted, then chuckled. “Besides, nothing like a good injustice to get bleeding heart Harmonists up in arms.” The sarcasm dripped from her words, spelling out her meaning. If that statement had been true, there never would have been a need to rise up.
Nearby, the rope of Arclight’s noose had been tossed over one of the dozen or so flagpoles jutting from the front of the Sabor. Already, most of those banners had been replaced by the red banner of the SKR, and Arclight was not the only one currently tied to it, leaving him to swing and rot from the front of the building. The chief of police, several ministers and even a few petty revenge killings also hung from the iron poles, their eyes bulging and their corpses occasionally twitching. Haze glanced over, nodding with an approving eye. Neither of them even glanced over as two more Gardijska soldiers took River Swirl under the forelegs, dragging her off to a waiting armored car nearby. Swirl went with little resistance, her expression shattered and sunken.
“We need to meet with Clifford and Foam,” Nova said, glancing over her shoulder at a nearby burning building, eyes narrowing slightly as they reflected the flames. “I don’t want to lose the momentum we’ve gained here. Our first step should be unifying all the republics into one. A strong front to sweep the Riverlands.”
“I’ll secure the roads north,” Haze assured her. “We’re already getting calls from the front. Plenty of units asking for orders.”
Nova nodded again, sure and decisive.
“Then go and give them their new orders. Those who want to join are welcome in the Revolution. Those who do not can stay where they are and rot.”
And so the sun set on Red Wednesday, as red banners flew across the entire city. The fighting died down as those left either surrendered, fled or gave themselves up. The socialists were in charge now.
Nothing would be the same.
October 8th, 1012 Ponežega, River Republic 7th Gardijka Brigada, 1st Poljska Vojska
The chatter of machine guns from the opposing trench sent tracers zinging over the heads of the Republican soldiers, huddling in their own muddy hole. Mortars and cannons roared in the distance and whistled through the air, detonating spectacularly and throwing up clouds of mud and debris. Ropes of barbed wire strung across No Folk’s land, a cratered stretch of landscape covered in pits, discarded debris, wrecked armored cars and corpses too distant to be retrieved. From here, the city of Buckthorn, normally just a few hours’ travel in peacetime, may as well have been Griffenheim, and Dubrovneigh, normally less than a day’s travel time from here, might as well have been Skyfall.
The Rijekan soldiers huddled in their trench, shivering in the freezing mud as they tried to survive the cold snap, the distant shells that could kill them without warning and above all the balance between boredom and sheer terror. Terror faded after a time. Feeling it constantly dulled its edge, and until a new danger presented itself, fear faded into the background. One simply got used to it. But boredom never faded, never wound down. Between the desperate defenses and suicidal frontal assaults, there was little else to do but prepare for the next of each of those, clean their kit and find little things to stay busy.
In one sheltered trench, a stallion stood cautiously on the firing step, looking over the frosted mud. No-Folk’s Land, as it was called, was nothing but a seeping, flooded, poisonous mud pit. Here, on the western front fighting the Lakeish troops, there was very little movement against the foe. Apparently things were even worse in Wittenland, where battles literally took place scrabbling up and down mountainsides and competing for passes through the rocky landscape, while entire regions of forest were chopped down by artillery barrage. He didn’t dare raise his flat helmet any further up, knowing that enemy snipers were watching carefully for the first opportunity from across the line to pick off some poor sap that didn’t know better. And the Princely State of Lake City trained very good snipers.
Suddenly, a cry went up.
“Reinforcements!”
Heads snapped around, eyes peering up over muddy earthworks and sandbags, the faint flickering of hope stirring like the barely sparking life of a campfire in winter. There, emerging from the fog and smoke bank, were a line of ponies in green uniforms, heading for the rear trenches with their heads down. A shell overshot the trenches and landed amongst their number, felling several pony troopers. A hiss went up amongst those soldiers at the firing step. These were very sorely needed replacements, and more and more soldiers were appearing. There had to be at least a regiment out there, perhaps the vanguard for another brigade! With this many soldiers on the line, they could not only meet the next Lakeish assault and throw it back, but launch their own counterattack soon after.
With the shell incident in mind, the ranks swiftly began to disperse as they moved over the shattered muddy hellscape. October in the Riverlands usually got very chilly as the first whispers of winter could be felt over the horizon, and there was even a fine layer of snow over the ground from earlier in the day, though not thick enough to disguise the frozen slush in the craters around the trench lines.
From her command trench, General Potočni Štit let out a huff as she watched the line of approaching soldiers.
“About damned time,” she grumbled, reaching over to grab her cap. “Did Rijekograd finally decide to stop playing games and let some of those battalions out of the city?”
“And let the socialists take over?” asked her senior battalion commander, shaking his head. “No, ma’am. These are likely routed from some other place. I can’t imagine Director Arclight sacrificing the capital at a time like this.”
“Well, wherever they’re from, they’ve been sorely needed for weeks,” Štit snapped. “I want to know what the hell Rijekograd is doing going radio silent in the middle of a war like this. Whoever’s in command of this unit, they better have some damned answers.”
Already, the new soldiers were flowing over into the communications trenches and down specially designed ramps. The River Republic may not have had many tanks, but the few they did have were small enough to go down into specially worked trenches such as these. A shame, then, that the expected armor had been diverted south to face a new push in support of Wittenland. Štit watched the new blood merge in with a pinched expression, thinking of all those lost in the past month of battle alone. This war was a meatgrinder one, where the generals on both sides hadn’t learned a single thing from the fighting out west simply because they were griffons, or the even more distant scrap in Equus. Instead, old mentality, old concepts and backwards technology kept the Riverlands from keeping up with the larger powers, too busy squabbling internally and focused on putting down extremist uprisings. Now here was the inevitable result; both the Coalition and the Co-Prosperity Sphere were so equally backwards that this war had turned into an attritional logjam.
A runner ducked into the trench, tugging a missive out of a belt pouch and holding it towards Štit. She sighed, aggravated beyond all restraint before taking the message with her magic and telekinetically holding it in front of her face, eyes haphazardly scanning what she was certain would be some kind of ordinary report. It boggled her mind how much rudimentary fluff went through her hooves, though if she wanted to she could choose to dump it on her subordinates. But no, she had wanted to be a modern general, and in this day and age a modern general made sure she understood what all levels of her force was doing.
Something in the missive caught her eye, and she slowed down, read the line again. And again. Then she started back at the beginning, taking the message in her hooves as she felt a bolt of fear lance through her. This…this couldn’t be right.
Rijekograd uprising has taken city, 7 October STOP Chancellor Swirl and Director Arclight in socialist custody STOP Bakaran and Diamond Mountain forces encircling and capturing River Coalition troops STOP Do not trust reinforcements or orders from Rijekograd STOP Rally to Stožerni General Lipizzan STOP Long live the Republic STOP
“General?” asked her senior commander, frowning as he spoke.
“Get-” Štit started, then felt her voice fail before she swallowed and tried again. “Get some guards in here immediately. Some of ours, don’t let any of the newcomers in. Find out who they are and what their allegiances might be.”
“Allegiances?”
Before he could ask, or the rest of her command trench respond, another soldier bolted down out of the communication trench from the opposite direction the runner had just come. The difference, of course, was that his uniform was covered in blood.
“They’re Reds!” he shouted, eyes wide in panic as he snapped his gaze around the trench before landing on the general. “Ma’am, they’re socialists! Came down into the trench and asked who our commander was, then their officer stabbed Captain Nero when he refused to swear to-”
A shot rang out, and the entire command trench seemed to freeze, staring at where the trooper was. Or, had been. As officers and aides and radiomares stared in stunned silence, the soldier folded like a burlap sack, collapsing to the ground and falling fully into the trench. Behind him were three more figures, one holding a smoking rifle as she stepped over the corpse of the soldier she’d just executed. Her uniform, and that of the two troopers behind her, was the same green coloration as always. But where Republic soldiers had green flags and white star pins and patches, these soldiers had ripped them away and replaced them with their clones in red.
The three soldiers held the command trench at gunpoint, moving around to allow all three to cover the staff. Behind them, Štit spied another figure, waiting patiently. As soon as one of the riflemares signaled, the newcomer stepped forward, ducking into the command trench to survey those assembled before him. Though he wore a uniform, and though he wore the red pins and patches, the officer standing there was a dog, of all creatures. He looked around with supreme confidence, oozing authority and contempt in equal measure. He wore a simple officer’s cap, plain save for the red band around the brim. Štit felt her spine freeze up. She knew who this was.
“I am Commissar-Colonel Thorek Daner,” the massive dog announced, his accent tinged with the rough northern tones of Diamond Mountain. “And In the name of the workers and peasants of the United Socialist River Republics, you are ordered to surrender to the Red Army.”
The command trench was silent, most eyes staring in confused bewilderment at Daner, some glancing down to the corpse at his feet. Outside, more shots rang out. Not those of an enemy attack, Štit knew. This was a takeover. A purge.
“I should explain,” Daner continued as casually as if he were discussing the weather, stepping over the stallion’s body without even looking down. “Rijekograd has been seized by the revolutionary front. The corrupt Chancellor and her stallion behind the curtain Arclight have been taken away to await trial. A new Republic awaits us, one built by the people, not by backwards aristocrats, greedy capitalists and reactionary bigots. Should you wish to serve the people and join us in this new future, you need only say so, and we will welcome you. The revolution is open to all true believers, after all. Should you refuse, you will be discarded, and the revolution shall leave you in the dustbin with your broken nation.”
Daner scanned the trench, eyes finally settling on Štit, recognizing her general’s pins and cap. He nodded.
“You are in charge. Tell me, General; will you stand by the people? Will you embrace the future and move on towards the inevitable? Or will you refuse to see reason and senselessly die for a nation that no longer exists, and would not recognize your bravery even if it still stood?”
She had to admit, the dog had good speaking skills. He looked her dead in the eye, and while she wasn’t good at reading canine expressions, his voice hadn’t raised in aggression or slumped into condescension. He was in full control of the situation, and equally composed and firm in his mannerism and belief.
So, Štit straightened up, cleared her throat, took a deep breath and replied “Fuck off, you red son of a bitch.”
The trench was silent, aside from the distant sounds of battle, somehow completely forgotten in the chaos of the socialists’ takeover. It was as if the war against Lake City, so vital and equally so hopeless just minutes ago, had become a secondary priority in this moment.
Daner smirked, and Štit could tell he was genuinely amused.
“I must say, I do like your spirit.”
He slid a paw down, drawing the revolver holstered on his belt and thumbing back the hammer. For General Potočni Štit, the world seemed to slow to a crawl, her reality warping and distorting around her as everyone else slid away, her universe narrowed down to that dog and his pistol. She suddenly felt so very, very stupid. Her hoof twitched for her own holster, but it was far, far too late and she knew it.
Before she had even cleared leather, Daner’s pistol cracked, and in a flash of light, the unicorn mare’s world was abruptly no more.
It had been another day. Another argument. Strogo couldn’t even remember what had started it, only that he and Petra had risen to shouting at each other once again over an old wound topic; moving to Griffenheim.
“Where do you think Paige will go after the war?” his wife demanded, her face hard and her expression set. “She will want to stay with Cyril, no matter what you say. And Cyril lives in the capital!”
“I refuse to set hoof any closer to the Empire!” Strogo snapped back, smacking a hoof down on a table. “It galls me enough every day that we had to leave home in the first place, but I refuse to go into the -Imperial City- itself!”
“We’re already -in- the godsdamned Empire, Strogo!” Petra shrieked back. “It just happens to be the eastern half, and the only way you can lie to yourself about that is when you go outside and see Ostreich pins instead of Kaiserreich ones! Whose banner do you think they fly at the top of the flagpole? Is this what you’re going to say when your daughter leaves to live with the drake she-”
“She’s not going to marry him!” the stallion snapped. “I don’t care if I have to break her damned legs! If she survives a war only to come back and throw herself on some Imperial it’ll be as bad as if she got shot overseas!”
“I don’t think you’ll have much choice! That’s not the same Paige who left home five years ago, she’s going to do what she-”
Abruptly, a loud pounding came to the door. Strogo and Petra immediately clapped their muzzles shut, as if that would fix the damage. But too late now, they both knew. After all, they’d done this before.
“Open up, in the name of the King!”
No, the officer outside didn’t sound like he was in the mood to wait. Best not to keep him waiting, so Strogo sighed and stepped over to the door, pausing only a moment before twisting the handle. The door swung open, and he looked up to find a very irate looking griffon standing there, shotgun in claw with the barrel ported over his shoulder.
“You the owner of Unit 221B?” the drake asked, voice toneless and exhausted. This officer had clearly already had a long day.
“Aye, that’s me. What can I do for you-”
“We have numerous calls about public disturbances coming from this apartment,” a stallion officer standing next to the drake droned off just as tonelessly, bulldozing over Strogo as he went about the business of reading off the list. “Numerous raised voices, harsh language, sworn statements of words criticizing the King and Kaiser, suspicions of domestic abuse-”
Something about this stallion was a bit familiar. Strogo frowned, even as the charges kept coming, his mind blocking them out as something in the back of his mind insisted this was a familiar face. But he just couldn’t place it…
And then the officer lowered the clipboard to flip the page, exposing his muzzle. On it sat an outrageously bushy mustache, so over the top he wondered how it hadn’t poked out from around the clipboard. The style of that wasn’t local, he knew it wasn’t. And it was certainly an older style too. Where had he seen that…
Strogo blinked in astonishment. Of all the things he had expected to see on his Saturday, an old familiar face wasn’t one of them. The stallion before him was a dull green, a little taller than Strogo himself and a bit younger. He glanced up, and the two met eyes. His expression had changed a little as well, a bit more worn and mentally tired, a few unexpected wrinkles around the eyes. However, once he realized who he was staring at, the other stallion blinked back in surprise and a surge of energy.
“Brza Iskra!” Strogo remarked out loud, reflexively grinning as he swept forward and threw his hooves around the stallion’s neck. “Gods, it’s been years!”
“Sarge?” Brza fumbled, trying to process the sight before he accepted it, guffawing as well, hooves clapping Strogo on the back. “-You’re- the public disturbance call?”
“Ah, that.” Strogo simmered a little, releasing his old friend as he cleared his throat awkwardly. “Just a disagreement with the wife. Nothing major, she gives as good as she gets. The walls in this building are thin, it shames me to say.”
“She made it too? Gods be praised,” Brza smiled, shaking his head before checking the clipboard once more, a hesitant pause as he realized something. “I…your foals aren’t on this list. They didn’t-”
“No...I mean, no! No, they both left the country years ago. Paige went to Equestria on a scholarship and Brook…well, Brook was forced by his ‘business’ to ‘relocate’.”
Brza snorted, knowing exactly what was being implied there.
“Good to hear that then. You can’t imagine how many families I’ve checked on that lost somepony…”
The drake, clearly lost and annoyed, grunted in irritation.
“Gonna catch me up, Iskra?”
“Oh, right. Feliks, this is…Strogo,” Brza said after double checking the sheet once more. “Strogo, Feliks. My partner. Feliks, this old gelding was my Sergeant at Arms back in Deponya. We served together up until he decided he couldn’t stand being on the border and moved east.”
“Who are you calling old?” Strogo countered. “Or a gelding? Look at you, you got fat. Too much lazy duty in a checkpoint.”
“Least I stuck it out. Until Lake City came knocking that is.” Brza shook his head mournfully. “I knew things were going straight to Tartarus after what happened to the King. Got the family and kipped over the border soon as I could. Technically, I’m a deserter. But given what’s happening east right now, I get the feeling nopony really cares.”
Strogo sighed, leaning against the doorframe.
“We almost didn’t get out in time. Socialists were tearing up the neighborhood, dragging ponies out in the street and beating them or shooting them for ‘crimes against the workers of Rijekograd.’”
Both Brza and Feliks winced at that, the drake also shaking his head in sympathy.
“We heard stories like that. I had hoped it wasn’t true, but there’s too many for it to be exaggeration. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
Strogo nodded back, feeling his shoulders relax now the tension had dissipated. While their uniforms still made him sneer internally, any friend of his old comrade Brza had to at least be a moderate. The young buck had too much common sense to stay hitched to a hardliner.
“I am sorry about the disturbance. It’s…an old disagreement. But believe me, I’ve never struck Petra. If you need to see her-”
“No no, that's fine. I trust your word Sarge,” Brza replied, smiling in assurance. “Though I do have to tell you there’s a bit of a fine for a repeat offense. Fifty idols.”
Strogo winced. That was a serious bit of change. They had the money, of course, but it wasn’t anything to sneeze at. That would be a big chunk of their savings.
“First the new taxes and austerity measures, now they’re upping the fines,” he grumbled, sighing. “Alright then. Do I pay you here or what?”
“No, we leave the notification receipt with you, and you either pay it off at the station or mail it in,” Feliks rattled off, clearly repeating a sentence he had said a hundred times recently. “Though there will be a ten pfenning fee for mailing it, and it needs a state approved stamp.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Brza suddenly said, having flipped to another page on his clipboard. “I missed this earlier. Got another point of business to discuss with you, Strogo. According to this, I’m supposed to deliver a Royal Notice to you.” With that, he tugged another sheet out, inspecting it before sighing. “I’m sorry to tell you, but it looks like you’ll be joining me. I have here your official conscription notice for the Vorderladers, reporting date on the 20th, Drafburg Royal Armory, 0500. Witnessed by Feliks, delivered straight to your hooves.”
Strogo blinked, trying to process what his old friend and comrade in arms had just said. Slowly, he looked down at the sheet, blinking in stunned astonishment. He couldn’t have heard that right, could he?
“The…the what?”
“Vorderladers. The Queen put it in effect after King Wingfried was shot. Think of it like a reserve state militia. Backing up the polizei, taking over garrison duties for the Ostheer. They’re taking those who might not be eligible for the army because of health or citizenship, things like that.” Brza sighed, pondering something a moment before continuing. “Look, Sarge. I’ll be straight with you, because you were always straight with me; the Ostheer needs bodies in the ranks. All those divisions they stripped from the Ostwall to go west? And all the troops manning the border waiting to jump on Greifenstein? Everywhere else is stretched thin right now. The Ostheer prides itself on their warriors, but those take time to train up to quality. And in that time, there’s holes everywhere. So they’re calling up the refugees and immigrants to help.” Brza shrugged. “It’s better than a labor camp, or living destitute in the wilds. Part time work, essentially. And hey, won’t need to go west and jump in a trench to fight Aquileians. Or Republicans.”
“They’re putting together a militia out of refugees?” Strogo felt his ire rise, his teeth clenching as the news finally rattled through his mind. “Are the Reformisten out of their damned minds? They do know that a lot of us used to live over the border, dreading the day they saw black banners on the horizon?”
“Watch your tone, Citizen,” Feliks warned, talons flexing around the grip of the trench gun, but Strogo was too far gone to care.
“Piss off! I used to stand on that border staring down griffs much bigger and far scarier than you! Think you’re protected because of that tin badge?”
He snorted at the badge in question, a ridiculous and shiny thing with the words ‘POLIZEI’ at the top and ‘DRAFBURG’ at the bottom. Between them, the Reformisten totenkopf emblem, a griffon’s skull over crossed claws. Pompous banner waving, damn them all.
“Strogo!” Brza hissed, glancing around. “You get one warning. Shut. The fuck. Up. If you turn this into an incident and I have to report it, I can’t protect you. I won’t.”
Strogo stood agape, staring at his old friend.
“What…what happened to you, Brza? You and I, we were there together. We saw what those bastards did. What they left behind. How are you okay with this after what we saw in Deponya?”
“Deponya’s gone!” Brza finally snapped. After a second, his tone simmered down a bit more. “At least, the one we left. Just a Lake City puppet now. They shot the King for daring to have a spine. From what I hear, Rijekograd may as well be going the same way. OHS strongmares and socialist rabble tearing the streets apart while good stallions die on the frontlines. Is that the kind of state you want to defend, Strogo? You willing to die a martyr for that kind of nation? Look, when I first got here, I was like you. Full of piss and vinegar and angry as all Tartarus I had to leave home and come over to the ‘old enemy’. And then one day I woke up and realized I can’t go back. And what was back there wasn’t what I grew up in. Face it, Strogo. Ost-Griffonia? The Kaiserreich? They may be the ‘old enemy’. But right now, a future here is a lot more certain, a lot safer. I’d rather pledge myself to a kingdom and an empire that’s going to be around in twenty years. Not one that collapsed and got dragged under. That’s reality. Swallow your fucking pride and get over yourself.”
With a dejected sigh, Brza carefully removed the notice detailing Strogo’s fine, tearing off his portion before giving it over as well.
“Listen, the fine. Forget about it, I’ll take care of it for old times’ sake. I know what you make in that factory. Polizei get paid much better these days with the war on. Heh, maybe you should join it too. Good wage, y’know. I can put in a good word.” A pause. “Look, I get it. It’s not what you wanted. But think about what’s here, Strogo. Everything that’s here that’s no longer back in the Riverlands. Safety, stability, a hot meal and a paying job without worrying about your house burning down in the night. Doesn’t that sound like a fair trade? Listen…at least try to keep it quiet. If you can.”
The stallion officer glanced to the griffon who also sighed, shaking his head.
“You have a good day, Citizen,” Feliks said, reaching up and touching the brim of his cap. “Hail to King and Kaiser.”
Strogo just glared at the drake, the physical epitome of everything he had grown up despising. A griffon, an Imperial loyalist, a uniformed thug in his eyes. Feliks, in return, glared right back. There was sympathy, sure. But Strogo had no doubt the griffon would stock check him with that trench gun if given the slightest excuse.
“Let’s go, Feliks,” Brza said, nudging his partner along. “Still gotta go up to the third floor and get that drunkard out.”
“No,” Feliks ground out, surprising both stallions. He glared down at Strogo, eyes narrowing. “Say it, shitheel.”
“Say what?”
“Feliks, leave it be,” Brza tried to intervene, glancing between the two of them as he tried to physically in between them. But the drake wasn’t having any of it.
“Say ‘hail to King and Kaiser’. You live -here- now, and you can remember that or go join the rockbreakers in the quarry. So say it. Here, I’ll get you started; Hail to King and Kaiser.”
Strogo stood aghast, glancing over to Brza, who chewed his lip in frustration, glancing back at his partner with a look that clearly said ‘just say the line so we can get this over with and don’t make me arrest you, idiot.’ Strogo was on his own, no assistance in sight.
Sucking in a deep breath, feeling like somepony was dragging sandpaper along his soul, Strogo finally bit out the words. “Hail to King and Kaiser.”
It was both easier and harder than he thought. Easier because he got it all out in one go. Harder because he felt the betrayal seep from him as every syllable left his mouth. If only his father could see him now.
“There. That wasn’t so hard, was it? Now learn to say it everytime,” growled Feliks, at least having the honesty to not look superior or smug, just irate and clearly fed up. “Or you might not be sticking around here much longer. Got it?”
Bipedal now, Feliks loomed over Strogo at this point, glaring down over uniform and that badge the stallion had mocked only a short time ago. It did give the drake power, the former Riverlander realized. The badge and uniform and gun all let him do what he wanted. He really did live at the Empire’s mercy after all. He glanced over to Brza. But the stallion was already looking away, unable to meet his eyes as the pair of officers turned to finally depart.
“Be glad we’re so forgiving,” Feliks spat as one final parting rejoinder. “It’s a busy day today.”
And with that, Strogo was left there, the door still open, watching his old friend (was he still a friend?) depart, holding a piece of paper that shook his world as deeply as Paige’s letters did everytime he read them. Petra called out to him, asking if everything was okay. But it wasn’t okay.
Now what was he supposed to do?
”Enlist today for your Kingdom and Empire! Remember, service guarantees citizenship!” proclaimed the nearby loudspeaker, as if mocking him in his miserable state.
