The Kingdoms of Man

Cold.

It’s the bloody cold that Talonshield can’t stand.

That, and the Magofinn. ‘Men of the North’, they call themselves. They command a vast trading network from their nigh-frozen port city of Magofinnia, where longboats filled with luxuries flow to every corner of the continent, and their only rivals in commerce would be the Saddle Arabians in the extreme south of the continent.

Their love of gold, however, has not dulled their warrior or their adventurer culture. Even now, as Talonshield and his fellows huddle together outside the frozen walls of Magofinnia, he heard hooting and chanting from those apes in there. With their hearty fires burning the firewood they trade their artisan goods for.

Talonshield hated the cold, and he hated the Magofinn. Today, he would destroy the latter, and enjoy their hearthfires.

He blew into his battle horn, and the screech of ten thousand griffons and the snarl of five thousand kobolds answered him.

The high, bitterly cold winds would sap the strength of a flying griffon faster than a marching griffon, so all put on the extra armor pads to protect their wings. The griffons carried equipment that would best compliment their new load of armor, thick kite shields and spears. They marched in front of their kobold allies, who had brought their sparksticks with them. Even in this climate, their cold hands had concocted powders that would fire off and create a deafening bang, not to mention bring death to whatever unlucky sod was in front of massed kobolds.

They had also brought siege engines with them, great ballistas with kobold bangsticks that exploded on contact with a wall or fortification. The ice walls of the Magofinn would crack and ultimately crumble under this superior technology. Now the only thing to do was get close enough to deploy the ballista against the fortifications.

It was during this phase of advancement that Talonshield noticed a great creak. Curious, he lifted his head from his march, and he saw something that made his heart sink.

The gates were opening.

The Magofinn were sallying forth and would give battle.

What was worse was that they didn’t send in their Citizen Militia first, as expected. Those weekend warriors were little more than citizenry with round wooden shields and spears.

What was charging out of the gates of the Magofinn capital was not the Magofinn Militia.

The Magofinn Longbeards were adventurers by trade and had many tales of far-off lands that remained unseen by Ponies or Griffons or even other human nations. The tales and the treasure the Longbeards brought back astounded many a traveller.

The Longbeards were also known for their savagery and individuality in combat. Each fought for his personal glory, and as such, equipment and weapons weren’t standardized. To Talonshield’s horror, he saw Magofinn dressed in whatever they felt like, be it chainmail, helms, fur coats, or even in some cases just leggings. Talonshield couldn’t fathom that those without fur would do such a thing in this extreme cold.

They were also all bleeding.

Ritualized preparations for battle included the cutting of flesh and applications of battle salves and potions. While the magical nature of such alchemy was dubious at best, the Magofinn insisted on it.

And for good reason.

The kobolds wasted no time in lining up and presenting their bangsticks to the Magofinn. A great thunderous noise ensued, and the smoke from the bangsticks of the kobolds partially obscured their vision.

It was quiet, other than the ringing and the echoing of the thunderous volley in Talonshield’s ears. He, with his flock-soldiers, moved up and in front of the kobold line, peering into the smoke.

Then a massive volley of axes sailed through the smoke into the unsuspecting Coalition lines. As soon as the kobolds realized what was happening and made to ready their bangstick again, the roar of the Magofinn resumed, and massive humans bolted through the smoke, with axes and shields held high. Griffons, such as Talonshield, held up their spears and braced for the impact with their lines. As the Magofinn closed, Talonshield couldn’t help but notice that the volley of bangsticks had hit their mark, as evident by the missing masses of flesh from the human’s extremities, as well as the streams of blood gushing out of said missing chunks of flesh.

‘They must be insane’, Talonshield thought. His suspicions were partially confirmed when the lead Magofinn brute shouted, “The name’s Karl Edvard Magofinn, and you’re on my lawn!”

And then the Longbeards collectively roared, and they were among the Coalition forces.

It was an instant rout. The Magofinn made no distinctions between Kobold or Griffon, and the axe didn’t, either. Talon abandoned his weapon and made a break for it, risking the cold wind to fly away into the winter. Having abandoned rank and discipline, the token force sent to wipe out this small tribe of humans had underestimated both the Magofinn themselves and the weather they seemed to thrive in.

The Coalition forces would not be seen again.

Dubale was under siege again.

An unknown number of Triumvirate reinforcements had arrived and somehow redeployed all the already engaged Triumvirate ponies outside Dubale, and their siege spells broke apart buildings and shattered formations. Soldiers and civilians ran to-and-fro, all in a state of panic or near-panic, even as siege spells landed around them. The multi-colored blobs of energy burned or outright vaporized whatever it hit, be it masonry or flesh.

“Sadiq!”

Rahim ran among the collapsing sandy debris, with Havash close on his heels. Their robes and armor were dented, scratched, and sandy from all the combat they had gone through. They ran like men possessed, as did everyone around them, to whatever direction they thought would take them to safety amongst the horror and chaos of the siege being renewed on the city.

Even now, Havash’s insistence on calling Rahim Sadiq got on his nerves. “I know!”

“What are your orders!?”

“We fight!”

The Sauropod riders had to abandon their ward after it was struck with a life-seeking siege spell. The unfortunate beast of burden’s head had evaporated under such potent magical energy, and, to Rahim’s horror, many a sauropod from his command had suffered a similar fate. The rest of the sauropods were close to panicking, which would make things only worse for the besieged humans and Saddle Arabians.

They had drawn swords after jumping off and were running towards the sound of fighting. The Golden Oasis of Dubale looked less like a town of merchants and gold coins, and more a battlezone, with blasted, sandy ruins and bodies littering the street. To Rahim’s annoyance, it seemed that all the pegasi they had slain had done little good, as more and more pegasi were rallying in the skies, surely planning to firebomb his and the Saddle Arabian’s troops. Rahim and Havash stopped when they turned a corner to witness some of the melee.

The Saddle Arabian Royal Guard, composed of mixed forces of Horses and Camels, had joined the fray. Their golden-hued armor shone in the sun, as much as combat would allow. They had joined the formations of the Farthuarto, and their hardened horseshoes were a great addition to the strength of the defenders. Rahim even saw the Horse King Preatorias leading the Saddle Arabian forces. It was not unusual for the Horse King to be the more militant of the Saddle Arabian Kings, but to actually see the brown and blonde horse, donned in heavy and elaborate gear, throw himself at the Triumvirate with all the vigor and fury of a regular soldier was quite the sight to behold.

But then a siege spell landed directly on him.

“How are they still fighting?”

Heaving and resting his sweaty and bloodied palms on his knees, Chieftain Cú Chulainn looked over the valley battlefield. The Diamond Dogs had put up a good fight, as had his own painted warriors. They now stared at each other from across the valley, each dressing wounds and praying for the dead, who piled into the lowest point in disgraceful ways.

The mana runes were being reapplied with utmost care to all the warriors and the Gáelimons were tended to. The bipedal saurids were skittish when exposed to prolonged battle, as was the case for even the Moenéills and the diamond dogs. All the chariots were battered or destroyed, save for the Chieftain’s. It only looked scratched. Chieftain Cú Chulainn checked his crossbow bolt stores on his chariot. It was fast depleting. Wincing, Chieftain Cú Chulainn considered his options.

He could either continue the battle, and continue to throw the dice with the lives of his warriors, or he could withdraw. Normally, withdrawing would make Chieftain Cú Chulainn’s gut wrench and twist in disgust. Now?

He was starting to see the merit of the city-folk’s idea of withdrawing. He was beat, and his nephew was lying on a coat, barely breathing. For the sake of his people, he had to withdraw.

After his internal counsel had conceded that Chieftain Cú Chulainn’s Moenéills and the Diamond Dog Cúnna Faoil were too evenly matched and their painted warriors too similar for any one side to gain a decisive victory over the other without the sacrifice of the entire army. The eerie similarity between the Moenéills and the Cúnna Faoil stemmed from a point in their history where they were as one tribe, but discontent and disagreements ultimately doomed the alliance of man and canine.

And now, the hatred between the two tribes had reached a boiling point, each swearing curses, oaths, and revenge rites on the other for the mutual loss of their friends. As the battle went on, however, the energy they had gained from vengeful wrath faded, until only a tired longing for a conclusion to the battle remained. Even now, the sorrow and loss in everyone’s eyes were present, even in what he could see over at the diamond dog lines. Chieftain Cú Chulainn even considered a parlay. His thoughts were interrupted, however, by a most curious sound.

It was a low roar, then a loud roar. The pitter-patter of feet made itself known first to the Diamond Dogs, who could look behind them to see it first, then the men of the Moenéills.

It looked like a black tide, sweeping over the countryside like a cancer.

The Goblin Hordes had arrived.

Chieftain Cú Chulainn was certainly going to withdraw now.

“Princess! Princess!”

Poleaxe ran with his namesake through the halls of Canterlot Castle, desperately trying to find somepony, anypony to take him to the Princesses. He recalled a mental map of the castle, oriented himself within, and took off in the direction of the Throne Room. That was where they were usually at, right?

Cutting corners and scaring maidsponies, Poleaxe soon huffed under the weight of his steel armor and his poleaxe.

Finally, he unceremoniously busted through the throne room doors, and into the court, where petitioners regarded him either with disinterest or with wide eyes. The Solar Diarch herself sat on her throne, becoming increasingly worried about the sudden arrival of one of her her little guardsponies.

Catching his breath, adjusted his morion helmet, and shouted,

“The Changelings are attacking! And they’ve got Dragons with them!”

With not a moment to spare, the Princesses took off and followed Poleaxe, leaving the petitioners to stew in their frustrations and fear. It took a short time before the gathered ponies made their way to a balcony, but as they made it to a balcony, they soon wished they hadn’t.

A veritable locust swarm of Changelings dotted the sky, threatening to cover the entirety of Canterlot in shadows, and the Dragons...

They were enormous. Celestia recoiled in horror at their size, and that their size rivalled or dwarfed most elder dragons she knew. She realized with no small terror that many of these were elder dragons, and she might even know them by name.

And there was no small number of them, either. They were among the Changelings, making seem like birds were among the locust swarms.

And they were fast approaching.