The Kingdoms of Man

A horn blew, making itself known in the din. The clashing of iron and steel as well as the voices of the combatants nearly drowned out the commanding note. It was slightly mournful, as the note was seldom used in the history of the Moenéill. The proud woad warriors dreaded that drawn-out note, as it meant only one thing.

Retreat.

It was unthinkable that the proud warriors would even consider backing down from a fight, and it was a matter of pride that they usually stood and fought or died, but... the day was not theirs. The enemy were too many. The remaining Diamond Dogs were rallied by the arrival of the great fey horde of Goblins and their Uruk masters. The day seemed lost; the only recourse was to live to fight another day.

What was left of the War Chariot Squadrons would be the first to leave the field, were it an unorganized rout. Their speed would most definitely aid them in their escape. However, this was not Moenéill battle doctrine. The signal that was blown was sent to the brave warriors of the Painted Ones. They begrudgingly began the long trek back home, being sure to evade the friendly chariots. They ran in lines, spaced between the few remaining chariots, painted red with the ichor of the enemy.

Chieftain Cú Chulainn affixed a spare scythe to the left spoke. He was running low on reserves for those. Should he try charging through the enemy lines without something to both terrify and bisect the enemy... the Chieftain shoved those thoughts aside. The Dogs might have been rallied by the arrival of their allies, but they would not gain the upper hand in this war. He and his men would be back. By the Holy Stones, he would be back.

But first, he must secure a way out for his warriors. He took but a moment to look out into the field, and noted that it was littered with blood and bodies. An unbidden thought came to him. “Once a field has been stained with blood, it will remain that way forever.” As always, even now, the wise thoughts of his father’s father were ones he should heed. But... it was too late to keep this field free of battle.

He mounted his chariot, noted with some pride that his javelin stocks had been resupplied, and clasped the shoulder of his nephew, still prone in his cart. He was the heir to the Moenéill throne, but the current Chieftain must first make sure there was a tribe left to rule when all was said and done. Time for stage 2 of the retreat.

He withdrew the horn at his hip and blew hard into it. This was the signal for the final attack to begin. This might not be decisive, or glorious, but it was a necessary tactic if his warriors were to meet with a kinder fate than death or capture by the likes of the Coalition.

The loud spoked wheels sang their song of terror, and, for a moment, their hymn was joined by the rhythmic beating of the Chieftain's heart and the screaming of the charioteers. Today might have been a good day to die, but it was better still to live, and fight on to another day.

They charged.

Under the cover of night, the Reman Legion arrived at last at the harbor of Phillydelphia. Their close escape from the hands of the Griffonian Kingdom at the cost of the emergency raft had paid off, their gambit yielding results none of them had dared to dream of. Now, they were able to assist in the defense of Equestria, should the need arise. Their destination was Canterlot.

Sandaled feet battered and bruised the nightly streets, their silent procession broken only by heavy breathing and the sound of their feet as they fled. The forced march interrupted the gentle wind and the chirping of crickets. With all kit and armor, and in unison, the Legio Equestrianii proceeded. Their sprint terminated at the train station, where the troops boarded while Ambassador Orator Hominis and Centurion Marce Pullo Vorenius went to go commandeer the train. While that may have been something that would normally be frowned upon, Orator thought it would be fine with the Princesses, given the state of war they were in.

Once inside the train, the troops were allowed to relax in the many passenger carts, while Orator went to calm the panicked pony passengers and crewmembers. Soon enough, the panicked voices were reduced to silence, if not a hushed tone. The train lurched forward, and every Legionnaire caught their breath, fully expecting a fight to break out. As it turned out, they would not be disappointed for long .

A new, unfamiliar horn sounded in Chief Cú’s ears, one that came from behind his army. The Chieftain was stuck between fear and hope, much like the javelin that jutted out the torso of an Uruk captain, his black ichor spilling out onto the grass. ‘Okay,’ the Chieftain thought. ‘That wasn’t a very good analogy, but...’

His thoughts were interrupted by the thundering of an army behind his own. He redirected his attention and his chariot from the crumbling front lines to the rear. He saw bright red banners flapping, framed by the forest, where safety once lay. But then, the Chieftain recognized the heraldry on those banners.

Those were encircled lambdas. The clash of bright, bronze-colored steel weapons against bronze-colored steel shields could be heard. The Lacedans of the Kingdoms of Man had arrived. The Hoplites were here. And they were chanting.

“<Sons of Men! Sons of Men! Sons of Men!>”

At first, the scattered Woad Warriors of the Moenéill were confused, but as the Armored Wall ran past the Warriors in single-file, with cheers and shouted encouragements, the spirits of the Painted Ones seemed to be reinvigorated. They soon joined the shield wall the Lacedans had formed on the sides, shouting at the gathered non-human forces with faux renewed energy. They may have been tired, but they were still ready to fight.

However, the Coalition had apparently had enough. They stood their ground, and even looked to be standing down. This would not be a one-day battle.

Meanwhile, in Saddle Arabia, the siege of Dubale continued. The Sauropod Riders were stranded in the city, and the Saddle Arabians themselves were without reinforcements or relief. The Ponies of the Triumvirate had brought a second army with them, and with them, the elite of the Triumvirate. The Monomerton Castle Magi. Powerful Wizards, and significant threats even when alone. That was all the more unfortunate, then, that they preferred to travel and fight in groups.

Now, they were responsible for the teleport evacuation of the previously encircled Triumvirate troops, and ponies like Wretched Heart, a Triumvirate Captain, were thankful that such an option existed. Now, barring any feedbacks, the siege of Dubale continued. Troops on both sides rested during the night, knowing full well that they would be recommitted to the slaughter tomorrow.

He sat around a campfire with other officers of the Triumvirate, each wearing as pained and weary expressions as he. Except for one.

“Did you see the way I flew over all their stupid Camel, Horse, and Human heads? I was so fast, and they couldn’t hit me worth anything!”

Spectrum Raid pounded his silver-armored cyan hooves together in a display of the usual bravado and callousness.

“We struck them down with our firebombs, and they were powerless to stop us!”

Immediately, images flashed across Wretched Heart’s mind of falling pegasi due to the many volleys of arrows and bolts the humans and Saddle Arabians had fired in anger at the heavens. Shaking his head, Heart couldn't help but wonder if there lived ponies just as brash and as cockey ponies back in the old pony homeland of Equestria as their new homelands.

Probably not.

His musings were halted when the roar of mighty beasts were heard. Long, drawn out, and terrible like uncontrollable thunder, the notes of the unholy carried long into the night. No horns were sounded, for they were not necessary. The roar of the theropods were enough.

Every horror story ever told about the Chladsutes suddenly came to Heart, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the tales were true. Did there really exist a human society that tamed vicious carnivorous beasts that were much, much bigger than they? Did they ride these same beasts into battle, with their teeth the size of bananas and their maws wide enough to gobble a pony whole? Did the Chladsutes really feed their uncooperative children to said beasts?

Heart had no time to consider the finer details of the many gossiping sessions he’d had with his squadmates over the nature of the humans whom other humans feared when he suddenly saw a Theropod Rider. They were already in the camp. Where were the damned sentries? Why had they not alerted anyone? How could they have gotten so close without us noticing?

The Triumvirate forces did not ask these questions, for they were in a rout. The campfires illuminated and reflected off of the scale barding armor of the partially feathered giants, their maws already shining and dripping with the lifeblood of Heart’s comrades. The sights of their mailed and helmeted riders were fearsome, too. The imagery of these fully-armored humans gave the impression to the ponies that what they were dealing with were not mortals, but something supernatural. Floating armor possessed by an evil intelligence, who then went on to tame a monster and ride it into battle, where the bardiches brandished in the Chladsutes’ hands invoked imagery of a grim reaper, come to take the souls of the wicked to an eternal punishment.

Already, the weaker-willed grunts and even a few captains were fleeing uncontrollably from these horrible abominations, many of whom had forgone the armor and the sigils of the Triumvirate to flee towards... Dubale. That perhaps would be the only place safe enough from the theropod tyrants. Drawing his weapon, Heart considered his options. He could stay and fight, in which case, he might be horribly, horribly killed and eaten by these Chladsutes, which would leave his children without a father and a wife without a husband. That, as well as the fleeing ponies to the left and to the right of him, finally broke Heart’s will. He dropped his longsword and made to Dubale. Perhaps he would be fortunate as a prisoner of war.

He heard arcane energies being fired and looked behind him as he ran. The Mages had engaged the Theropods openly and directly. They were brave, but they were also foolish. As he watched, one such seemingly bejeweled creature simply leaned down and snapped its grisly jaw around an unfortunate elderly wizard, cutting off any pained/terrified scream when the fate of the poor unicorn was sealed. Such an event might have driven Wretched Heart to rally his men and attempt to bring down the horrid things. That was before he witnessed the valor of Spectrum Raid’s attempt to firebomb the Chladsutes being rewarded by a theropod simply closing its maw around Raid. He had died without a noise, other than a nauseating crunch.

Wretched Heart looked forward to Dubale, and hastened his step. He had to get away.

On the killing plains near the Kingdoms of Man, the Moenéill and the Lacedans made ready for battle. The Diamond Dogs were oddly absent. Had they fled? Chieftain Cú couldn’t think of why that would be. Then he witnessed the infighting that the Uruks and Goblins had within their front lines.

‘Had the dogs been destroyed by their own so-called allies?’

Such dark thoughts were interrupted when the Uruk war horn blew. The time for day two of battle has begun. He turned to his new best friend, Strategos Thanos Maniatis. The aged man had a simple combat dress on, without many of the embellishments other Armored Wall Hoplites had. Even without the display of awards, medals, or honors, Chieftain Cú knew that Thanos had seen battle, and had seen war. Obviously, this was the reason that he had been chosen as strategos of the Armored Wall, and was not just a historian or scholar. The way he carried himself, the way the man diplomatically and calmly arranged the defense of their nations to the best of his ability. The men had alternated watches, rests, and defense-building throughout the night.

The Hoplites had a reputation of bravado, believing they did not need walls of brick or mortar. Nonetheless, they had been instructed by the Regnator to adopt new tactics in order to ensure the survival of man. To this end, they had built pits of spikes, hilly ridges from which to stand and defend, and wooden staves to deter the massed charges. When the sunlight granted by the grace of their ancestors touched the work they had put their blood, sweat, and tears into, it brought a boon of pride to the hearts of both Cheiftan Cú and Strategos Thanos.

The Woad Warriors’ paint glowed with an inner light of navy blue. The reapplication of the magical plant was sure to aid them today, as well as those Hoplites who wanted to try such an exotic means of protection. In the spirit of comradery, some shields, weapons, and trinkets were traded off. In that morn, they were no longer separate armies of two sovereign nations, but one army of one tribe. Normally, Chieftain Cú wouldn’t deign to entertain the whims of the city-dwellers for even a moment, but having seen the brave men come all this way for their mutual defense, Cú didn’t know whom else he would rather have standing by his side.

Perhaps it could be the additional reinforcements in the form of other Kingdom of Man forces, the Knights of Abraxas. The towering steel-clad figures carried warhammers, similar in design and function to the Minotaurs. Their gleaming blue heraldry shone in the morning sun, weapons at the ready. Chieftan Cú couldn’t help but think how heavy that kit must be. That must be why the two bodies of soldiers didn’t arrive at once. The somewhat lighter kit of the Hoplites might have enabled them to march faster, but Cú couldn’t be certain.

Nevertheless, the Knights wordlessly situated themselves in front of the defensive ridges and behind the staves. Chieftain Cú noted with some incredulousness that they deliberately put themselves as a shield in front of the other armies. This, he realized, was the Chivalric code that he had heard so much about. They may have wanted to be the first to fight, but they would sacrifice safety for such an honor to themselves and the houses they hail from. As the horde loomed, Chieftain Cú readied his long weapon, and his chariot. He might not have as many charioteers, but their flanking actions should assist in this battle, nevertheless.

The horns sounded in the mid-morning mists. The Warriors of Man held their ground. The disgusting, teeming horde slammed into the defenses, and Day 2 of the battle ensued. Nobody noticed the distant shape of dragons flying west to east, to the Kingdom’s Capital.

Legio Equestrianii disembarked the train to find Canterlot a battlefield. They had heard stories of chittering, buzzing wings, but to witness a changeling invasion was another matter. In the pre-dawn, it was hard to make out friend from foe, especially with the shapeshifting powers the changelings possessed. Orator noted, “So, the changelings have joined the war on the side of the Coalition.”

Centurion Marce nodded his head, and drew his officer’s sword. It would be needed here, and they must answer the call to their allies. “Orders, sir?” asked Marce.

“Kill only the changelings.”

The changelings might have been masters of disguise, but that purpose served them naught when they charged the Reman shields and short swords anyway. The bright red paint of the shields, along with the golden heraldry of their cohort and legion were stained green by the gore that easily seeped out of the broken exoskeletons of the punctured drones. Orator noted grimly that these even seemed like the cat-sized terror ants of home. They may have been fearsome in numbers, but that did not make them clever or tact. Such primitive rush tactics were easily countered by the training and steel-cool countenance of the Legion and Auxiliaries. Marce noted with some pride that even Attius managed to wet his blade, as well as whet his bloodthirst, if the grin was any indication.

The auxiliaries screened the Legionnaires, and the Legionnaires screened the auxiliaries. It was a mutual protection, with the Legionnaires providing a physical shield that dwarfed the little round shield of the auxiliaries, and the auxiliaries packed javelins and speed to take care of the slightly more clever changelings who thought to bombard them with wretched green magic and goo.

After having cleared enough terror ant hives, Orator had hoped to be free from such repulsive bodily function. This was clearly not to be the case. He was peeved, but that was nothing compared to the war veteran that was Marce. There was no word in the tongue of men, pony, or other such race that spoke and dwelled on this Earth for the amount of rage that Marce felt. No doubt existed in Orator’s mind as to what Marce thought of these new invaders, but Orator would have to utilize and then corral the temper that Marce was building.

They met up with elements of the Equestrian Royal Guard, battered and bruised, but still fighting. Their spears and their armor was adorned with spatters of Changeling viscera, and Orator couldn’t help but feel relieved. The ponies could stand by themselves, but it was still better to have friends. They were rallied around the Center Square, where a statue of the Solar and Lunar Princesses stood in the dim light. Even from this distance, Orator could tell that they had sustained damage, with missing chunks of mortar and stone from both the base of the statue and the statues themselves. Fires that caught on random bits of debris and buildings helped to frame the scene in a bit of orange light. Standing at the center of the scene, and with an air of authority, stood Captain Flash Sentry. He helped re-raise the Equestrian banner, a white and dark blue flag with the sun and the moon on it. He noticed the incoming Remans and cantered to meet them. Nodding his head in respect, Marce asked, “What’s the situation, Captain?”

After a moment to clear the smoke-filled air, and a bit of clearing ichor from his armor, Flash answered, “Not good. The castle is still overrun, and we don’t know how the Princesses are faring.”

Before anything else could be said, a ray of pure sunlight erupted from Canterlot Castle, along with a bright blue beam of moonlight energy. It seemed to propel something out for quite a distance, before it recovered and dove. The distant figure was followed by the remote figures of the Princesses pursuing it. Orator manage to recognize the Changeling Queen as the trio of figures got closer. She seemed to want to fly low through the streets to make an escape. Orator couldn’t have that. He looked around, and withdrew something from his coat pocket. He pointed it at the oncoming Kingpin Changeling and squeezed a trigger. The bang that followed was itself followed by the ungraceful crash of an injured Queen into rubble. Green blood slowly seeped from her now many wounds, from the crunch of flesh that used to house her left wing to the scrapes and cut she had sustained from the crash.

Now, the once proud facade of pride and power that was Chrysalis was well and truly shattered. Her tears ran freely, as she feebly tried to crawl to safety. She cried out to her loyal subjects, cried out for her drones to come rescue her from death or capture.

But nobody came.

Slowly, Orator and the Princesses stalked the Queen, who had finally succumbed to the agony, and merely waited, trembling and sobbing. Orator traded looks with Celestia and Luna, each as battered as the Queen of the changelings. Their strength was almost spent.

Celestia was the one to approach Chrysalis, like a judge looming over the guilty. The battle regalia clicked on the pavement and crushed a few pieces of debris. Chrysalis, in a final moment of defiance, looked up at the Princesses with a stern look that was about as steady as a marble balancing on a knife’s edge.

Before Celestia could deliver what was sure to be a cutting speech, a red and dark crimson dragon crushed the residential block under its bulk by landing. Everyone was shocked into silence by the sudden entrance of such an impossible creature. It looked to be able to swallow other mature dragons whole. The teeth were the size of canoes, and the glittering of the titan’s scales was accentuated by the fires it had just lit. However, there was a pony who recognized her old foe, and she flew up to eye-level with the titan of a dragon.

“It’s been a long time, Ferroth,” Celestia said coldly. Her eyes were set, hardened as her heart against the formerly-exiled King of Dragons.

Ferroth, with a dark and rumbly voice that shook the air and the earth, said, “You are still as small to me as on that fateful day.”

Memories of an era past flickered across Celestia’s conciousness. She retorted, “I am no longer the filly you so easily terrified. You should have destroyed me when you had the chance. The Sun has never been yours, and will never be yours. You neither possess the power nor the authority to command it. Your allies will be defeated, and you will be defeated again.”

After that, Celestia raised the sun, signalling the new dawn that had arrived, and she framed herself perfectly against the sun, casting a shadow on Ferroth.

With a laughter that bore both mirth and genuine amusement, Ferroth said, “The war was not meant to be won by my lessers. They were merely the distraction. Now that your ally’s armies have been drawn from their homes, they will be burned to cinders and ashes. There will be no humans to save you this time.”

Ferroth raised his wings, casting a spell with his dragonfire. His own wings cast a shadow that covered entire destroyed neigborhoods, making the ponies within feel a literal presence of an oppression that this monster had brought.

And with a blink, Ferroth was gone. Celestia knew where he was going, and that she must stop him. She called on the Sun to revitalize her, heal her wounds, and to grant her the power to travel wherever she desired with the speed of light itself. This was usually taxing on her, but Celestia knew this was not a day to hold back.

‘To the Citadel, then.’

The Kingdom of Man was under siege again, and more of it was on fire than it had ever been. With the presence of dozens of adult dragons, and with the absence of the armies, the Ligia Guard had to step in. Even so, they were but few men. Ferroth arrived just before Celestia, their teleports bringing them to a ruined palace in the middle of a burning city.

For a moment, Celestia was frozen by the horror that had been committed. Buildings that had stood in defiance of invasion for thousands of years were flattened, and entire families lay slain in the street, by all means of death. Crushing, ripping, burning, and slashing. The dragons that now wandered the streets each had a taste for human flesh, and each savored the vengeance they had achieved against their long-time enemies.

Long lives meant that their grudges were etched deep into their very beings, and they were now destroying the Jewel of Mankind. They were even singing as they tormented what few remaining living souls there were to be found. The screaming of adult and child human alike could be heard as the dragons played with their prey.

They continued their savagery, but Celestia was forced to refocus her attention to Ferroth, the instigator of all this, who regarded her with a grin that only belonged to the sick and the demented. Celestia regarded Ferroth with an absolute contempt she rarely felt for any living being. He had discarded those traits that dragons would find honorable or just, and instead turned himself into something less than a nobledrake. Ferroth might look like a dragon, but in this instant, he more resembled a demon.

The standoff ended, however, when a flying brick nearly cracked one of Ferroth’s teeth. An event this unexpected threw Ferroth for a loop, even as the stone broke apart on impact, cracking a few teeth. Celestia wheeled around, and saw an impossible sight.

There, among the rubble, smoke, and blood... was Fatum Ligia.