%I% The Island

  The legionnaire shifted his weight from one armoured hoof to the other, his legs beginning to burn after four hours of standing guard.

  "Stop!" The Pegasus noble shouted at his household guard. "You will find yourself in gladiator school very soon, with rotten behaviour like that!"

  The legionnaire nodded shakily and gripped his pilum tighter, rolling back his shoulders and straightening his ever gradually buckling legs.

  "A thousand apologies." The noble called, and turned back to the gathering, rejoinning the planning table.

  A few other nobles were gathered around the round table, looking at a map of the Empire. The legionnaire once again relaxed his posture.

  "This island." General Gladius Triumphavit pointed at a small island slightly off the coast of Mareidonium and her colonies.

  "That island," His advisor said mildly, "Is the nation of Jutland, surrounded by the harshest waters, drenched in rain all year round and buried in snow during its freezing and merciless winter."

  "Its ctizens? Do they know of us?" Julian draped the loose end of his toga over his shoulder and leant on the desk with a hoof.

  "No, we haven't communicated or traded with them yet, most surprisingly." The elderly advisor raised his eyebrows.

  "How could we not trade or communicate with a colony of our great empire for so long?" Gladius demanded to know.

  "No, no, this island isn't one of our colonies!" The advisor ruffled his grey mane and shook his head frantically.

  "What?"

  The room fell silent. The respective household guards visibly tensed up.

  "You mean it isn't part of our empire? This island in the middle of our territories?!" Gladius roared. "What will our neighbours think of us? The mightiest empire in all of Equestria afraid of one small island?" He drew his pugio and hammered it through the map into the table with a thwack, right where Jutland was drawn. Gladius turned.

  "Mobilise the army. Two legions should mince this puny island."

  Within a week, ten thousand and eight hundred armoured legionnaries and three thousand velites had boarded triremes and were well on their way to the island they had seen as a weak and puny nation.

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  "Da!" The small colt ceased his practice with his wooden sword to point a short hoof at the sea. His father, Ragnar Stonehoof turned to look at the sea.

  He saw ships, strange long ships resembling a long almond sailed towards the land. Three rows of oars pushed each of the ships through the choppy green water. He saw figures as well, figures to far out to see.

  "Bjorn! You're an archer! Tell me who you see on the ships." Ragnar shoved the tall and lean archer-bard forward, and turned his long face toward the ships. Bjorn peered. He could make out stallions armoured in plates of metal, highly different from the mail and leather he was used to seeing. Several of them were wearing helmets with strange red crests, and were all looking in the direction of where they were headed, toward Bjorn and the rest of the coastal town. A hard slap on his back made him turn.

  "So what do you see?" Ragnar impatiently enquired.

  "Armoured stallions, we haven't seen them before." Bjorn turned back to looks some more. One of the stalions in armour pointed towards him, while another stallion, armoured in only boiled leather, uncased a short bow and nocked an arrow. Bjorn stood and watched, wondering if they were thinking to loose at the town. A few heartbeats later the arrow whistled through the air to thump into the ground nearly fifty paces away from Bjorn. Ragnar looked at the arrow, and looked back at Bjorn.

  "We need to warn the city." Bjorn told Ragnar. Ragnar nodded and ran back into the town. He galloped first towards his home, telling whomever he passed what he and Bjorn had saw. Those who understood ran off, to tell more ponies of this approaching threat. Soon the town's stallions donned mail and leather, and strung their longbows