Oberoth the City of Kings, the Far West. Year 1282 Fourth Age, Third Era.
The sun dawned red and hazy on the third day of the battle. Columns of smoke boiled up to obscure the sky casting long swathes of the once-great city into shadow. Magic hissed and seethed in the air, twisting and twining around the thick walls and high towers to keep them strong and resolute against the Enemy's relentless siege. Ragged pennants, once proud blue and shining silver now faded and stained by dust and blood, hung limply from the towers of the inner walls.
Grim and determined, bloody and beaten, the Royal Guard held the walls against all assault. Archers raked the enemy with arrows, spearmen and swordsmen cut bloody swathes through those that managed to surmount the walls. The scattered remnants of the Moralinri Blademasters tore through the massed ranks of their foes, each one a whirlwind of claw and steel fighting with the skill and vigour of a hundred lesser men. Even the few remaining Battlemagi of the Aunidiel did their part, lightning and fire rained down upon the Enemy as they smote entire regiments, magic twisting and shimmering about them as those that were foolish enough to venture too close faced their blood-soaked Blade-Staffs as they vented rage and ruin upon all around them.
High above the burning city the few remaining Dragons bent their full fury upon the Enemy, descending with tooth and claw to rend them apart, swooping down to join their flames with the others that ravaged the broken spires and shattered temples. One, a lithe, sinuous example of her kind with scales of glittering emerald, dove too low and a ballista bolt struck her high in the throat. A fountain of boiling blood sprayed forth into the air, raining down on ally and foe alike as she writhed and clawed at the shaft, tumbling in the air as she fell. She struck one of the spires of the outer city, the edifice shattering and falling with her to bury her ruin and crush all those unfortunate enough to be in the path of her death throes.
*****
Erisad 'The Wise' Silverbrow, Scion of the Ancient House, Lord of the Six Bloodlines, High Chorister of the Great Choir and Last King of the Second Kingdom, stood upon the balcony of his palace watching his city burn, his people die, and not for the first time he felt how hollow his titles were and how bitterly they rang in his ears. He knew that his kingdom was doomed, that no matter what he did his people would never be the same again.
But by the Younger Gods they would not go quietly into the Shadow! Not whilst he still drew breath.
He turned from the smoke and the flame and walked back inside the empty echoing halls of his palace, his tail swaying behind him lethargically and his brown and grey fur hanging limp. He was handsome, or had been once before grief and sorrow had ravaged him. He was tall and lithe clad in a dark blue tunic with a red ermine-trimmed cloak flowing over it, his once-warm golden eyes had slit pupils and his high pointed ears twitched as the faint sounds of battle reached him even here. The feline king sighed softly and blocked out the noise, hands clasped behind his back.
The walls of his halls were bare, the statues and paintings and tapestries were all gone. All of the treasures and relics housed here had been taken to safety during the evacuation of the civilians. If nothing else he hoped to safeguard the history and legacy of his people, so that in times to come they would have the means to rebuild what had been destroyed. That brought little comfort to him as his steps echoed too loudly on the bare stone. He followed the route deeper into the palace from memory, thoughts too clouded to pay much attention to where he was going.
He was broken out of his dark reverie by bumping into the double doors that led to his personal chambers. He blinked and took a step back, golden eyes wandering the warm redwood that was decorated by the Tree flanked by the Twin Swords. The emblem of the Kingdom had been etched with silver with such artistry that it almost seemed as if the shining leaves were being rustled by the wind. He placed a hand on the doorknob, the faintest ghost of a smile on his face. No matter his sorrows and worries he always felt some measure of comfort and peace here. The doors opened soundlessly with the merest push and he stepped onto deep red carpet that muffled his footfalls. He crossed the sitting room, passed the empty marble fireplace and the comfortable chairs where he used to relax after a long day with a glass of brandy and a good book.
He entered his bedchamber and for the first time that day a true, genuine smile lit upon his face. The sight of her never ceased to light that fire in his heart and chase away the darkness that clouded his mind. No matter if she was laughing or singing, raging or crying, his wife brought him peace and contentment.
But still, worry wormed its way through the momentary peace as he approached the bed. Her fur was lank and dead, the once bright gold and soft cream had lost its lustre and the light had fled her shining sapphire eyes. The poison she had taken to force her body into labour, so that she could give birth to their daughter early and send her away with the refugees, had taken a toll on her. Though perhaps some of her appearance was down to grief, giving up her daughter within minutes of giving birth to her, to protect her. To save her.
Despite her illness and all she had been through she still managed to smile warmly as soon as she laid eyes on him and raise her head, "N'eiala," she said softly, "We don't have much time, do we? I could feel it, so much power. So beautiful... so terrible," she leaned up and wrapped her arms around him, burying her head in his chest, "Wait for me Erisad. It might be a few days until... until they reach the palace... but you will wait for me?"
He pulled her close, stroking her hair gently, "I would wait forever for you, my love. We'll stand hand in hand before Ilaris' throne in the Silver Halls and when she judges us... we'll go together. We'll wander the Twilight Paths together, I promise you that."
She pulled away from him a little, cupping his cheek in one hand, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears, "Then go Erisad Silverbrow, Son of Kings, go and complete the Great Spell, summon the Elder Races to war and save our people." Her voice was strong, unyielding, the voice of a queen. The voice of his Queen.
She had sacrificed so much, given everything to preserve their kingdom and their legacy. Now it was time that he did the same. He stood up and bowed his head a moment to steady himself, "As my queen commands," he said softly, "But... but before I go... Emerielle... our daughter... was she... what was she like?"
She bit her lip to stop herself from bursting into tears, but eventually she managed to force out an answer, "Beautiful. She was beautiful. Perfect. She will be safe, I pray that she will be safe. If the others come, I know she will be."
He nodded, "For her then, I'll cast the Spell. Even if I can't... even if all else fails I will do everything to keep her safe."
Silence fell. There were only a few words left that they could say, but they were the hardest they would ever utter.
Harder than ordering men to their deaths.
Harder than declarations of war.
Harder than admitting how deeply they had felt for each other so long ago.
"Goodbye Emerielle... my wife."
"Goodbye Erisad... I love you."
"I love you too."
He left without uttering another word. He didn't dare hesitate a moment longer, he knew his courage would fail him if he lingered.
He closed his ears to the muffled sounds of sobbing from behind the door.
*****
He ascended the steps of the tallest tower of the palace, located at the exact centre of the main building soaring high above the dome directly above the throne room. The great spire was the oldest structure in this, the oldest of cities. A triumph of engineering and magic from a golden age long lost. The stones hummed with magic imbued down to the very atoms with wards, sigils and spells. There was no need for torches here, the stones themselves glimmered with ethereal light.
If the tower was a marvel then what greeted him at its apex was truly a wonder of the world. Levitating above of a floor of smooth obsidian at the exact centre of a circle of golden runes and the flowing, cursive script of the Ancients was the Great Beacon. A huge crystal twelve feet tall and seven wide with a flickering flame of barely-constrained power burning in its heart. The Nexus of the Beacon Tower Network, the greatest achievement of his Honoured Ancestors. In the distant past this crystal had been at the heart of a network of towers spread across the world each bearing a lesser crystal. Surrounding the circle in a ring were twelve of the most powerful magic-users in the Kingdom. He had called upon the entire Conclave of Archmagi to aid him in the casting of the Great Spell.
Arrayed around the edges of the room were statues of varying antiquity, the oldest was thirteen thousand years old and depicted the proud visage of Erisad's distant ancestor Telar the Unifier who had reunited his people and founded the Second Kingdom, and there were so many others. Tlarik Lightningspear, Iraesha the Mad, Caer Silvertongue, Tamaer Farseer, Erisad's grandmother Amlia the Black, his father Maelin the Veiled and even his own face looking down upon him with twinkling eyes and a knowing smile. Thirty four kings and queens looked on in silent vigil as he and the Archmagi prepared to weave a spell that few knew was even possible.
The Beacon Towers had once allowed instantaneous communication between any node in the network, binding together a vast empire and the great kingdoms of the other Elder Races. Legend held that magi of great power could even travel along the network, traversing vast distances in an instant. But that had been very long ago, before the Great Cataclysm had destroyed the First Kingdom and reshaped the world. Most of the network had been destroyed and what little survived the wars, earthquakes and the inrushing seas had been sundered by distance so that even if other towers remained far across the sea the magic of the Nexus would not reach them. At least, that was what was commonly thought.
A way did exist to reunite the shattered remnants of the network for a brief time, long enough for a cry for help to be sent, but it was magic of such complexity and power that it would take a full Choir of Archmagi to cast and even then the one who focused the spell into the crystal, the Chorister of the Choir, would pour all of his magic and life into maintaining and directing the terrible magic. It was by no means certain that all of the other casters would survive either.
Erisad stepped forward to the place of honour at the head of the Choir and the assembled Archmagi bowed their heads in respect. They all knew what had to be done and the cost of it and they would waste no time for empty words of solace. Their heads rose as they stared deep into the crystal's flickering heart, their minds clearing and attuning to one another.
Peace settled upon the king as he lifted his voice high and began to sing, drawing deeply upon his inner wells of magic and directing it into the crystal before him. One by one their voices joined him, strong and deep, lilting and pure, soft and subtle. Each one sang a little differently, weaving a different part of the spell into a delicate harmony. He could feel the streams of power flowing into him, through him, carrying him like flotsam on an inevitable tide as they surged into the lattices of magic contained within the crystal.
The singing grew in strength and complexity, voices rising and falling and weaving together. Erisad's voice rose high above the others as the flickering flames within the crystal danced higher, brighter, the fire reflected deep in his own eyes growing to fill them with ethereal light, "By Blood and by Bone, by Honour and by Duty do We invoke the Pact. We who were First, We who brought thee out of darkness and bound together the Six in the name of Harmony. We who shed blood with thee, We who suffered and died beside thee. We call to thee to honour thy allegiance!"
By now the crystal's fires had grown so bright that it hurt to look upon, the light pulsing steadily like the beating heart of some great animal, waves of magic rolling down upon the assembled magi whipping past their robes and radiating outward from the tower. They could all feel it as the Nexus connected one by one with its lesser siblings. First were the Beacon Towers of the Second Kingdom the last remnants of the network on the continent, and then seeking outwards using the combined power of all of the crystals slaved to it, extending its reach far across the oceans.
A jolt ran through all of them, almost sending them to their knees as a connection was made... south. A flash of steaming jungle, a city grown from living trees, ethereal lights flickering to and fro. A rounded furless face, delicate and pale with high cheekbones and large, luminous eyes opened wide with shock.
Another jolt, another connection... north. Jagged peaks clawing at the sky beneath grey skies and one immense mountain rising far above the lesser peaks surrounding it, the tallest and greatest mountain in the world, its high summit brushing against the very firmament above, its deepest roots delving into the fires at the heart of the world. Deep within the mountain's heart a glimmer of night-dark scales and then one huge eye that consumed their vision. Reptilian slit pupil, the eye coloured gold, fire flickering in its depths. Instinctively they all took a step back from the crystal, bowing their heads low. Legend spoke of this being who lived in far-off Dragonholme. The Great Wyrm Faraclaw the Terrible, the Father of all Dragons.
A third jolt, yet another connection was made... east. They saw a shining city of a hundred colours, spires and towers reaching proudly to the sky as it jutted out from the side of a great mountain, water falling off of the great precipice to thunder down far below to a wide plain. High in one of the towers, an astonished face. A long muzzle, fur a dazzling white, a long spiral horn sitting proudly on her head and two wings flared out in shock on her back, an ethereal mane streaked with the colours of dawn flowed and billowed behind her in a non-existent wind.
Nothing happened for a long moment as they waited for another connection to be made, but none came. Perhaps the Beacons of the other two Elder Races had been lost... perhaps they themselves were gone. It didn't matter, they had connected with the Alicorns, the Fae and the Dragons. The Second, the Fourth and the Sixth. It was time for the final part of the spell.
Erisad drew himself up to his full height, pouring all of his strength into the crystal, all of his fear, his pain, his regret, "I am Erisad son of Maelin son of Amlia, and I call to you now in desperation. The Citadel of the Dying Sun has fallen and the Enemy pour through the Western Pass in numbers beyond counting, my people are dying, our homes burn. Even now the capital lies besieged and half of my Kingdom has been lost. The Second Kingdom is doomed, but I beg you to send aid! Save my people, grant them your protection, help us retake our lands, rebuild our homes. In the name of our alliance of old, I beg you aid us! In the name of Harmony, in the name of mercy, I beg you aid us!"
The connection was one-way, it would take many more magi than he could spare to establish a two-way link across such vast distances and he knew that others would certainly die from the strain, "I know that you cannot reply to me, I know that I ask much of you though our peoples have been sundered from each other for millennia, but please... please help us. I am burning up the last dregs of my strength to send this message, I am sacrificing my home, my life, my wife, my chance to see my daughter for the first time, to see her grow up, to see my son take up my mantle, to ask this of you. In the name the Twelve I bid you send us aid."
He could feel the threads of the spell unravelling as one by one the Archmagi withdrew from the spell to stop it from draining the last of their strength and so kill them too. Erisad hung his head, "My time is done. I have done all that I can. I shall hold my head high before the Silver Throne of Ilaris and before my Ancestors... even if you send no help to us... then remember us. Do not let us be forgotten," the last thread broke and he could feel the swirling surge of magic as it gathered within him and pushed into the crystal one final time to sever the connection. As the magic drained out of his body he realised, with a start, that he was already dead. That his heart lay heavy and still in his chest, that it had stopped as the first rush of power had flowed through him at the beginning of the spell.
Many of the Archmagi were utterly exhausted and trembling, swaying on their feet. But none of them fell, none of them had died. They all looked to him, they knew he was dying. One stepped forward and bowed his head, his robes of purple and silver denoting his status as the Grand Archmage leader of the entire Conclave, "An honour, sire," he said softly, "Go in peace."
Erisad smiled sadly and nodded once, he could feel himself slipping away slowly as the magic that had sustained him throughout the spell faded. He steadied himself and closed his eyes, reaching for that place of perfect peace and serenity that he had found when studying the martial arts of his kind long ago, a place that allowed him to weather a tide of intrigue and emotion in his time as king and grant him the clarity to give fair judgement. He would face his death with dignity and serenity, as befitted a king.
Despite their fatigue the men and women around him gathered and began to sing softly, a gentle lullaby to sing him to sleep. An ancient tradition of his people from long before even the Second Kingdom's founding, the Elegiac Song that would be sung as a person died and carry on without pause until they were laid to rest. Every song was different, each singer sang from the heart and yet despite this the Songs had always been harmonious and haunting in their beauty. He recognised the words dimly as his vision flickered. The words of the Prayer of the Dying.
O Ilaris, Queen of the Night, judge him well and with true justice
O Senura, Guide and Watcher, illuminate him with Your blessed light and obscure not his path
O Tara-Menil, Beloved Protector, shield him from darkness and evil, comfort him on the hard path
O Revered Ancestors, look into his heart and see the truth of his deeds, judge not harshly of his words
O Tia'Ren, Celestial Queen, he is penitent of sins and stands purified, judge fair and wisely Your servant and allow him to remain in the Celestial City
He releases his soul to You and asks for peace
His legs gave out beneath him but he felt one of the Archmagi catch him, cradling him gently as they sang. Darkness claimed him, their song faded. His last thought was of his wife, I'm waiting, Beloved, I'll always wait... for...you
*****
Canterlot, Equestria, Year of the Sun Triumphant 705
Far across the grey wind-tossed eastern seas, far from the dark cloud of war and the final moments of a king, the shining land of Equestria enjoyed its seventh century of uninterrupted peace and prosperity. Harmony ruled from far shore to far shore, from the tall mountains to the deep valleys, radiating out from the magnificent city of Canterlot like the light that poured forth from the sun.
In her study in the highest tower of the city Princess Celestia Regina Solaris, oldest and most powerful of the remaining alicorns, the Eternal Sovereign of Equestria, Mistress of the Sun and Moon, sat in quiet contemplation. A crystal half the size of a pony lay on her desk. Moments ago the ancient relic had burned and blazed with light for the first time in millennia, carrying with it a desperate plea for help.
She had felt the fear and sorrow of the one named Erisad, she had felt the life slipping away from him slowly as the spell consumed him. She had a choice now, she could send her little ponies west to a far foreign shore to fight and die for her, in the name of an alliance ancient and forgotten even before ponykind had come to be. Risk the scars and memories of that war lingering long after it was done and potentially disturb her carefully-laid plans.
Or she could ignore the call. Equestria would continue in harmony and peace for hundreds of years more until her sister's inevitable return... and her plan could go ahead without deviation and disruption. Equestria would gain an even greater protection than her own and she... she might have her sister back. But was the price worth it? The suffering and death of thousands that she might be able to prevent?
What meant more to her? Her sister and her little ponies, or the cries of far-off innocents?
Celestia sighed softly and bowed her head, "Harmony forgive me..."
She made her choice.
