Afterglow: Tales of the Royal Musketeers

Afterglow: Tales of the Royal Musketeers

Lunch in Talonhoof

"This act of callous betrayal is nothing short of abusive. When the land was granted to them, it was explicitly stated that the colonies would fall under Equestrian jurisdiction. That they should seek independence now, in the aftermath of such a terrible tragedy, speaks only of the corrupt moral nature of these rebels." — Chancellor Neighsay; Canterlot, 1005 C.E.

The rain had begun not a quarter past midnight while the moon drowned under fat, water-laden clouds. It was early in the morning—very early, so much so that neither cricket nor bird were awake to sing, and naught but rats and cockroaches darted about in the shadows—it was a terrible twilight, stagnant and frightening. It was the only peaceful time Gemstripe could find.

Hidden away from the world with a piece of paper and an old pencil—in the attic of a rotting house on the banks of the river the locals called 'Amity'—Gemstripe wondered about the world, life, and a dead gryphon buried under a peach tree. The rain was soothing to his ears, the freshness of the air renewed, cleansed of all the filth the musketeers had carried with them, and all the native one too. Talonhoof was in ruins. The banks of the Amity had overflown a season or so ago, and most of the outskirts of the city had to be abandoned.

Talonhoof was now a lopsided thing, with its former center out in the open, along the new bank of a bloated river—surrounded by a hastily erected earthwork fortification, much like the one in Bleakbeak—and all its population resettled to its northernmost districts. A forest of tents surrounded Talonhoof. Equestrian soldiers on the South, refugees to the North. Fear and worry all around.

Gemstripe had tried to pen the same letter for the past three weeks, but the words never came. He thought after that first letter sent from Bleakbeak the process would become simpler, easier to carry out. Like loading a musket or forming into column—a practiced routine, a set of movements one could memorize—but if anything it just became harder. Up in the quiet of ruined Talonhoof, with nothing but rain, he'd hoped to find the words he needed. But the only thing he did find were cockroaches, rats, the cold, and a faint outline in the rain, fast approaching.

That outline was a pony, a courier if his speed was any indicator. He cut through the worst of the rain and raced down the gravel path—towards the house Gemstripe's squad had taken for a refuge—all the while being showered on by inclement skies. The letter forgotten, Gemstripe stood and walked down the stairs to meet the courier.

Gemstripe shook Drowsy awake while the others prepared.

"Wha-? Gemstripe? What's going on?" she asked, still half-asleep.

"We're going," he said, with as kind a smile as he could manage. He hadn't slept well since Bleakbeak. "Captain Stream Diver wants us for something."

"For what?" She stood and Gemstripe helped her with her armor. Drowsy was the youngest of them all by a good four years, and it showed—the coat of plates dangled loosely around her shoulders, and the belt didn't secure properly at her waist—her kettle-hat kept getting in her eyes as she tried to fasten it. "Gemstripe?"

He didn't know. None of them did, but he doubted it was anything good.

"You guys ready?" Sour Snout peeked through the door—armored and ready to go, her musket strapped to her back—dark bags hung under her eyes, but there was a sharpness to her that Gemstripe couldn't understand. "Sergeant Hefty is at the door and getting cranky."

They followed after her. Drowsy took a moment to glance back at the balcony behind them—ample, with a low railing and a brightly-colored mark at its center—it was a landing pad. She'd told them all the night prior over a bowl of oats and honey, when the evening had been bright and pretty over the Amity, and one could almost believe they were out camping for the weekend if they tried hard enough.

"My moms have one just like it in Manehattan," she had told them. "There's not a lot of room to land, so we build these outside our apartment windows. That way we don't have to use the stairs all the time." She'd demonstrated, too. A short leap from the railing, wings extended, and a perfect landing with the sun at her back.

Now it was dark. Even the moon was gone.

"Drowsy come on," Sour Snout called from beyond the threshold of the door, and the little pegasus looked away from the balcony.

"Coming!" She disappeared into the cold, moldy inside of the hallway.

They were joined by two other ponies at the entrance to the house—Pepper Crush and Cherrybeam—while Sergeant Heftyclef paced about and chewed on a thick chunk of tree bark. Everypony wore their armor, but Hefty was the only one with a set of pistols strapped to his chest, just visible under the coat of plates. He didn't have his musket, and in its place, strapped to his back was a short pike about half a pony's length.

"Leave those," he told them, referring to the heavy muskets, the fork-rests, and the bandoliers full of cartridges and bullets. He cast his eye about the room, until his gaze settled on Drowsy.

"Princess Drool." He said it in a flat tone, but enough to make the little pegasus cower. "What in Tartarus happened to your armor?"

"It doesn't fit me very w-well, sir," she said. Hefty arched an eyebrow.

"Oh, is that so? Come here."

They left the house after the rest of the squad had assembled. Fifteen ponies total marched in a column through the rain and the mud, until they reached the colonel's command center—positioned on a relatively dry and comfortable building on a hill—where Captain Stream Diver was already waiting for them. A dozen Royal Guardsponies stood at attention in tight formation on either side of the door, all fresh and perfectly clean in their gleaming, golden armor. How they managed, Gemstripe couldn't begin to guess.

Colonel Ambershine emerged not a minute after they had arrived. He was dressed in a resplendent cuirass, with knee-high boots, a black cape and feathered hat. At his hip he wore a mace, and a set of pistols of his own. His graying beard and mustache were trimmed, he looked well-rested, and all around in high spirits. Gemstripe couldn't help but hate the stallion, the Royal Guard, the captain, and everypony with access to a warm bath and a bottle of shampoo.

"Are we ready?" Ambershine asked nopony in particular. Gemstripe's captain, Stream Diver, nodded. 'Yes, sir,' and they were off to wherever it was the colonel wanted them. They marched in a column down the encampment, across the muddy fields, and towards the bridge that connected both banks of the Amity, and the road to Talonhoof.

All the way through, Gemstripe couldn't help but notice how eerily quiet some sections of camp had become. Eight thousand ponies were scattered throughout all those buildings, but if he glanced around, he could spot at most a half-dozen at once, though every fire was burning and candles were lit in every building.

At the foot of the bridge Ambershine bid the column halt. He summoned the captain, and promptly advanced with his royal guard close behind. Ahead, on the bridge, a group of gryphons and ponies in gambesons and crude chest-plates waited for him, with Talonhoof's flag lazily waving in the breeze. The worst of the rain had ceased.

Sergeant Hefty turned to look at Gemstripe, Sour Snout, Drowsy, Cherrybeam, and Pepper—eyes hard and cold under the steel brim of his kettle-hat, his expression lost behind the thick mustache and beard he wore—and he nodded once. All five ponies nodded in return, and Gemstripe gritted his teeth.

The wind then blew in their direction and carried the words being spoken just a scant dozen meters ahead on their end of the stone bridge.

"So you've reconsidered, Colonel?" the mayor of Talonhoof said—an older mare with dark circles under her eyes, and a burning anger for what Ambershine had done to Bleakbeak. Flanked by two large earth ponies in iron cuirasses, with a dozen or so gryphon and pony militia at her back, she stood her ground.

"I have," the colonel said. "Though it hurts to see this appalling lack of respect for Equestria and the Princesses, I am willing to negotiate your neutrality, Mayor."

"It's no disrespect to stand for life and peace," the mayor said. "Not that you'd know, Ambershine. You proved as much at Bleakbeak."

"Irregardless," he waved the matter aside, "you may have your peace. We will deal with the rebels on our own, you get to stay out of the war, so long as you- oh blast this cursed weather!" The colonel tightened his cape around his chest. "Surely there's a better place to discuss this, other than on top of a frigid river? Is there nothing that passes for comfortable in that dirty little town of yours?"

There was a pause.

"Why? I feel perfectly fine. We can discuss this matter right here."

"Well I don't. I am ill of this place, of you, and those creatures you surround yourself with so freely. I've half a mind to simply turn every culverin in my possession on those blasted walls and send this entire place the way of Bleakbeak if I have to tolerate your lack of manners any longer!"

A second pause, longer than the first.

"There is a restaurant just beyond the town gate," the mayor said, almost too low to be heard. "If it will please your delicate sensibilities, we can continue our discussion there, Colonel."

"Wonderful," Ambershine scoffed, and made to advance, when the mayor stopped him.

"But you're coming alone."

"Hah!" Ambershine stomped down hard on the stone bridge. "With you? With all these unpatriotic traitors and creatures roaming about? Do you think I'm mad? No, I think not. My guards come with me."

"No way I'm letting you lot inside Talonhoof," the mayor hissed. "You can bring your musketeers, but not the royal guard."

Now it was Ambershine's turn to pause, but he was much quicker to recover.

"Six musketeers, my captain, and four royal guard." His voice was a low growl. "It's that, or I can be escorted through the rubble of your gates by my entire regiment."

Talonhoof was a miserable place. It was filthy, it was wet, and everything was rotted or covered in moss. Each step closer to that gate was a step nearer a terrible sadness, a deep pressure in the chest and a want for something better. Gemstripe could feel that pressure, and he knew that desire—it had been there when he left home, when he'd glanced back to see the town that had raised him, and seen the exact same decrepit state that now accosted Talonhoof.

The world was rotting away. All magic had left, and it was like the very lifeblood of the planet had drained away. Everything was dying fast around them, and all they had left were the scraps that they now must fight over.

Sergeant Heftyclef, Sour Snout, Pepper Crush, Cherrybeam, Drowsy and himself made up the tail of the Equestrian procession that now streamed through the abandoned buildings outside the town walls. Captain Stream Diver, Colonel Ambershine, and four royal guardsponies made up the front—flanked on both sides by the Talonhoof militia and the mayor—while several gryphons and ponies followed closely from every angle. Crossbows, a few muskets, and clubs were apparent in every claw and strapped to the Talonhoof ponies' backs, but the Equestrians had only been allowed a weapon each, and no firearms.

Painfully aware of all this, Gemstripe and the others crossed that terrible threshold and portcullis into Talonhoof. The town seemed to swallow them whole, and when the iron gate fell behind them, it was as though some great beast had shut its jaws forever.

"The musketeers go no further," the mayor said. "You and your guards only from here on out."

Ambershine huffed, amused. "Alright. Where to?"

"This way." The mayor turned and led the way down the street, some hundred or so meters from the main gate. A wide, three-story building in the Canterlot style guarded the corner of Talonhoof's main street—painted a lively cream color, with a colorful rose garden at its front, and a cobblestone path leading into the entrance—where a hostess waited for them.

The colonel and captain disappeared into the town's innards.

Time passed painfully slowly. The six ponies waited, always aware of at least two dozen sets of eyes fixed on them—gryphon crossbows on the battlements above, pony militia barring the gate behind them—even the buildings and their shutters seemed to move every so often, and Gemstripe imagined hordes of rebels waiting within, waiting for an excuse to attack.

"Nerve-wracking, isn't it?" Heftyclef chuckled. The sergeant was leaning against the wall, eyeing the portcullis with discreet glances. It was a simple mechanism—a pulley system lifted the iron gate up into the gatehouse above, and two wooden pegs secured it in the open position—and the entire thing could be operated by two ponies on the ground level. Basic, mechanical, easy. "How're you holding up?"

"Just fine, sergeant," Gemstripe lied. He felt sick to his stomach, and unnaturally cold, though sweat covered him completely. "Miss my bedroll, that's all."

Hefty chuckled. "And how's the regiment's own princess doing?"

Drowsy didn't seem to hear him. She was staring dead ahead, pupils shrunk to the size of a needle's point. The weight of her armor was enough to make her sink slightly into the mud.

"Just a little longer," Hefty said, and Gemstripe thought he heard the slightest sign of trepidation in his voice. It was enough to make him shiver.

"Sergeant?" Sour Snout muttered beside him, and whispered something Gemstripe didn't catch. Heftyclef nodded sternly.

"Just a little longer," he repeated. "It'll all be done with soon."

Gemstripe sucked in a deep breath and held it. Any moment. Just a while longer. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the fields of his hometown—Hayside, beautiful Hayside with its crystal caverns and fields of golden wheat—so distant even in his own memories. There was mud in those immaculate streets, and a deep stench of sweat and steel where before there had been the warm smell of freshly baked bread. His parents' parting smile was fading fast in his memory, and he wished for the hundredth time he'd brought a photo along.

His thoughts were in his old bedroom when the gunshot tore through the air like thunder and shattered the pleasant fantasy. Reality came crashing down.

A spell fell on the Talonhoof militia. For several precious moments they simply stared, their breath stuck in their throats, and waited for someone to make sense of what was going on. The shot had come from the restaurant where the mayor and colonel were. It was those moments that made everything that followed possible.

"Now!" Hefty screamed, and tore Drowsy's coat of plates off to reveal a dozen pistols strapped to her body. Single shots, no reloads, and pray to Celestia the powder wasn't wet.

A second gunshot broke the spell, and a Talonhoof sergeant—an older unicorn in a rusty cuirass—turned to face the musketeers. He formed the first half of a word with his lips before Hefty's shot silenced him forever. The bullet tore off the right side of his face and bounced off his skull, exiting in a spray of gore from the top of his scalp. A spray of brains and gore showered the two militia behind him and blinded them. Moments, fractions of a second that made all the difference.

Gemstripe and the others yanked a pistol each from Drowsy's harness, even as Hefty readied his second pistol. The sergeant's face was pale and full of disbelief—the sight of his first kill forever etched into his eyes—and his hoof squeezed the trigger again, and the bullet tore through a gryphon's cuirass to bury itself inside her chest. Feathers and blood filled the air, and screams of panic and pain followed.

Sour Snout fired, and the pegasus nearest the gate mechanism dropped to the ground with half her throat missing. Cherrybeam missed her shot, and Pepper Crush shot off an earth pony's leg at the knee. Gemstripe hesitated—blinded by smoke and paralyzed by horror—he turned from one scene of death to the next, looking for a target, hoping against hope that he wouldn't find one.

All the while Sour Snout's words echoed in his mind like the screams of the dying.

'We'll have to. All of us.'

But could he do it?

The remainder of the militia fled from the gate, shocked and frightened by the suddenness of the attack. But the fight was far from over. From the walls above came the sound of hoofsteps and the shouting of the sergeants, and Hefty barked an order to retreat under the gatehouse passage.

"Drowsy!" he shouted, and the tiny pegasus raised her eyes from the corpse of the pegasi to meet the sergeant's. "Get the chain. Open that gate now!" He turned to Gemstripe and elbowed him hard in the ribs.

"Quit your daydreaming, trooper," he hissed. There was fire in his eyes, and a deep, primal terror. "Open that gate or we're all dead."

Gemstripe could barely feel himself nod. The next thing he knew, his hooves were on the iron chain and he was pulling for all he was worth. Opposite him was Drowsy, behind them were the others, and on the street were near two dozen gryphons and pony militia in a daze, watching the carnage and the killers with something close to awe.

There were no speeches, no rousing words or battle cries. Sergeant Hefty and Sour Snout gritted their teeth, leveled a fresh set of pistols at the crowd and fired. Cherrybeam and Pepper Crush followed. Corpses hit the mud, screams filled the misty morning air, and the Equestrian musketeers tore into the survivors with hammer, hatchet, war pick and short pike before they had the time to realize the war had reached them whether they wanted it or not.

All was chaos. Gemstripe felt hooves on his shoulders, and somepony dragged him away from the chain. He screamed and kicked, and watched as steel flashed over his head. Then a pistol shot erupted from behind, and the unicorn that was about to brain him with a hammer slumped over him, the back of her head blown off.

Cherrybeam dragged him back to his feet. Her eyes were wild and there was blood on her face. She said something, but Gemstripe couldn't hear her. His ears were ringing, his heartbeat was a storm in his head, and the sound of gunfire and clashing steel was thunder in the cramped gatehouse. Then she was gone.

He grabbed for the chain and began to pull, only to realize Drowsy wasn't pulling. He turned to where she'd been and felt his blood run cold.

A massive gryphon all clad in iron was on her, biting and scratching, tearing off bits and pieces off her coat of plates with razor sharp talons. The little pegasus screamed and lashed out without use, pinned down under the creature's weight, as it sought to gouge her eyes out with his beak.

Gemstripe's blood ran cold in his veins. Drowsy was little more than a filly, young and kind, with the whole future ahead of her. How anypony could think to harm her, he couldn't fathom. In a sane world this would never happen. In the old world. In a good world...

But this wasn't it. His hoof gripped the pistol he'd taken. Tightly. Splinters bit into his flesh, pain flooded his senses, but he didn't care. Tears welled in his eyes, but he didn't care about those. Something died in him as he squeezed that trigger, but he did so anyway, and after the powder had ignited and the shot had fired, he realized he didn't care about that either.

The bullet tore through the gryphon's beak, his cheek, and part of his eye. The burning powder set his feathers alight, and the wounded creature jerked back with a stifled cry—clutching at the wound, choking on his own blood as it pooled in his larynx—and he left Drowsy alone. The little pegasus cowered away from the wounded gryphon and covered her eyes with both hooves, bleeding from a dozen cuts all over her back and legs.

Gemstripe clenched his jaws and unsheathed the war pick at his belt.

"Sergeant!" he shouted, and Hefty broke away from the fighting long enough to glance over his shoulder. Gemstripe pointed to the chain left abandoned, and Hefty nodded.

The gatehouse tunnel was barely wide enough for four ponies to stand abreast of each other, but gryphons were wider, and there were three of them currently trying to get at them. Sour, Cherrybeam and Pepper could hold them. At least for a while.

"Thought you had it in you," the sergeant muttered as he stepped over the dying gryphon. Gemstripe didn't answer, and both earth ponies picked up the chains and began to pull.

With one final effort Heftyclef and Gemstripe pulled the iron gate open and drove the pegs into position. Talonhoof's underbelly was exposed, the gate was open, and beyond it stretched the muddy ground, the abandoned buildings, the distant silhouette of the Amity.

A scream shattered the spell. Behind them a gryphon had driven a hammer hard against Cherrybeam's leg, just under her knee. She collapsed to the ground, screaming and clutching at the wound. With a fiery determination fueled by fear and desperation, the Talonhoof militia rushed into the gap.

Weapons gripped tight in their hooves, Gemstripe and Hefty moved into the fray. The fighting had only just begun.

Every second stretched for hours. Not a moment passed by without the terror of death or injury burning bright in the forefront of Gemstripe's mind. Always, out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Cherrybeam on the ground, hugging her shattered leg as she wept—corpses all around, with blood pooling around their hooves as they fought.

They kept coming. One after another, an endless wave of similar faces and weapons of war, until it was all a blur and he couldn't tell where one enemy had ended and the second one began. He just swung, and dodged, and screamed until his voice was hoarse. Every so often he'd catch a glimpse of the others. Sour Snout, Sergeant Hefty, or Pepper. Never Drowsy or Cherrybeam anymore, not after a while. Just them, gryphons, ponies he didn't know, and the ever-present terror that he would make a mistake. They would surround him, beat him down and crush his skull with a hammer. This was the end.

Hooves held him by the shoulders and he screamed. Gemstripe turned, war pick raised, and stopped. It was Hefty.

"Stop, trooper," he said, short of breath. He was bleeding rivers from his scalp and his kettle-hat was gone. "It's over. They're running away."

The gatehouse was empty. The only living beings left within were them, a few badly wounded militia, and a rat that had scurried out of its hiding hole to take a bite from one of the corpses. Blood soaked the muddy soil, the walls where pistol shots had painted the rock and wood a dark crimson, and the discarded weapons on the ground. The gate was still open. They were still breathing. It was like waking up from a nightmare.

He was shaking. His hooves dropped the war pick and he collapsed. Gemstripe looked around, and saw Pepper trying to keep Cherrybeam's leg elevated, as the mare cried and bit down hard on her sleeve. Sour Snout was sitting by an unconscious Drowsy, tending to the worst of her wounds—long, deep gashes ran down the length of her back, many of them on the base of her wings—all the while bleeding from at least half a dozen of her own.

A burning sensation caught Gemstripe's attention, and he glanced down at his side. Blood matted all his fur from his hip to his knee. Something had stabbed him.

"I'm... bleeding," he said, and Hefty chuckled.

"Welcome to the club," the sergeant said and sat down next to him. "It's not serious."

"What happened?"

Hefty glanced out the gate towards the Amity. Gemstripe noticed the banners for the first time.

"We happened."

A tide of banners, flashing steel helms, and armed Equestrian musketeers met his eyes. The 1st Royal Musketeers had risen from behind the banks of the Amity and charged Talonhoof's open gate—the militia had scattered in panic, their captains and sergeants had fled into the city, and all the battlements and falconets were silent and useless. Now the path was clear, the gate was open, and all they had to do was wait. They'd done it.

"Not bad for a first mission, eh?"

Gemstripe didn't answer. His eyes felt heavy, his heartbeat was a low drum in his ears. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the advancing tide of eight thousand ponies, spearheaded by a company of royal guard carrying Equestria's banner. The last thing he heard was Colonel Ambershine's laughter, somewhere in the city, in his imagination, or from the very depths of Tartarus. He wasn't sure. He didn't care.

Talonhoof was theirs and he had earned his sleep.

The room was dark and cold when Gemstripe woke up. The hearth at its end was dying—its last ember surrounded by shadows, just barely hanging on—and a window's shutters had blown open. He shivered. Winter was just over the horizon and it promised to be feral and free, much colder and crueler than anything he'd ever dreamed of. Like the past five or so years, ever since it had happened. It was like waking up from a dream into some terrible nightmare.

He gasped with pain. His side was killing him—the bandages around his midsection were crusty with blood, and the skin around them was swollen something fierce—so that even the slightest movement stung like he'd been stabbed again. Gemstripe settled down on his cot and gritted his teeth, forehead matted with sweat.

"Easy there, Stripes."

He glanced to the cot on his left. It was too dark to see anything, but he'd recognize the outline of that cropped mane anywhere.

"Snoots?" His voice was hoarse, and his lips felt cracked and clumsy. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Stripes. How about you? Feeling any better?"

"Not really."

She chuckled. "Yeah, that's us alright. You've been out a while."

"Where-?"

"Hospital. Try to get some sleep, Stripes." She hushed him, and he got the sense that they weren't alone. Turning to his right, he saw through the darkness the faint silhouette of a small pegasus pony. Just in front of his cot he could barely make out the rough, bulky features of a large earth pony, and to the left of him, two others—one of them with her leg on a sling.

He nodded. "Night, Snoots."

"Night."

But sleep wouldn't come. Gemstripe stared at the emptiness above him—dark, terrible shapes moved in that emptiness, and his mind gave them form, movement, and voices—and in the blackest hours of the early morning he saw things in that darkness that he knew would never leave him. Things that were now a part of him, and would be there whenever the darkness pooled.

"Do you feel it too?" he asked. Seconds passed without an answer.

"Feel what?" she asked. The world felt deathly still.

He didn't answer. There was no real way to describe it, other than the vibration on his hooves, the stench of powder and the taste of iron in his mouth. Images, too. Like a film with nothing but a few dozen frames. Even as he tried to put it into words the whole thing escaped him.

"Don't think about it, Stripes. It's better if you don't."

He felt her turn away from him. He did too, and faced Drowsy's sleeping shape. The small pegasus pony slept soundly, her chest rising and falling with every breath. Her frame was smaller than before. Her left wing had been amputated at the base, and he could see the swollen stump every time the motion of her breathing pulled the sheets back.

Memories tightened his throat. A flurry of emotions overwhelmed him, but what shocked him the most was the one thing he didn't feel. The thing he'd been sure would haunt him for the rest of his life. Looking at Drowsy, asleep, breathing and alive he realized why. He turned to look at the ceiling again. Some of the darkness had faded away.