Quashed

Steelhorn walked back towards his home, his four shield-brothers following behind him. They knew not to talk, as their leader was absolutely fuming. All of the other minotaur clans had been given a worthy inheritance, allowing them a chance to take the crown. And what did the dying king leave in his will for the Hornburg clan? Two hundred gold pieces. To be split among five hundred soldiers. This was an outrage.

The bad news didn't stop when he arrived home, either. Word of the King's "gift" had already made it back to the castle, no doubt the work of one of the other clans trying and succeeding to sow seeds of discontent. They were met not with open arms and cheering for the return of their chieftain, but with a closed drawbridge and portcullis.

"Open the damn door!" shouted Steelhorn, throwing a rock at the gate guard. It would have landed, too, were it not for the sturdy construction of the gatehouse.

"I can't do that!" called back the gate guard. "Not until I see the deed of inheritance! Priestess's orders!"

Steel pushed his open hand back, taking a scroll from his lackey. "Here it is! A more insulting document, I've never read!"

The guard nodded, and with a loud crash, the drawbridge was lowered and the portcullis raised. Steelhorn walked across the bridge, posse in tow. He didn't greet any of his soldiers, in part because he was too angry to keep a civil tongue. It would be best if he were to have a night to rest, and perhaps a bath to cool his temper.

He entered the throne room, sitting down in his favoured chair. Three of his crew sat down in their designated seats, but the fourth rushed over to light the fireplace. He was sure they'd be there for awhile yet, and the warm, crackling flame was just what they needed to calm their nerves. Once it was roaring, he took his place, sitting next to his shield-brothers.

They hadn't been sitting for more than five minutes when the doors flew open. Steelhorn stood as the priestess entered the room. "Is it true?" she asked. "Only two hundred?"

"We've been cast aside," growled Steelhorn. "Despite our many grand successes, we've been constantly shat upon. We've loyally defended the king for decades, and what do we receive in turn!?" He grabbed the sack of coins and slammed it hard against the wall. Coins scattered everywhere as the bag burst. "Less than a week's pay for all of our soldiers!" He sat back down on his throne and rubbed his face. "For fuck's sake, we've slain dragons for this kingdom. In the past decade, two coups were put down to prolong his life. And despite all that we've done for him, he not only gave us the least of the inheritance, he gave us so little that it may as well have been a gift of his urine, to be applied directly to my face!"

The priestess nodded her head. "It cannot be denied that under your rule, we've prospered, milord. You've not only brought our mighty fortress back to glory, you've added to our farmlands by damming a river for irrigation. Crime is also down since your rule began. But it seems the old king hated you, regardless. Such is the case when all factions are at odds with each other, and your oldest foe is named the next king."

Steelhorn stood once again. "Not for long."

"What do you mean?"

"I've proven time and again that, despite being the third smallest, my army is the strongest. That makes me seem stronger. When I announce that I will be competing in the competition of kings, so many of our foes will bow out in their cowardice.

The priestess shook her head. "My lord, you mustn't join the competition."

Steelhorn scowled, stomped over to the priestess, and grabbed her shoulder. He towered over her, a rippling mass of muscle. "Why not?"

"Before you arrived, there was a messenger from Stormshroud. He came to laugh in our faces that we'd inherited so little, when they'd been gifted a third of the king's navy. We chained him up and tortured him, and he's revealed that there is a plot to team up against you. We all know you're the strongest chieftain applicable to the royal throne, but even you can't win a ten-on-one fight, especially if they play dirty, which many of them are known to do. If you try for the throne, you will die."

Steelhorn dropped his priestess. "What would you have me do? roll over and let the new crown fuck me over as the last one did? Let him try to wipe us off the map? We are a proud and storied clan! We've always faced adversity!"

The priestess shook her head. "Not this time, Steelhorn. This is too much, even for you. What's worse, our spies have reported back, and there's a plan to unite four other clans to eliminate us."

Steelhorn rubbed his chin. "Strormshroud, Northwind and Ashwolf, probably. What's the fourth?"

"Gemhide," replied the priestess. "If any of their chieftains take the crown, they'll have us branded as traitors and killed. If you or an allied chief become king, they'll wipe us out for sure. I fear this is the death of the house of Hornburg."

Steelhorn reached back and slapped the priestess across the face, knocking her to the floor. "You are a daughter of Hornburg! You will know no fear!" He turned and walked back to his throne, looking up at the tapestry behind it. "Despite my love for my homeland, it seems to have no love for me. It seems that if we stay, our line will die out. I'm sure the men will want to stay and fight, our legacy ending with us going down in a blaze of glory. We take out five for every one of ours they take, until we're all dead." He inhaled deeply, then turned around, facing his priestess. "Except, there will be no poets to tell our tale. No one will honour our memory when we die."

"Surely our allies would--"

"No. They'll either be annexed or killed. They're doomed without us around, and we're doomed either way. We'd need a secondary army to protect ourselves. At least three times the size of our current forces, and that's assuming they're just as powerful as we are. As there is no such force, we'd need, bare minimum, four thousand five hundred soldiers loyal to our cause, or at least easily convinced to join us."

The priestess stood up, and moved over next to her chieftain. "All of our allies combined couldn't supply that force. We'd need to look elsewhere. Gryphon mercenaries?"

Steelhorn shook his head. "They're ridiculously greedy. We can't afford their prices. Even if we promised payment on completion, and more than half of them died, we'd still be in over our heads."

"Hippogriffs?"

"No, they're too few in number already."

"Dragons? We'd need fewer numbers if we had soldiers that strong."

"I would rather die than have to pay reparations on all the invasions we've countered from their kind. Not an option."

"What about ponies?" asked Scrimshaw, the youngest of the shield-brothers. This outburst was quickly responded to with his older brother, Hardtusk, covering his mouth with his hand.

Steelhorn turned and strode over to his underlings, pushing Hardtusk's hand out of the way and glaring into Scrimshaw's eyes. "What about ponies?"

Scrimshaw stood up. "If we were to have the Equestrian army on our side, that's two hundred thousand soldiers. Even half of that would be enough, right?"

"And how would you suggest we pay that army, Scrimshaw?"

Hardtusk stood next to his brother. "What if we don't have to?"

Steelhorn took a step back. "Explain yourself."

"What if we were to conquer Equestria? As the rightful king, you pay the army through the citizens. Taxes, and such."

"How would we go about conquering Equestria?" Steelhorn asked. "As your brother pointed out, their army is four hundred times our size."

"We don't need to conquer all of their army," Scrimshaw said slyly. "We need only take control of the heads of state. If we can seize them, the army will be ours. Princesses Celestia, Luna, Twilight and Cadance."

The priestess spoke up. "If you were to conquer Equestria in such a way, and make it your personal puppet state, we'd not only be able to protect our home, but put an end to all the squabbling. House Hornberg will be on top of the world for as long as we can hold that power."

Steelhorn thought on this, making his way over to the window. He looked out over his men and considered his options. It seemed cowardly not to face this problem head-on. He felt as if he were running and hiding. He'd worked hard to be the chieftain of Hornburg, and he was about to lose it, and all the men he looked down at now were counting on him to keep them and their families safe. He turned back to his shield-brothers.

"Go pack your bags, have a bath, and sleep well, boys. Tomorrow at dawn, we make for Canterlot."