The Siege Of Canterlot

"Blessed be those who risk all, blessed be those who lose all. Blessed be those who fall in the service of the Sun. Blessed be those who fight for Equestria and return home to their families. Most Blessed of all be our Princess, hallowed be her name, who giveth us the strength to endure the unendurable, to oppose the unstoppable, to defeat the unbeatable. Blessings of the Princess be upon you all, go in peace and carry her word with you. Praise the Sun."

"Praise the Sun!" came the reply.

High Ecclesiarch Amber Frost stepped down from the pulpit, another sermon completed. Ponies filed out of the chapel. Today's sermon had been about struggle and loss; Amber Frost knew that many families would, in due course, receive word that their relative, a brother, a son, a daughter, a mother, had fallen in battle with the Changelings. War, no matter how the propaganda might try to sanitise it, was a terribly dirty business, and the citizens of Canterlot had to be prepared spiritually for the results. Even with Celestia herself at their head, the Holy Army would suffer casualties. She could not prevent that. Nothing could. War without casualties was scarcely fit to be called a war at all.

"Excuwse me, High Eccwesiarch?"

Amber Frost looked up from his momentary reverie. "Yes, my dear? I would bend down, but my old bones are not as supple as they used to be..." he chuckled, looking down instead at the small green filly. "Hm...you were here last week, no? When the...when my...cousin was here?"

"Yes!" Meadow nodded eagerly as her mother looked on from the aisle. "Your cousin went off to fight...how do I know sh...he will be ok?" she asked.

"Well, my little filly," Amber Frost replied, patting her head. "Nopony can be absolutely certain. But the Princess herself is leading the army, and she will do everything she can to stop ponies getting hurt."

"But...what if the Pwincess gets hurt?" Meadow frowned.

"Again, that is possible. But the Princess is very smart, and very strong," Frost explained. "You need have no fear. She will return to us alive and well."

"You'we cewtain?" Meadow smiled happily. "Thank you, Eccwesiarch! Pwaise the Sun!"

"Praise the Sun indeed..." Frost chuckled. "Now, I think your mother is waiting for you, little one. Go and enjoy the day the Princess has given us."

"I will, thank you!" Meadow waved and scampered off to rejoin her mother. Frost smiled as he turned away. Celestia may have been away, but it was good to know that she still had such devotion among her young citizens. They would be the next generation. He paused for a moment. The cynic in him was saying that they would be the next generation to be called to die for Equestria. But, of course, it was never that simple. Sacrifice was necessary. The roots of Equestrian society had to be watered occasionally with the blood of tyrants and patriots, or else the whole tree would wither as some outside force marched in. In the past, it had been the Griffons or the Yaks or the Zebras. Right now it was the Changelings. The enemy changed, but, Frost thought ruefully, it was war itself that never changed.

Trottingham smouldered in the darkness behind them, a sinister glow in the southern sky. They may have caused it, but that did not make it any easier to see, for they knew they had left behind the bodies of friends and comrades, to say nothing of the city itself and what it meant for Equestria.

The outer line was breached, and the enemy, or rather enemies, were now pouring into the kingdom from the south, as well as from the east. There were two fronts now, not just one, which complicated matters greatly. That might not be quite so bad if they had been prepared for it, but there had been no warning of the impending attack, and the Equestrians had only had time to take the most rudimentary of preparatory actions on the southern front with the brief warning of but a week since the Changeling attack in the east. It had not been enough.

At least some ponies had escaped the fall of Trottingham, however. Captain Oats led her band of survivors north, through the darkened fields and woods, away from the city that burned behind them. The explosion of the powder magazine had spread burning debris onto the rooftops of dozens of other structures, and the city was ablaze, leaving the Shadow Army and their Changeling allies with an almighty mess to sort out before they could continue the advance. Throwing the enemy into disarray might just have bought them time to alert the nation and carry the word of the attack to the Corona Line. It would take time, maybe hours, maybe several days, for the combined forces of the enemy to regroup and form up, though no doubt scouts and raiding parties would be roaming ahead of the main bulk of the army, ravaging the land and seeking any war booty which they could claim, either for their own personal collections or to aid their comrades in the form of food, firewood or other useful supplies. They would be rounding up prisoners, too, or cutting down any who offered resistance.

The withdrawal from the barracks had been carefully timed by Oats. The building contained a basement connection to a sewer, one of the wide brick constructs that carried the waste of Trottingham's residents away. This particular sewer emerged above ground a mile north of the city in a gulley that fed straight into one of the small streams that dotted the landscape. Slowly they had withdrawn the outer perimeter, tightening it, as other ponies slipped away down into the sewer. Finally, those holding the line stopped firing and ran. All the while, the slow-burning fuse lit by Oats was crawling closer to the powder barrels. It had been a roll of the die that had no guarantee of success, for the enemy might have pushed on hard once they saw resistance was slackening, and overwhelmed the defenders before they could withdraw. They might have found the fuse and extinguished it before it reached its target. But they had not. The plan had worked perfectly, the only thing so far which had. Colonel Graves and the other fallen had sold their lives dearly, trying to buy time for the messenger Pegasi to summon help, but to no avail. Oats hoped that they could honour the memories of the lost by completing that mission.

Once they were out of sight of the city, Oats ordered half a dozen of the fastest Pegasi among the survivors to race ahead to the Corona Line as fast as they could, two to each fort. The message had to be heard as soon as possible, to give the defenders time to prepare and, perhaps more importantly, time to alert Canterlot, for it was the Princess or, in her absence, her advisors and generals who would have to make the vital decisions about the steps that would be taken. Every hour, every minute even, could be vital.

The rest of the survivors trudged north, staying clear of the road and any farm tracks they passed, navigating along the banks of the stream as often as they could. There were some sixty ponies in all, for that was all that was left of the defenders of Trottingham. The Corona Line was a hard day's march away, but they were not marching, but rather moving over fields, hills and through woodland, to try and steer clear of hostile raiders and search parties. If the enemy got wind of their escape they would likely hunt them down, but the explosion that destroyed the powder magazine had probably obliterated the sewer tunnel that lay just beneath. Hopefully debris would stop the enemy finding their way out any time soon; the Changelings who had entered the barracks were sure to be dead, killed in the blast. The enemy might well imagine the defenders had simply blown themselves up as a last act of defiance, rather than secretly sneaking away into the darkness.

Snapshot trudged along with the others. He had left his musket behind, stripped of all his equipment. He smelled like shit, literally, having crawled and stumbled through the darkened sewer, lit only by the narrow beams of light coming through street grates above; no matches or oil lamps could be lit as there was a danger of igniting the fumes that permeated the tunnel thanks to the decaying pony waste and the accumulated gasses it gave off. It had worked, though; they had escaped, and they were, at least for now, safe. They were also exhausted, and so Captain Oats called a halt in the depths of a wood. They settled down in the darkest part they could find, beneath the thickest canopy, and took turns sleeping, just a few fitful hours each, as dawn broke. They knew from following the stars they were heading north, but nopony knew quite how far they had traveled, or how far they still had to go to reach the Corona Line.

Snapshot got his head down, snatching some shuteye while he could, lying in the dirt. It was better than no rest at all, though it didn't do his back any good. By the time he awoke it was daylight, and they were in a sylvan wonderland, with golden rays of sun bursting through the foliage overhead. Oats was rousing her ponies and getting them back on the road. Some berries and edible leaves gave them sustenance. That was one benefit that pony armies had over those of the Griffons and Changelings; they could feed off of the land, eating leaves, grass, hay, anything they came across. The Griffons were carnivores, needing meat for a healthy diet, though they could live on a herbivorous diet if necessary, albeit at a reduced effectiveness. The Changelings could likewise subsist on regular food if they were in a survival situation, but they ideally needed love extracted from other creatures, either willingly through any action that provoked lust or romantic thoughts in the subject, or forcefully through rape, torture or simply through murdering the poor unfortunate, and draining whatever residual energy could be gained from its body.

Carefully, the ponies peeked their way out of the woodland. There was no sign of the enemy, and after consideration, Oats decided to continue the push onward in daylight. The longer they waited, the more likely the Changelings and the Shadow Army would overtake them and cut off their route to safety in their own drive north. The Corona Line was their next obstacle, but their ultimate objective surely had to be Canterlot. They could only hope their messengers had reached the forts so that the troubling news could be relayed to the capital. If the Pegasi had not gotten through, then it might be all down to Oats and her ponies, moving on foot, to pass the message on. As they slogged north, they could only speculate on what might happen next. Snapshot tried not to dwell on it for too long. It was not down to him, anyway. It was down to fate and the Princess. A short prayer in her name was all he could offer. The horizon offered sanctuary, if only they could reach it.