The Siege Of Canterlot

The first week had passed slowly; inexorably slowly, like walking through treacle, at least for those inside the walls. There was not much for many of the refugees to do except sit, eat, talk and pray. The able bodied stallions and mares were recruited as civilian helpers for the defenders, carrying ammunition boxes, bringing up the rations, and, importantly, working at night to shore up the defences. When darkness fell, parties of labourers would head out from the city gates to rebuild the earthen rampart where grenades had cratered it, resurrect fallen stakes in the palisade or hammer new ones in, and bring up more sandbags, sacks and timber for protection.

Two more enemy attacks had been repulsed, one coming across open ground, and another springing up from the trenches, which had been pushed out toward the city walls at a steady pace over the preceding few days. Watching them being dug from the wall was like watching and waiting as a storm cloud rolled in. Once the trenches had been dug, they could provide cover for advancing enemy troops and allow them to launch an attack from much closer range, which is exactly what they had done two days earlier, allowing them to assault the palisade without having to cross quite so much open ground.

For the civilians inside the walls, this was all something of an abstract concept. They could not see the trenches being dug; nopony was allowed up onto the walls unless they were one of the civilian assistants who was tasked with bringing rations, water and ammunition to the soldiers. Likewise nopony was allowed to leave the city unless they were part of a work detail. General Hawkeye and her military administration had taken over control of the city in its entirety, thanks to Starswirl's eventual, reluctant abdication of that responsibility. Things had been rapidly streamlined. All the refugees who had not already been found somewhere to stay were corralled into inns, guesthouses and even brothels, anywhere with beds or space for some blankets and pillows to be laid out. Food was sourced and distributed in a joint effort between the military logistics chain and the Priests of Celestia and their functionaries. Things were gradually improved until, by the tenth day of the siege, all of the problems facing the refugees and the remaining civilian population had been, for the most part, solved.

The Chapel of the Elms was a constant source of solace for many ponies. Like a number of other such buildings, it had thrown its doors open to the refugees, but it also still hosted sermons and gatherings of the faithful, who would come each day to hear the word of the Princess being preached by the Priests. As one of the most important such chapels, with one of the longest histories, it had been a logical place for High Ecclesiarch Amber Frost to continue his inspiring speeches, as he had done before the siege began. He certainly hoped that he could help to boost the morale of the city's inhabitants in a time of great crisis and fear. It was more than just his job; it was also his duty, for the Priests of Celestia were the spiritual advisors and confidantes of the public, monitoring and guiding them along the path laid out for them by their Princess.

Many of the refugees from some of the plateau villages- Newgrange, Bard's Crossing, Springpoint- had been relocated to the cloisters and outbuildings of the Chapel of the Elms for protection and accommodation. That, as Frost had learned when he had given his sermon in the Golden Cathedral, included the young filly, Meadow, and her family. Speaking once more at the Elms, Frost again found the green pony waiting for him.

"Hello once again, young one," he gave her a beatific smile. "How are you faring with you new life in the big city?" he asked her.

"It's...scawy," Meadow replied. Despite the gravity of the situation, she was still clad in a flowery summer dress, as befitted the season. Evidently her family had time to pack a few things for their short journey to Canterlot. "It's scawy but I know the sowdiers are here to pwotect us."

"They are indeed, child," Frost nodded. "But they are not our only protection from evil. First, we have our walls. Then, we have our weapons. But if all that fails, if all else is stripped away from us, then we shall still have our faith in the Princess. For we know beyond any doubt that after every night, there will dawn a new day."

Meadow smiled timidly. "I know you're right, Eccwesiarch. But it still makes me scawed sometimes."

"Well, fear not. for not only our faith holds strong, but our walls and our weapons too," he reassured her. "Our brave soldiers and militia will toil relentlessly until the city is saved. Of that you can be certain. Now run along, child. I must proceed with my next visit. The Chapel of the Yews. More ponies like you are waiting to hear from me there."

"Thank you, Eccwesiarch..." Meadow smiled a bit more firmly, and scampered off to her parents. Frost smiled and turned away from her. A moment later, his ears were filled with a sudden whooshing sound. He looked around in confusion, followed by terror a moment later as something exploded not very far away. There were screams from among the slowly dispersing congregation, who now began to stream in terror, some out into the streets, some down into the undercroft and crypt of the temple.

"Calm yourselves, fillies and gentlecolts!" Frost cried, using his stentorian voice to good purpose and booming out loudly, as he did during his speeches. "Orderly, please, keep it orderly! Do not push and crowd!" he begged, but only a few listened. Another whooshing sound filled his ears again a minute later, and this time, his world turned upside down. Something powerful knocked him flat to the floor, pumping the wind from his lungs like a boxer's best body blow. Where sound had surrounded him for a moment, now there was silence, but also the pummelling of a strong wind and a thousand needles, cutting into his flesh.

The Shadow Army's gunners were more than keen to open fire upon the walls and defences of the city, but their cannons could only hit what they could see. That limited their targets to the palisade, the city wall, the Bastions and ravelins, the cannons and troops emplaced there, and little else save a few of the city's taller towers that protruded above the skyline. To hit targets within the city itself, something different was needed.

That was where the Shadow Army's pair of enormous mortars came in. Like the cannons, they were simply metal tubes, loaded with gunpowder and used to project their payload, but the mortars were of a much higher calibre, and were not used for direct fire. Rather, they operated on a ballistic trajectory, lobbing their shells up and over in a graceful arc, allowing them to rain down hell upon an enemy who might otherwise deem themselves to be safe inside the walls of their fort or city. The mortars were used to hit anything out of sight- ammunition magazines, forming-up locations for soldiers, command centres or government buildings, or, as in this case, for indiscriminate fire into civilian areas of the city. The Shadow Army were firing blind, not even bothering with their Pegasi spotters, but merely tossing high-explosive shells over the walls in the hope of either hitting something important or just causing alarm, fear, and casualties among the soldiers and civilians alike, lowering their morale with a sudden blast of death from nowhere.

The first of their unaimed shells had struck some two city blocks away from the Chapel of the Elms, demolishing a storefront and killing a trio of labourers who had been loading a cart with grain outside. The second of the two mighty mortars, using the spire of the Golden Cathedral as its aiming point, managed to bring its shell down on top of the luckless chapel instead. The shell landed atop the tiled, sloping roof and exploded, showering the streets outside with shattered tiles and broken wood, killing a dozen of the congregation who had already left the building. The explosion tore through the roof and smashed the rafters, sending tiles, dust, mortar, brick and wood cascading down upon those who remained inside, crushing others under great chunks of plaster and thick wooden beams. A large gilded statue of the Princess crashed to the floor, bouncing and breaking away from its pedestal, but miraculously not hitting a single pony.

Amber Frost felt himself being dragged by something or someone, his lungs filled with choking dust. He could hear nothing except his own pounding heart, beating far too fast for a pony of his age. A shaft of bright light pierced his reddened eyes. This was it, then. He was dead, and finally moving on to the next life, to the Otherworld ruled over by the Princess. A lifetime of duty and faith had prepared him for this moment, and he softly smiled. He was coming home. A face appeared.

Not the Princess. A pony, yes, but not the Princess. A burly, handsome stallion, wearing the shoulder patches of the city militia. Then another face, one of the robe-bearers from the chapel. Then another; this time it was Meadow, the foal. Perhaps he was not dead after all.

Slowly, they sat Frost up, and slowly, his hearing returned. Water was offered and accepted, tipped gently into his mouth by the militiapony. Dust and debris lay all around, and coated Frost's vestments, mane and beard. More water washed his face.

"Are you hurt, Your Grace?"

"No, no..." Frost shook his head. He didn't think so, at least. "Just winded, that is all. And a little sore. A body this old is not meant to move so fast, voluntarily or otherwise."

He looked around. There were other wounded ponies; dead ones, too, laid out in the street. Medical teams from the hospital and military barracks were tending to those with the more severe injuries, while the rest were left to just sit in shock at what had just happened. Looking up, Frost could see a gaping hole in the roof of the chapel, gently steaming from around the edges. Much of the roof had been shorn of its tiled covering, the heavy lead chunks raining down into the streets like hail. There was death and suffering, but there was also luck. If the shell had struck a scant few minutes earlier, it would have wrought carnage akin to any battlefield. Much of the collapsed roof had fallen upon the pews and benches where the ponies had been sitting in their masses, listening to the sermons and speeches. By fortune, or the guiding light of the Princess, the pews had been all but empty.

A quick casualty estimate was written and sent to Starswirl and Hawkeye in the palace. The relief effort was under Hawkeye's jurisdiction thanks to her finagling with the mage, and her troops performed admirably, quickly relocating the refugees who had been housed in the chapel elsewhere, transporting the wounded to be treated, and arranging for the bodies of the dead to be quickly cremated; an outbreak of disease was not something any besieged city wanted, though it was a very common occurrence, especially as food or water began to run low. Canterlot, at least, had a plentiful supply of fresh water thanks to the Coltava River running through it, but death from any cause could easily lead to pestilence of not carefully controlled. For the same reason, the night-time labour parties that ventured out to repair the defences also gathered up the bodies, both friend and foe, for either cremation or mass burial. Some unscrupulous members of the civil administration had suggested simply tossing the enemy corpses over the side of the cliff, but Hawkeye had vetoed that suggestion outright with the maxim of Do not commit an atrocity against a foe unless they have already committed one against you.

Amber Frost was treated for minor cuts and abrasions. Despite being almost directly below the impact point, he was all but unhurt; a miracle, some said. It was a miracle too that the chapel had not been hit while at full capacity, where the toll would have been a lot higher than the twenty nine dead and sixty wounded. The mortar fire continued for another hour, striking random targets every few minutes; the mighty weapons took a long time to reload, as a dozen ponies had to use a combination of magic and brute force to insert a new powder charge and hefty explosive shell into the muzzle, which was elevated at a high angle for each shot.

The effect of the twin weapons was limited, but it was still a powerful tool in the arsenal of the besiegers. It may not inflict a huge amount of damage at any given moment, but it could heavily demoralise the defending forces and their civilian charges, and that was precisely what the Shadow Army were hoping to accomplish.