Make The Most Of The Night
The rebel held areas of Equestria were variable in their construction and composition. Whole, living, pre-war-style villages had been established, deep in their territory. Border areas were usually sentry posts, Diamond Dog listening fields and other fortifications most often decorated with the rotting parts of defeated caribou, solidly demarcating territory that was absolutely not theirs.
The larger part of the refugee living areas were large, Dog-made underground chambers, lots of dorms, common areas, ration stores, growing sections. Not exactly terribly hard living but they were still refugee sites, places where the escaped and displaced could live in relative safety and freedom. Not everyone could be or wanted to be a soldier. Being so, they weren't quite the places that were expected to host anything like a large party.
Nevertheless, one had been arranged, and by The Black Knight himself. Inside an old warehouse on the shore of a large lake nearby to Refugee Habitation Quartz-Topaz-5-Feldspar, the party was swiftly coming together. Volunteers had already cleared the old stock from within and carried off anything of any value to the war effort. The floors had been swept and laid with areas of rug. Electrothaumatic systems had been checked for stability and used to power the various kinds of lights being put up around the place. Power was also being run to a truly impressive, wildly glowing sound system, with massive amps, a large mixing board, tables for records, and a digital input area. Tables were being placed near the back, as well as a long bar with stools, beverages being stacked behind it.
The Black Knight stood, deftly perched on one of the catwalks above and observing the whole scene. He softly hummed a little tune that had been made before the invasion. He hopped between platforms and bare metal supports, looking over every aspect while he mumbled the lyrics to the song. “Beat of the drums... make the most of the night...”
“We had the radio in the Kingdom back before the civil war, slíbhín,” a voice said. Maureen sen Kate O'Bald alit on one of the metal beams near to the Black Knight, the RGA griffiness in her casual attire of a green linen jumpsuit marked with the Sinn Bean unit insignia. “Mighty curious ya singin' that. Mighty significant. Can't believe ya'd do this.”
The Black Knight didn't respond at first, giving one last glance before he leapt to a support beam and slowly slid his way down to the floor. “Believe what you want. Think what you want. I have reasons you don't yet fathom. But I remember the way it used to be. Grim but necessary. Necessary but grim. One cannot stop when it is absolutely right.”
“An' who decides it? Who!” Maureen swooped down to confront the retreating earth pony, getting nothing but silence for her trouble. “Is it you? Who made it you, slíbhín? Who made it you?”
“I did,” the Black Knight responded, looking over the beverage stocks and nodding to a volunteer that looked to him. “By virtue of something you know very well, it fell on me. I didn't relish making the choice. I had to. It was imposed. Make the choice or live with the consequence of not making it.”
Maureen seethed and turned aside. “This isn't how war is waged. This isn't right.”
“It's not, not in the slightest. It's a new war, a terrible war. The conquerors are monsters and they make situations that are monstrous. They force us to do things that should not be done, make choices that are ugly. But ugly as they are, there's worse still,” the Black Knight insisted, finally walking out of the warehouse completely and leaving Maureen shaking her head.
With nothing else to do, Maureen took to moving tables and helping with stocking the bar. “Oi, you, you think this is much of a thing?” Maureen asked of one of the earth pony volunteers.
The pony shrugged. “It's a party. That's a thing I guess. What's wrong with that?”
“Party, aye... party...” Maureen sniffed and snorted as she moved the table.
With sufficient volunteer forces the whole place was set up and ready for everything by the time the sun went down. Though the space was relatively large only a handful of folks were let into the party, all of them being relatively young, from just barely teens to a late high school pony. A mix of races, fillies and colts. They looked on the party space with a sort of awe. Having been exposed to parties during intensely memorable parts of their lives they had missed it greatly in the interim. Only one, a surly-looking orange-colored earth pony, looked entirely unimpressed with the whole matter.
The Black Knight was all smiles as he spread his arms, radiating his old huckster charm. “Welcome! In thanks for everything you do, everything you intend, this little party has been put together just for you! Enjoy it! Take all the time you want. Tonight, is all about you. Make the most of the night. Tomorrow...” The features twitched, but he hadn't smiled at a monster and kept going for nothing, he was rock solid. “Tomorrow is tomorrow. Tonight is yours!”
The various teens cheered and ran off to start dancing or picking at the food. A huge red earth pony colt approached the bar. “Liberte! Give me some vin, ami. It is the night...”
The blank-faced stallion behind the bar looked for a moment and reached for a bottle of grape soda. “Caribou apocalypse or not, you still can't give booze to foals. Enjoy.”
“What we do is not for foals...” the Percheron colt grumbled into his grape drink.
Another rather large teen, a pastel pink unicorn filly, knocked on the bar. “Let me have one of those. Don't look so sour, Oiseau. Why would you even want wine? Tomorrow will be no good if your head is pounding.”
“In Percheron they say in days of old they toasted to life. A small sip would be no harm to me, look at my frame, Glitter Clasp, and say it could not take a sip,” Oiseau said, motioning at his robust red form.
“I don't care. Tomorrow, you're by me. I don't need you missing a single step, I have to have you perfect,” Glitter said, taking a rather aggressive chug of soda.
Though he looked fairly grumpy, Oiseau twitched his ears and his head flicked around to the dance floor. “Qu'est-ce que c'est? I know this music! Can we dance to this?”
Glitter rolled her eyes but offered her hand anyhow. “Only because I'm the only one your size and you dance like a crashing qarray eel. I can at least survive dancing with you.”
As told, once on the dance floor Oiseau became a flurry of arms and legs, his dancing style best described as strictly Discordian. Glitter managed to be beside him, occasionally getting bumped by parts of his body that were not shod in iron or thrusting at high speeds. She also giggled as he went on, as he sang along to the song, but in Percheron. “Dernier vol! Je donnerais volontiers ma vie pour une nuit en tant qu'acolyte de la justice! La lumière ne brille que pour les aveugles! Échapper au rêve infini de l'espace, des mers noires que je ne peus pas naviguer!”
“I'm gonna be the best tomorrow!” A younger teen unicorn colt boasted. He was a skinny one, off-peach, standing up with a hand thumped to his chest.
“Spare me, you've never been the best at anything,” a filly said with a roll of her eyes. She was essentially identical to the other, save for the shape of her head. “Don't try that with me, Peachfuzz, I had to live with you.”
Peachfuzz huffed and waved his hand dismissively. “I said to call me Buzzcut! It's cooler.”
“It's all fuzzy to me,” the filly giggled.
“I said I'd call you Rocksteady! That sounds better than Peachy Pit! This is a whole new world, and we gotta be hard for it,” Peachfuzz asserted.
“No, you heard the Black Knight's speech. We have to be resolved to it. If we become hard then what are we fighting for?” Peachy asked.
“It's just like the comic books, or the movies, or the stories from rebel battle lines. I want a story like that, I want to go out like someone famous, a hero! Like Vital Monsoon or Zayats Volk,” Peachfuzz grumped.
“You don't want to go out at all, you should want to go back to normal, to make sure we can see the moms again, have candy and cake and have fun, like this,” Peachy countered, sweeping an arm to indicate the party.
“Having fun won't make all that happen,” Peachfuzz asserted with a stroppy tone and petulant pout. “We need to be able to fight it out and get rid of all of them.”
“That's why all the other rebels are here. They're the heroines and heroes. Not you,” Peachy said with almost a scoff.
“I still want to be just like them. I can be a hero too,” Peachfuzz grumbled.
Other teens availed themselves of the accommodations, dancing and snacking and having a very good time. Set aside from all the rest was an older teen looking out on the party almost petulantly. He sneered and scowled at the others enjoying themselves. His mop of a purple mane fell almost over his narrowed eyes and his orange body was almost fully covered in a fitted heavy cloth Gambeson suit with steel rivets in critical areas. He slouched by the door, arms crossed, ears flicking to the music, actively matching the rhythm. However much he seemed to be trying to be aloof and disconnected from everything, his body gave him away.
It took him a few moments of brooding glaring to notice his own body betraying him. A small, frustrated snarl made him stomp a hoof, trembling as he fought to control his body. He went still, arms crossed over his chest, hands clutching his own arms as he fought the influence of the jaunty music and happy atmosphere. He held out as long as he could, but he was failing. He turned away from the festivities and skulked out the door.
He didn't get very far before a voice spoke from the darkness, smooth and easy. “Don't you forget, we had a deal. So... where are you going, hm?”
“This is stupid!” The teen quickly blurted, turning to face where he thought the voice had come from. Nothing. Turning in other directions delivered the same nothing. Simple emptiness.
A tap on his shoulder made him jump and reflexively punch at where he expected someone to be. No one there, but his fist was caught all the same, squeezed hard in a killer's hand, warned what could happen. “They're not as smart as this. Not as inclined to trickery, cunning and craft. They think good technique and skill is a womanly trait. So it keeps working. But you're lucky there.”
“Ow! Let go! Let go!” The teen colt shook his hand and blew on it, glaring daggers from under his purple mop. “Fine! I get it! You're all mysterious.”
“Answer the question,” the Black Knight said, still light, still smiling, his eyes hard as diamond and just as cold as the glittering gems. “We had a deal. Where are you going?”
“I don't want a stupid party! I want what we agreed!” The teen shouted.
“I am a stallion of my word, if you can believe it,” the Black Knight said. “You had everything already, all you could have wanted and even more. You have to remember it well. Everything. Delivered, assembled, taught, just like I said. But it comes part and parcel. Every last thing, not excepting a single thing. Every last ring, scale, plate, rivet, screw, hour of work and any thing offered and accepted by the lot of you. Every. Thing. No exceptions.”
The colt was silent a bit longer before he blew out a nickering puff of air. “I guess you snuck in that part too, about the party. Tricky, stupid...”
“Hardly snuck. It was well agreed to,” the Black Knight said with a laugh. “The others wanted it. And really... needed it. One more night of just being. Existing as you are. It's not a burden for you, it's a gift for everyone. To make up for the heavy burden of the other things I gave over to you with an open hand...”
“Fine!” The colt shouted, cringing a little bit despite the Black Knight never changing his expression. “Fine... I'll go back in... I'll make nice... but tomorrow...”
“Exactly as agreed,” the Black Knight said with a nod. “All that you were promised will be given to you all.”
As agreed, the colt slipped back inside the space, still snarling but trying to be less obvious about it, not letting any of his peers see that he was having an awful time. He just went to the bar and slouched against it. “Just give me something. Whatever's there.”
Maureen was there at the moment, taking a drink from a bottle that very much was not foal friendly. She reached down and brought up a bottle of apple soda. “Hardly be blamin' ye fer the sour look ye keep, young one.”
“Like you would get it,” the angry colt said, his mind and tongue on autopilot, the rational part of his brain realizing how stupid he sounded a long, painful moment later.
Maureen only chuffed and took another long nip of the craythur. “And what would be yer name, colt?”
The shame of the thoughtless faux pas delayed answer, combining with his sour scowl to make him seem almost comically defiant and childish. “Carrotstock.”
“Don't plan on inventin' a new name like yer blood-bound friend?” Maureen asked, motioning toward Peachfuzz.
“He's not my friend,” Carrotstock shot back quickly. “I might think this is stupid but he's stupid too, trying to look tough, worshiping all those stories. It's all... ugh!”
“Indeed now... never seen any foal that thought so ill of them that died, and you well... yer the one, yer the big one here. In all the rebellion never seen that,” Maureen mused, fixing a curious eye on Carrotstock.
“I don't want this!” He shouted, the sound thankfully lost in the blare of music, being not so unlike the loud noise of revelry. “I barely wanted anything. I like it but it's all like a trick. Wasting time, making everything feel like it wasn't worth it. All that stuff.. it just took all our time, all our being mad.”
“Aye, it'll do that,” Maureen concurred with a sage nod. “It ain't far ta say griffins have hot heads and fierce ways. Oh we're ready fer a scrap, aye. But that's a scrap. Even the worst knows a scrap is a scrap and a war is a war. With a belly full of nettlebeer a griffin in the service of his majesty the king won't dare show on the field. He'd sooner fall from a cliff than shame his king and country. Ye scrap on a whim. Ye war with a will. If yer enemy wants tae hang yer kith and butcher yer kin and leave yer kine rotting in the sun so ye can do nowt with it, tis no scrap, colt. Tis war, and bloody war at that. Ye kill with will, ye stalk and slay with craft. Ignorant birds know how ignorant they can be, and follow the captain that the king set tae lead, with all their life. Took away all yer being mad? Aye, I hope, colt! Ye can be mad, ye can get mad, but mad can't swing a sword at a throat, direct a pikestaff through guts. Ye clear yer mind out of mad, ye fight fer somethin' besides mad.”
“Oh yeah? And what's that?” Carrotstock asked, pouting but looking with needy eyes to the soldier giffiness.
“That's the question, aye? But... with all that mad ye had, with all that ye talk of lost time, not bein' worth all ye did fer this moment and what comes after...” Maureen clicked her beak and shook her head slowly. “No, colt... ye can't lie tae a hen like me, can't bluff past a Bean Sidhe. Ye haven't the skill o' the leader that gave this all, took that time and took yer bein' mad. He swayed away yer little friends and aye, that's what they are. Not all the way, they had their own somethin' in their hearts. But I know, can see deep inside that ye have it.”
“I... I just want to do what we were supposed to do. We wanted to. We all wanted to. Right then. We wanted it. We'll do it but this isn't what I wanted...” Carrotstock mumbled his answer and slowly lumbered away.
Maureen watched him go, taking another slug of the whiskey in her talons and deeply considering the youth's seeming paradox of zealous vigor and disdain for martyrdom.
o o o
The new day dawned slowly, frosty and dim. The sun rose upon a plain of modestly tall grass, the dew having frozen into delicate sheets along the bowing tips of the grass. A very small disturbance could be noted in the leaves, the blades lightly trembling, only a few shedding their plates of ice. The twin trails lead toward a broad, cobblestone pony road stabbing through the slowly brightening plain.
The two going through the grass halted and arranged various cases around them. The two were Oiseau and Glitter Clasp, their bodies covered in heavy cloth armor with steel rivets over most of their forms, their torsos wrapped in plate with mailed sleeves and heavy cloth gloves on their hands. Reinforced helmets with pointed tops and snout-bridge strips protected their heads, Glitter's having an exit point for her horn which was armored to halfway up using a slide-on piece. She opened up one of the cases and extracted a pair of military grade binoculars, using her magic to subtly spread a corridor of the grass, allowing her to look up the road to the west. Far in the distance several figures slowly started to resolve themselves near the horizon. She adjusted the focus carefully, straining to make out details so far in the distance.
“The intel the Black Knight gave was good, of course. I can't resolve all the details but from the forward figures this is the Hunter-Capture squad we were directed to. Two forward scout-trackers, I saw the slinking posture, medium Dogs, the kinds of curs that fawn over the caribou. There should be four more of them, then twelve of the slavecatchers, six escort troops,” Glitter said, desperately trying to confirm all of that.
“Mais... do they have the caribou shock troops? We were told this is an official transfer, pomp and circumstance and arrogance from the Stag King, to show off power. It is why we are here...” Oiseau asked, as he unpacked more of the cases. He extracted two large, heavy-duty crossbows, that really looked more like scaled-down torsion ballistae with cranks on the sides. From another case he removed a couple of heavy steel balls that he settled into the crossbows. Each one had several holes in them plugged with pieces of hemp, the whole looking shiny and slick with some liquid.
“They're far along, right on the horizon. Military grade equipment is good but good only goes so far...” Glitter mumbled as she fiddled with the focus, scratching the ground as a tally for what she saw. “Uneven terrain, I can't clear all this grass but I'm picking up what I need to. It's the full squad from my estimates, and yes... I finally see them. Those accursed caribou, hiding in the back, like the cowards they are. Those antlers are unmistakable, and their armor is dull, basic caribou iron. Four added honor guard escorts. Just what we trained for, and we know they're there.”
Oiseau nodded grimly and passed a loaded crossbow along to Glitter, having cranked and loaded several of them and laid them out on the ground near to hand. “We are set up right, just as trained. As drilled in our heads by the griffon. The sun will be high enough to blind them. We fire west, and do not stop. They must be softened, must be injured and bloody if we are to survive. If we all are to survive. That grim look...”
“War is blood and pain and suffering,” Glitter quoted. “Ye don't come out whole. Ye don't come out assured. Ye come out with luck that gets stronger with skill. We have something. Maybe skill, maybe will. Strength, certainly, it's why we are here. But soon...”
“Soon is soon enough too late,” Oiseau said, setting up in a squatting posture with his head just below the level of the grass. “We prepare. Set up when you see them close enough for fire.” Time ticked away slowly, Glitter with her eyes locked on the approaching group, Oiseau nervously shifting in his squatting posture. As the silence of the dawn period went on, Oiseau started to hum the melody of the song he had been dancing to last night. Seeing Glitter slowly shift postures had him softly mumble words. “Chervaliers sombres et cris de guerre du côté obscur tous meurent une fois qu'ils sont dans ma ligne de mire...” When glitter fully raised to a squat he passed her one of the crossbows and cried, “Ce combat est tout ce que je sais que c'est vrai!”
Glitter struck a match with her magic and touched it to the balls upon the crossbows, the hemp and oil coating them erupting to a mingled melange of brilliant blue and orange flames. They took quick but careful aim and fired the steel shots, immediately dropping the spent weapons to pick up other prepared crossbows to maintain an initial fusillade.
Expecting a purely ceremonial, purely quiet passage, the whole line of gathered soldiers were caught short, bumping into one another and wavering in a chaotic mass. They were packed together, easy targets for the heavy steel spheres. One of the forward dogs took a flaming ball to the face, and a caribou had his brittle iron armor cracked as the sphere punched through. The flames were bad enough, burning flesh and fur and lighting cloth on fire. But there was another secret, the hemp burning down to a packed powder charge, the modified fireworks exploding with a deafening crack and flinging twisted bits of scorching metal all around. The light armor of most of the squad did nothing while the iron armor worn by the honor guard had no play, the rigidity breaking against sufficiently fast pieces of shrapnel, leaving them peppered with small holes and cracks.
The bursts of the first two rounds was the signal for the rest of the pony teens hiding back from the forward engagement point. The all rose up, clad in various levels of light plate and mail over heavy Gambeson cloth suits with riveted points. Each had a swept-back helmet with ear guards and some had face plates. They were armed with polearms in the front, and at the rear, one-handed swords and kite shields. In a singular position, with a plated cuirass and pauldrons on his thin shoulders, faulds clanging on his hips while the tassets swayed below, was Carrotsock, his helmet without a face plate. He had his sword held high, shield nowhere near his chest and he powered across the frosty grassland. His often-petulant eyes burned with hate, and his often wry mouth was in a rictus grimace showing his teeth. He screamed with an incoherent fury as he led his force of teenagers to the squad of ambushed traitors and caribou, suffering the last of the firework assaults. Glitter and Oiseau began to crank the crossbows and load conventional steel ballistae balls as the melee fighters reached combat range.
Momentum powered the polearms, some of the armed teens reacting with a momentary look of nausea at the sickening squish of the hardened steel tips ramming through the light armor of the injured enemy, unleashing more blood and the stench of bile to mix with the acrid smell of burnt fur and flesh. The nausea passed, training coming forth, the long arms immediately pulled out and held defensively, holding certain armed soldiers at bay as the close-arm fighters entered the fray. They went for the softest softened targets, the unarmed slavecatchers and scouts. Confusion had faded, making for a deadly game of dodging thrown lassos and leather straps, or the deadly claws on the scout Dogs. They had seen what Dogs could do, and were especially wary, especially good at attacking the wounded traitors.
Carrotstock kept to the plan until he reached the engagement. He had just enough presence of mind to bring up his shield and bring down his sword, deflecting the blows of the guard and striking out at the ones that swiped at him. But it wasn't enough. Wasn't what he wanted. The Black Knight had delayed them with training. Delayed them with a party. He had drilled technique and philosophy into their heads and dulled the raw, ardent immediacy of their understandable fury and unthinking rage. He had taken away their being mad. But on the battlefield, it came back, with purpose, with focus, with understanding. He knew why he was mad. But the plan wasn't enough for him. He wasn't interested in this small killing of lesser figures.
A scream to the side drew his focus, one of his number thrown back from the wicked strike from the dull iron sword of one of the caribou. It was more like being stricken by a log but damage was damage. His iron armor looked pocked by the shrapnel, but he was most unharmed, standing arrogant and assured, petulant. He knew what he was doing and held the smaller figures in contempt. His face and bearing screamed disdain for anyone not a caribou of his caliber. Like all those bastards. Like all the accursed caribou. Like that caribou.
The plan was to get there eventually, later. He made a command decision that later would be there and then. He was not as strong as an adult caribou bull, wasn't raised in the frozen north's icy Tartarus that made them so unfeeling and evil. He had only learned techniques, hoof-work to be a hard target to pull a full-force strike into, careful arrangements of limbs, angles of leaning, the positioning of his shield to deflect the blow, to lift the huge iron monstrosity and almost toss away the momentum with an ear-piercing scrape of the cold iron against his Dog-forged steel shield.
A shield he turned, showing off the bottom point of the kite had been ground down on the wheel, made wickedly sharp, holding a point, a proper armor-breaker. Especially against something as worthless as shrapnel-pocked caribou cold iron. He made a quick dash as the big brute tried to shift mental tactical gears, ramming the point into the broad plate, shattering through the compromised blackness, feeling a hesitation as muscle and skin met the point, but were also sliced through, the false manly strength of the caribou shown to be so many illusions before a civilized opponent.
The arrogant bull turned wide, disbelieving eyes on Carrotstock. The barbarian was speechless, or perhaps wholly incapable of breath. He was strong. He was superior. He was a man, a caribou bull. He was the god of lessers. But his blood ran like water, and the sword fell from his hand. Carrotstock kept his sword, withdrawing his shield and lunging again at the dying brute, screaming out one thing over and over. “Where is my mother?!”
o o o
The battle was bloody and violent, it was an absolute slaughter. Perfect intel, blinding by the sun, proper equipment, proper techniques. Even if the caribou side had slightly more fighters, bigger fighters, dirtier fighters, the Black Knight had fixed it. The purity of enlightened dirty fighting by superior preparation and technique meant he had made sure the game was rigged from the start. A bloody slaughter. But a short one.
More a skirmish, but one that ended with only one side breathing. Status quo. The rebel requirement. In an engagement like that, no survivors, not even one to bring news. The squad was to be swallowed whole by the dangerous land between caribou habitation clusters. Their failure to arrive would be noted in due time, but possibly not reported, or reported poorly. No one would know their fate, who they faced, who blotted their evil out from the world.
With the firing of a signal flare a flurry of reinforcements came. After-action reinforcements. Those who came to pick up the pieces. Medics, supply-bearers, gravediggers. The gravedigger squad set to their normal task with a will, spades attacking the dirt to hollow out the unmarked graves for the fallen enemy. One of the number, with chisel sets and hammers on his belt, was smiling as he dug out a grave. He wasn't needed for his normal task. He didn't need to carve the names of the honored dead on stones to put above a set-apart collection of graves.
The medics had the grim task, even with none there to call time and settle the body for the ground. They had won, but it had been a fight. Trauma was everywhere. Broken limbs, horrible contusions, concussions, gashes, even limbs roughly hacked or sliced away.
“So... luck makes skill, or skill makes luck?” Oiseau asked with a breathy laugh, borne by medics who had laid him on a stretcher. He was down one hand, mangled into uselessness by one of the guards in an attempt to stop his crossbow.
“H-how can you be so calm?!” Glitter asked, in fear and exasperation. A bandage wound around her head and over one eye.
“Analgésique,” he responded, with a very slight slur. “Tres bon, and maybe too little blood to dilute it... I will... mourn and worry later, when I feel again...”
“It was supposed be me!” Peachfuzz screamed out. The colt was being held back by two medics, a third finishing wrapping the lower part of what was left of his left leg in gauze. He struggled and screamed at the body of his sister. Peachy Pit was laid out on a stretcher, the medics finishing an emergency repair on her abdomen that looked almost but not quite split open. They worked on stabilizing her, but the patch of blood and vials of heavy sedatives told why she wasn't responding to her histrionic brother. “I wanted the stupid death! Not you! You wanted cakes and music and the moms! It should be me! Make it me!” His screams and sobs rang out over the somber battlefield.
“Just foals...” Maureen said. She and the Black Knight had come at the rear of the reinforcements, looking out at the slaughtering grounds, taking stock of the whole bloody affair. “Who made it you?”
“They did,” The Black Knight responded. “You know they did.”
“Even after it all... they never stopped. All I told of blood and pain and loss and horror, they cooled but never stopped,” Maureen whispered. “All that time in learnin', they only became smarter about how tae express their rage.”
“I told you. I take no pleasure in being right, but I did,” The Black Knight observed. “When I first heard his plan, found out they were going to grab old knives and junk swords, wrap themselves in thick clothes and wander out to try and kill the first caribou squad they saw...”
“Ye have authority, could have had them in the gaol. Grounded them. Foals. Just foals...” Maureen said.
“They'd have wanted it more, been more determined, found a way to break out, make noise, become genuine dissidents. No, they got what they needed,” The Black Knight stated. “I thought they would cool after the training. They purified. But that was fine. They didn't go out in garbage, into a random meeting with some squad of absolute killers too big to handle. They got fitted armor, proper weapons with proper training, intelligence on a squad they could beat and tactical information about how best to beat them. They had their taste of war, as safely as it could be made. Maybe they'll live quietly as refugees. Maybe they'll join up later, pre-trained and prepared to kill for the rebellion. But no matter what, they were given every opportunity to survive the insanity they wanted for themselves, chances to just calm down and drift away. They chose, and we aided them.”
“Aye. … Aye...” Maureen sighed, turning her head towards a very unusual collection of sounds. She started walking over to it, followed by the Black Knight.
Off in part of the battlefield, where he had made his stand and downed his foe, there was Carrotstock still. His voice was hoarse, and his limbs trembling with unspeakable fatigue. But still, he brought his sword down and lifted it again, hacking at the gory mulch of flesh, brain, blood, and bone that was a caribou's minced head. His burning eyes long since drained of their stores of tears, and in his pained, tiny voice he asked over and over, “Where is my mother?” With every chop he demanded answers from the corpse that couldn't answer in its present state, and would have never even known in the prior state of life.
“They had a something in their hearts. Every last one. It's why the ardor never cooled, why the being mad gave way to clear-minded killing,” The Black Knight said. “In the bad old days, long ago, when civilization was less civilized and wars still were waged, the young paid for the vanities of the old. They fought too, and were glad to. They had no idea, but knew they just had to do something. And you know... you know what came of it.”
Maureen nodded sadly and slowly came up to Carrotstock, placing a talon on his shoulder. “Aye, slíbhín. I know the old tales, the ones we shouldn't think highly on, but still tell of those days. Them that don't die young in the field live tae die old in their beds.”
The sudden touch made Carrotstock shudder. He dropped his sword, body trembling uncontrollably all of a sudden. He had gone silent, burning eyes looking at nothing. He turned on Maureen, grabbed a hold of her and pressed his blood-spattered body to her, wracked with dry, choking sobs and mumbles of something that couldn't be clearly expressed.
“Aye, come along, colt, there's a good foal...” Maureen said, softly pressing her other talon to his back, letting him use her to steady himself as she walked him to the medics. “He never wanted tae die, never wanted tae be a hero...”
“Not once in the whole endeavor,” The Black Knight concurred. “He was willing to kill, to be wild and reckless because he was a scared little foal, angry at the butchers and bastards that invaded his land and took away everything. He wasn't a soldier, wasn't a natural slaughterer. He was looking for a way to make sense of his drive, to find the means to his end. All he wanted...”
“Was his mammy,” Maureen said, gently patting Carrotstock as he continued to plead for his mother.
Author's Note
Well?
Answer the question, please, incel fans of the whole creation.
