The British Grenadiers

"The cunning of the fox is as murderous as the violence of the wolf."

• Thomas Paine, British radical, pamphleteer, and intellectual

This land’s night sky was a wonder to contemplate. The moon, shining almost as bright as the sun itself, lit up the landscapes of this strange new world, bathing them in a dime, pleasant white light. Upon its contact with the surface, the reflections of the green vegetation glowed, inspiring an almost magical sense of beauty and pride. The stars, always faithful to their role, accompanied the moon in her celestial throne, sparkling and twinkling in the dark night skies, brightening up, ever so slightly, what the moon herself could not.

Green was, however, not the only colour reflected by this majestic display of light. It’s opposite, the bright scarlet, distinguished itself amongst the thousands of hues and tones of nature’s colours, while being followed by the noise of shoes, chatter, fifes and drums. It was through a small rural road, made out of dirt and mud, that His Britannic Majesty’s 82nd Regiment of Foot marched forward, showered by moonlight and gallantly exhibiting their red uniform for the world to admire. Their colours, uncased and in display, waved shyly with the breeze, guiding the Grenadiers in their march to Ponyville.

As the column got closer to the town, the mounted officers in the very front noticed a small crossroad a few yards away, which had a small signpost on it's side. Captain Williams, riding on Rogue's back, hastened his pace towards this crossroad, and had a small glance at the signpost, trying to orient himself in this strange place. Names he never heard of appeared in those signs, which had small arrows pointing in the direction of those locations. Places like "Canterlot", "Everfree Forest" and "White Tail Woods" were named there, the latter being the place the column was marching from. Upon seeing the "Ponyville" sign, Williams turned his head towards Major Verulam, and signalled with his hand to turn left.

The Captain and pony waited for the column to reach them, then fell in by the front, next to their commander.

"Right shoulders forward! By sections, march!"

One section after the other, the column wheeled to the left, doing their best to keep the space between each line intact. After the manoeuvre was completed, each section lowered or quickened their pace to compensate for the wheel, regaining their initial spacings.

The Grenadiers now found themselves marching parallel to what looked like an apple orchard. Their hunger, keeping them restless, made some men turn their eyes towards the apple trees, taking quick glances at the delicious, bright red apples hanging from their branches. Even the serjeants and a few lieutenants could not keep their eyes forward.

The men were, indeed, quite hungry. They hadn't ate a thing since they left camp back in Poundsgate, about ten miles north of King's Woods, and now, after hours marching through dirty roads and enchanted forests, their stomachs were growling like an angry mastiff in front of a cat.

In fact, even the Major himself, Lord Verulam, had his own belly empty, begging for an apple or two.

"Oh," muttered James while looking at his belly. "Well, Mister Williams, it seems the men are starving, and I include myself amongst them. It's a pity we didn't make it to Buckfastleigh, and ended up like this."

"Aye... the morale seems to be dropping as well. I say, should Rogue and I move ahead and buy us some apples from this orchard? The lads back there seem to be eyeing them every few seconds."

"Yeh. It would be nice to have a small snack." James reached down to Butler's saddle bag, and from it, he withdrew a small pouch with coins. He then handed that bag to his second in command. "Here you go. One hundred guineas. I really doubt the apples will cost that much, but better safe than sorry. Do please not spend all the money, though."

"As you wish, milord. How does two apples a man sound?" asked the captain, now riding a little faster.

"Good enough, Captain. This is but a snack, after all, not dinner."

"Very well. I'll be waiting for you at the farm's entrance. Farewell." He tipped his hat with his right hand, then both rider and colt left the column and rode on.

. After a few minutes, they saw to their left the entrance to the estate, which consisted on a tall, white archway, adorned with plants, flowers and a wooden sign, which had the shape of an apple cut off in the centre. Although it wasn't an architectural masterpiece, the entrance itself looked fairly nice, specially when comparing it to others back in England.

Drawing his eyes further into the farm, the first thing Williams noticed was the big, red barn. It was painted scarlet red, with white trims on the edges and neatly decorated with black and brown drawings. Two windows popped out of the second story's side, making the place look more like a house, rather than a common barn.

Beyond the majestic red structure, the vast orchard expanded for miles, running all the way over the hills and past the horizon. Thousands of trees, each holding dozens of apples, stood firm all around Williams and Rogue, shaking their leaves with the wind and tempting them both to just lean to their side and have a taste.

However, their hungry desires were interrupted by their sense of duty. Wishing not to waste more time admiring the landscape and architecture, the rider instructed his pony forward, and at a steady pace, they both entered through the archway, walking towards the residential barn.

Their expectations however, shattered upon smelling a very familiar stench.

"Oh bollocks. That smell again," said Rogue from below, turning his head to Williams. "Do you think-"

His words were interrupted by a howling, as a dense,dark fog slowly began brewing around the farmlands.

"Shite..."

"Oh no..." Williams felt a chill run down his spine, as goosebumps formed all over his skin. "Rogue, we must go warn the others... Wait.. what is that?" The redcoat distinguished something moving through the dense fog. It looked like an orange horse, or rather, pony, running into the barn in a desperate hurry. Behind it, a pack of wolves gave chase, only to be stopped by the wooden gates of the strong structure.

All of a sudden, the distant sound of musket fire broke through the barks and howls. The 82nd was under attack.

Rogue stepped back and signalled his rider to dismount. Both then slowly walked behind a nearby bush, and tried to hide from the violent wooden beasts in front of them.

Every second that passed, more and more of the timber wolves surrounded the scarlet farmhouse. Coming from the orchards behind the barn, dozens and dozens of these ferocious beasts emerged from the woods, almost as if they were born from the apple trees themselves.

"This ain't good, Edward," whispered the black pony. "I say we bugger off while we still can. The others need our help."

"Agreed," nodded Williams. "We better-

"Mister Williams!" called a voice from behind them. The two looked back, and saw a blurry, red and brown figure coming towards them through the fog.

"Major?!" cried the captain.

"Oh thank God you're okay." The major, riding on Butler's back, moved hastily towards the confused pair, as the sound of musket fire echoed like thunder through the farmstead.

"Milord?! Is the column under attack?!"

"Aye. Lieutenant Bush was placed in charge of holding the square for now. Those demons came out of bloody nowhere, pouncing over our marching column and chewing their way through our ranks."

"Oh bugger... How many dead?

"None. The square stood fast and in good order, just like last time... Queer, isn't it?"

"Indeed, sir... But, Milord, look over there! At the barn!" Williams pointed towards the red building in front of him. The Major, who had completely ignored it, looked up and saw in horror as about four dozen of the wooden creatures had it surrounded. "There are ponies trapped in there, sir! We must do something!"

"By God... Indeed we must, Mister Williams. You and Rogue stay here, I shall bring forth the Grenadiers and see these buggers off this land."

Formed up in two ranks, the Prince of Wales' Own Volunteers marched through the western side of the orchard. Their line, thirty five yards wide, advanced steadily between the trees and fallen branches, with charged bayonets and muskets ready for battle.

It was, however, a silent and discrete manoeuvre. The men kept themselves quiet, covered by the night's shadow, as they pushed towards the farmhouse, making sure they did not attract any unwanted attention from their foes. The colours were also lowered and rolled around their pole, while the musicians kept their instruments inaudible. Even Butler wasn't talking bollocks, for a change.

Since Rogue and Williams had been left on their own, Lieutenant Bush was named acting Captain for the time being, taking the role of second in command during this assault. Him, together with his commander (and ever 'faithful' pony), had picked up their pace and left the line behind, scouting ahead of the main force.

The three found themselves spying on the barn, kneeling behind a few bushes by the orchard's inner tree line. As James observed the area with his spyglass, the others kept an eye on their surroundings, trying to find a suitable place to deploy the company and advance over the big red building. Since the fog was now slowly dissipating into the air, they were both able to see the area without much difficulty.

"Gentlemen," called the Major, "there seems to be a small pack of them around the main building. About four dozen wolves, I dare say." He lowered his spyglass and looked at the lieutenant, who seemed to be quite busy analysing the geography of the area. "Found us a nice place to form up, Mister Bush?"

"Well, milord, although the terrain here seems flat and quite easy to march over, I do believe a general advance and assault are not the best ideas."

"Any suggestions, then?"

"Hmm... If we advance and discharge too close to the barn, we may put the lives of those inside at risk... I say we bring the fight to us."

"Lure them here, you say?"

"Aye, sir. We could get the lads to form behind the tree line, hidden from those damned creatures, and then bring the buggers into our firing line. Once they are close enough, we can give a volley..." He then turned to look at the brown pony sitting between him and his commander. "As for bringing the wolves here... Butler here should do the trick."

"What?!" exclaimed the pony in utter disagreement. "No! I am not wolf food! Fuck it, I refuse to participate!"

"Would you please stop protesting?" demanded the Major. "There are innocent lives at stake here, Butler. There is no room for whining."

"But this is suicidal!"

The Major got up from his kneeling and walked behind his complaining partner. "Get going, damn your eyes!" he ordered, striking Butler on his flank with an open palm. Due to simple reflex, the brown colt began running forward.

"Mister Bush, form line five yards into the trees. Each section should be separated from one another by five paces."

"As you wish, milord." The temporary second in command turned and ran back towards the infantry, disappearing through the shadows of the orchard.

James, now alone, went back to his prior observations, pointing his spyglass at Butler's general direction. Although the stallion was quite rash and undisciplined -to say the least-, the commanding officer believed him capable of performing this simple task. Not because he trusted the pony, but  because he was certain that the colt would turn tail and run off screaming upon encountering any foes.

Soon, he lost sight of his quadrupedal companion, disappearing into the fog up ahead. It was not for long, though, as he quickly came back, running and screaming in panic. Behind him, at least thirty wooden wolves gave chase, hungrily licking their lips at the sight of fresh horse meat.

Without losing any more time, the Major drew his sword  and hastily went back into the orchard, returning to his position in the formation.

Dawn at the Battlefield

-Imperial Glory Soundtrack-

Standing fast behind the first few trees in the orchard, the Prince of Wales' Own Volunteers waited for the order to fire. Their weapons, pointing at their enemy, twirled and twitched a bit in the soldiers' hands, awaiting the moment to discharge a wall of lead into the foe's ranks. The colours, slowly waving in the breeze, stood a few feet behind the British red line, protected behind the Colour Serjeants' long spears.

The rattling of wood hitting dirt got closer and closer by the moment, chasing after screams of terror from the fleeing pony. He could already smell the wolves' horrible smell breathing down his neck, giving him no option but to run for dear life. After an eternity running, an exhausted Butler made it past the British ranks. Breathing heavily, he made his way towards the officers, who were about to give the single most important order of their career.

James raised his sword into the air and took a long breath. He closed his eyes for a moment, then exhaled and gave the order.

The sword fell.

"First rank! FIRE!"

A thick wall of fire and smoke burst out of the British formation. Like an unstoppable thunder, the volley's powerful rattles echoed through the farm, waking every living being with the noise of death. In the blink of an eye, the charging horde of demons is reduced to splinters, shattered by a wide barrier of concentrated fire. The ground below them was turned into an orgy of branches, tree sap and dirt.

Through the smoke and confusion, the few living creatures halted their advance. Struck by fear and panic, the charge turned into a rout. All barks and growls were reduced to whimpers, while the last remaining timber wolves ran away in desperation, hoping to get away from death's grasp.

An uncomfortable silence invaded the orchard. Not a sound to be heard, nor a noise to disrupt the now calm environment that surrounded the Grenadiers. As the fog of war dissolved and dissipated into the air, the clear sight of the ground before them confirmed their success. Their volley, deadly and devastating, rendered them victorious.

"The Eighty Second will advance! Port arms!"

The soldiers brought their weapons in front of their chest, forming a strong wooden fence line. Then, with drums hammering, the Prince of Wales' Own Volunteers took their first step forward. Marching side by side, with colours blazing and uniforms shining into the moonlight, the red line left the orchard behind, ready to finish off their foes at the barn.

"Charge your bayonets!"

The fence line turned into a wall of pikes. A hundred sharp triangular knives pointed forward, viciously growing closer and closer to the red building in perfect formation. Nothing could stop them now. Their finest hour had come.

"AT THE DOUBLE! CHARGE!"

"HUZZAH!"

The 82nd's Centre Companies at Vitoria