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Clockwork

by That 1 Guy

Chapter 30: The Thunder of War

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Warfather sighed as he checked to make sure that every last piece of his armor remained snug against his form. He had expected a counterattack, and most certainly a forward charge from the bison. Such brutes would never learn proper strategy as long as a single method proved effective no matter the cost. No, the one thing the warrior-priest of the Red Order did not expect was for the opposition to destroy such a valuable piece of machinery just underneath another. Surely they had contemplated taking it for themselves? Such a lucky move could've only been the result of either a genius that the Alliance did not have, or pure, unadulterated luck.

Warfather drew his sword, the feather of Carniferous, and checked it over. The moment his personal ship, the Fury, had teleported overhead, he had sent Gilda aboard to ensure her safety. Pity the warship had to leave so soon. Despite his youngest apprentice's excellence, she was not ready for mass bloodshed just yet. He wondered what had become of Echo for a moment, then shrugged it off when he realized that he would be seeing him again very soon no matter the outcome.

The griffon sheathed his blade, finding it without damage, and made his way out of his office. The commotion of battle had already reached his doorstep. Maybe, just maybe, he would find an opponent or two worthy of combat.


Clockwork lay amongst the scorching remains of the superweapon in a half-daze. His robes had been incinerated, his fur burnt, and his body beaten by rubble, but his allies, protected beneath his wing of mithril, remained unharmed. Without a word, the trio got to their hooves and hurried towards the east end of the city.

The sounds of chaos were all too apparent to the exhausted pegasus. Insectoid screeching filled his ears along with gunshots, the clashing of steel on bronze, and the unshakable war cries of charging bison. The scent of blood was positively overwhelming, made tolerable only by the dryness of the sand on which it lay. From out of the corner of his eye, Clockwork glanced a massive apple orchard he had only seen in postcards and old history books. Appleloosa Acres, thought it lay relatively undamaged, had nevertheless been touched by the unforgiving hands of war.

For some unfathomable reason, Clockwork felt like laughing. He actually giggled a bit for every corrupted changeling that detonated in a cloud of orange goo due to his aim.

“Kid! Don’t you dare go insane on me just yet! As hard as it may be, I need you to remain clear-headed until this whole thing blows over! You got that? Hey, Clockwork! Can you hear me in there?!”

Clockwork looked to his side, finding himself staring at a worried Long Shot. He clenched his teeth as he nodded, his neck screaming in protest. “I’m fine, sir. Just need a medic is all. . .”

“Lucky for you there’s one right here. Hey! Mganga! Get this stallion patched up and back in the fight ASAP! We need everyone at a hundred and ten!” he commanded.

Clockwork was passed from the Nocturni to the zebra as she helped him inside a building. He was soon laid down on a cot, formerly occupied by a griffon soldier long dead. He watched as Bull Rush was guided to some other location to be treated elsewhere. If anything could recover from such a remarkable injury, it was him.

"Sir!" Switcher came running to the pegasus' side, doing what he could to help Mganga wrap the stallion's bandages. "Are you alright? Is there anything I can do to assist you for the time being?"

"Where's- gah. . . where's Charger?"

"Safe. Likely on the front lines assisting Strongheart in the offensive-"

"Okay. What’s up with the changelings here? They don't look like. . . you."

"You are correct in your observation, Clockwork." the changeling readjusted his helm. “They are the Corrupted after all, and as such have altered phenotypic traits in addition to genetic.”

The pegasus shifted to get a bit more comfortable then lay still. "Why?"

"I believe the saying 'You are what you eat' is remarkably appropriate here. Their way of living, their food source, mentality, all helped to warp the Corrupted into a form unworthy of the name 'changeling'. Their more sharp-edged legs help to slice flesh, and their fangs and horns to tear. Their eyes help them see better at night, and their chitin hides them in the dark."

"Do we have a chance?"

"Of course. The Corrupted rely on a quickened breeding pace than the Pure, resulting in more, though less experienced, offspring. We shall return Appleloosa to its rightful owners before the day's end."

"Good to hear."

"Clockwork!" a familiar earth pony shouted. She rushed over and enveloped the wounded pegasus into a sort of half-hug, though the recipient didn't find it any less comfortable. It was by now that Switcher and Mganga decided it was best to return to where they were most effective.

“Hey Charger,” he replied dumbly.

“How in the name of sanity did you survive that explosion? Not that I am complaining, but I was able to clearly see that detonation from the city’s outskirts!”

“Well I got cooked, that much is certain.” the pegasus smirked, albeit with some difficulty. “I guess your kiss may have been lucky after all.”

For the first time since Clockwork could remember, Charger fell completely silent, grasping for some semblance of a response. He wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing, but he didn’t have much time to contemplate it.

“WARFATHER!”

A voice that couldn’t have belonged to any other besides Chief Thunderhooves roared throughout the entirety of the desert. Everything appeared to stop for the briefest of moments as every living thing that heard that sound attempted to understand just what the hell was going on.

With some struggling and help from Charger, the weary stallion removed himself from his makeshift hospital bed and hobbled outside, pistol loaded and ready. However, he never drew it when he and his ally finally made it outside.

All fighting had ceased, both bison and griffons formerly attempting to kill each other looked off towards something in the center of the town. The corrupted had taken to the air, forming an immense, screeching swarm of black chitin. Without a word, the two ponies soon found Long Shot and Switcher-7, who helped them to get a better view of the situation.

Chief Thunderhooves stood at the far end of the circle of warrior, steam pouring from his nose as his teeth grinded against one another in fury. Opposite him was a griffon unlike any other Clockwork had yet seen. His head feathers were as white as the purest ivory, his body feathers a golden brown, his claws just golden, and his single eye a soft olive green. The armor he wore was remarkable to look at, as though its forger had determined the perfect unification of form and function. Like other members of the Red Order, the wearer’s armor was equal parts scarlet and gold, and the pauldron on his left shoulder bore the same mark as he had seen sprawled across the hull of the Fury. He held a beautifully crafted sword at the ready, though his eyes lacked any sort of enthusiasm unlike his opponent.

Clockwork finally realized who this griffon was, and a steady drum beat began to echo through the desert as every bison began stamping their hooves in time.


In the future, when anyone wished for a textbook wartime example of organized chaos, they would find the ongoing battle for Appleloosa to be more than exemplary.

Warfather continued straight ahead, doing his best to avoid conflict but not hesitating to cut down anything that got in his way, did not need to look around to determine the present situation. His forces were losing ground quickly and without struggle. Griffons were dying on all sides as bloodthirsty desert bison ended their lives through an almost endless list of applications of brute strength. The local Corrupted queen had hidden herself away in an attempt to prolong her own life, and in doing so had begun to lose control of her children. The average citizen could be driven to madness in the face of such unrestrained horror.

The loss of the Consortium’s prized super weapon was unfortunate but not entirely unexpected. The griffon had known from the beginning that such a war as this could be won only through blood, not the intricate machines of this day and age.

“WARFATHER!”

The booming call shook the griffon from his musings. A small frown creasing the upper ends of his beak, the warrior priest turned a single telescopic eye to the eastern end of the small town, the setting sun glimmered off of the bronze armor of bison more than two hundred strong.
While any other Supremacy soldier would’ve found the sight terrifying, Warfather found it beautiful. Said buffalo were marching through the city, rebuffing griffon retaliatory efforts through a mix of incredible fortitude and sheer presence. Bemused, Warfather quietly ordered his soldiers to stand down as he made his way towards the source of that war cry.

Warfather had met the leader of the bison tribes only once before what seemed like eons ago, but time did little to weaken his ability to identify the impressive beast. Chief Thunderhooves towered over even the largest of his brethren by a full head, and the feathered headdress he wore did not help his anonymity. The rest of the chieftain’s substantial bulk was covered by surprisingly beautiful tribal armor, hung with what looked like pieces of bone and horn.

Warfather alighted upon the blood-caked dusts with hardly a sound, the clanking of his armor and the swish of his wings oddly loud in the stillness. For the moment, the battle was halted as every eye rested upon their respective leaders. Nopony moved, few dared to breathe, and those who did found the air thick with tension.

“You requested my presence,” Warfather spoke dryly, quirking an eyebrow at the buffalo chieftain. He had stopped his trek some twenty paces from the herbivore, more than enough distance to take wing and draw steel should he charge.

Chief Thunderhooves stamped a hoof, and snorted loudly.

“I have been told that you have some semblance of honor,” the chieftain rumbled. “I would seek to end needless bloodshed by facing you in single combat. Hoof to talon, horn to beak, till one falls, never to rise again.”

“An odd request,” Warfather murmured, buffing a talon idly against his lacquered chestplate as he considered his options.

A significantly smaller, obviously younger buffalo angrily stepped forward.

“You have no right to refuse us!” the pitch of its voice pronouncing it as female. “Look around you,” she shouted, waving an angry hoof at the corpse-strewn battlefield. “Your weapon is shattered, your soldiers fighting for their lives. Even you cannot be blind to the hopelessness of your cause.”

Warfather glanced around, his demeanor relaxed, “It truly is a mess, isn’t it?”

The she-bison opened her mouth for an angry retort, but fell silent as Thunderhooves put his hoof in front of her.

“Now is not the time, Little Strongheart,” he murmured. “Your battle will come.”

For a moment, it seemed as if she would reject her leader’s command, but then her eyes turned downcast and she backed off a step.

“Yes, Father,” she murmured.

The chieftain nodded, and redirected his attention back to Warfather, who had watched the exchange with little amusement, in fact, seeming almost sorrowful. His expression hardened.

“What say you?” the massive bison’s step forward shook the earth, “Will you meet me on even ground? Will you fight as an equal? Or will you cower behind your lines and allow your subordinates to die needlessly?”

A visible shudder ran through the griffon lines, no one and nothing ever having dared to accuse Warfather of cowardice. There were rumors of rumors of those who had, and not one was a happy tale. Warfather, for his part, merely gazed at the bison, letting his eyes run over every muscle, every hair, and then he smiled.

“I humbly accept.” the griffon lowered himself into a practiced bow. “It will be a great honor to do battle against a worthy opponent such as yourself. His declaration, soft as it was, unleashed a torrent of frenzied howls from his subordinates. The winged soldiers began beating the stocks of their weapons into the ground in rhythmic unison. The bison quickly followed. The Corrupted, painfully stupid, took to the air in a blood-crazed frenzy.

Thunderhooves nodded, his expression grim. With a wave, he dismissed his entourage, glancing back only to accept a feathered cudgel from the one called Little Strongheart. The weapon was peaceful in its appearance, but to a warrior’s trained eye the blood stains and dents spoke all too well of a history of violence.

In moments, a circular arena was cleared. Encompassing nearly a hundred feet in diameter, it was walled tightly by the press of bodies. Spectators squabbled and jockeyed for position, griffons rubbing shoulders with buffalo as everyone tried to get the best position to watch their leaders.

When the commotion finally died down, the two combatants walked with slow, deliberate steps until they stood roughly three meters apart in the center of the arena. Thunderhooves carried his cudgel in the crook of his right foreleg, Warfather drew the feather of Carniferous with deliberate passion, letting the sound of immaculate metal brush against its immaculate sheath.

“Do you truly believe that you can defeat me with a simple blade?” Thunderhooves asked, his experienced gaze concentrating on Warfather’s chest, rather than his eyes.

“This is no ordinary blade. It has been quite some time since someone with real power asked me to battle,” Warfather replied. “If you do not mind, I wish to savor this experience for as long as possible.”

“Have you not already slaughtered hundreds?”

“Not without disdain. Do you remember the failed assassination? The one where the zebra male was killed by Empress Carapace?”

The Corrupted above screeched in protest at the mention of their former ruler. Chief Thunderhooves remained silent.

“While it is true that every griffon is born with an innate desire for bloodshed, not every warrior wishes for that lust to be satiated. I was born a slave rather than a warrior, and would gladly take peace over the death of the innocent.”

Thunderhooves gritted his teeth. “You lie, devil.”

“Truth is only a perception invented by the mind to clear one’s conscience. In the end, we are all guilty of some crime or another. Do you have anything left to say?”

With greater speed than his bulk suggested, the bison whirled and charged; away from his opponent.

The griffons booed and jeered, thinking the powerful chieftain was running from his own challenge. Warfather saw differently; there was no fear in Thunderhooves’ eyes, only a staunch determination to win.

As if responding to the war-priest’s thoughts, the bison’s trajectory veered sharply, mere inches from the buffalo lines. His momentum carried him around the circumference of the arena once, twice, his speed gaining all the while. Warfather briefly entertained the idea that the chieftain was attempting to perform a land-based Sonic Rainboom, hoping the explosion of quasi-magical energies would be enough to break through the Blessing of Carniferous. He abandoned these idle fantasies when the bison turned at an impossible angle to head straight for the center of the field, and the griffon still standing there.

“Carniferous. . . FREE. MY. SOUL!”

Warfather felt time slow down as the power of the Dragon God awoke within him. Fire seared through his veins, the red of the setting sun and the blood became sharply pronounced, and his mind achieved a clarity not unlike that of a glacial spring. In an instant he saw every move of the battle, every thrust and parry, and the final blow fell as he smiled.

Casually, the griffon raised himself on his hind legs, right paw slightly back for balance. He sheathed his blade and his talons draped down his sides, hanging like a dog’s arms. He had not used this stance since training Echo, as it was unfit for aerial combat and exceedingly difficult to utilize in actual battle.

At the last possible increment of measurable time, Warfather thrust out his arms to either side of Thunderhooves’ lowered skull, catching his horns in a viselike grip. The buffalo’s speed drove him back, his paws digging into the turf for purchase, muscles straining against the force of impact. He slid three feet, twelve, twenty-five, and stopped.

Thunderhooves’ pawed at the ground, hooves digging deep, but he could not budge his adversary an inch. He, for the first time in his adult life, had matched his unstoppable force against an immovable object.

“Impressive,” Warfather panted. “If I had been a lesser griffon that blow would have disintegrated my body,” he leaned in close to the trapped bison’s ear. “But I am beyond anything you have faced before.”

In a rare display of humility, Thunderhooves tore himself away and backpedaled, snatching up his club from the dust as he did. Warfather was surprised to find he did not know when the chieftain had dropped it, assuming it had been just before the start of his charge. Thunderhooves, panting slightly from his exertion, gave the weapon a few experimental swings. In a different setting, Warfather would have found the image hilarious. As it was, he knew that even with the chieftain’s stubby legs he could swing hard enough to shatter granite.

Banishing his emotions to the back of his mind, Warfather drew his blade once more, remaining for the moment in his bipedal stance. Responding to the roars of approval from his soldiers, he flourished the blade in an elaborate, but ultimately meaningless, display of skill. The cheering doubled.

The combatants circled each other slowly, sizing up their opponent for the first sign of weakness. Precious seconds passed, the air between them deathly still. With the next step, Warfather’s eyes snapped open to their fullest extent, and he covered the distance with a single bound. Time slowed to a crawl as the griffon closed, his blade swinging in a deadly arc, the polished white cudgel rising to meet him.

Blue light exploded as sword met wood, and a very surprised Warfather was thrown like a ragdoll. The griffon snarled a curse, his mind remaining clear despite his initial shock. His instincts guided his flight into a controlled roll, and he slid to a halt some forty feet from his starting point. The crowds fell silent in mystified awe.

Warfather blinked the stars from his eyes and stared at his opponent, not quite comprehending what he saw. Chief Thunderhooves, for his part, looked equally perplexed for a moment, before his expression settled into a warm, almost tender smile.

The buffalo chieftain was wreathed in an ethereal blue glow, surrounding him in a halo of warm light. The faint sound of stampeding hooves and pounding drums could be heard all around, though not a soul was moving.

Warfather slid to his feet, discarding the ghostly sounds as the result of his recent head trauma, his single eye focused intently on the glowing bison.

“What is this?” he asked, genuinely intrigued for the first time in a long while.

Thunderhooves chuckled, a deep-throated laugh that carried with it the joy of a father embracing his son.

“It is the Endless Stampede,” he explained. “The spirits of my ancestors, of my ancestors’ ancestors, and their ancestors before them, stand with me this day. Your god holds no power here any longer.”

Warfather’s eye narrowed at the blasphemous claim.

“War is all around us,” he responded. “Carniferous reigns supreme when the fields are soaked with blood.”

Thunderhooves gestured with his cudgel, “Then look around you, I see no blood here.”

There was an immediate shuffling of hooves, talons, and paws as the surrounding armies attempted to look everywhere at once. Thunderhooves had spoken truly, for there was indeed no blood of any kind to be found anywhere. Even the desiccated orchards had been restored to lush and bountiful life. The only evidence of battle to be found were the bloodless corpses of the fallen, their wounds miraculously healed, leading many to wonder why they did not simply rise up. There was a series of surprised squawks and rumbling voices as those who had been injured in the fray found themselves suddenly well and whole.

“Impressive,” Warfather admitted. “Most impressive.”

“Then you see now why your fight is pointless,” Thunderhooves proclaimed. “Surrender now, and I promise to ensure the safety of you and your underlings while you carry out your sentences. I am told Equestrian prisons are most accommodating.”

There were a few grumbles from the buffalo at this, as many had lost good friends this day and were not entirely eager to accept their chieftain’s generous terms.

Warfather frowned and scanned the crowd. While his own soldiers appeared as stoic as ever, there were nervous glances and shuffling amongst the lower ranks. The display of healing power had shaken them, and it was only their respect for their commander that held them in place. Respect, or fear.

The griffon commander kicked himself mentally, as it was not the time to debate the finer ethics of leadership. He needed to do something, and do it fast if he wanted to keep the majority of his forces from bolting at the next light show.

“Generous terms,” he said, speaking slowly to buy time. “But one wonders if your fellow leaders would be so willing to abide by them.”

Thunderhooves snorted without amusement. “It was their idea,” he stated bluntly, “if it had been my choice I would have trampled all of you into the dirt for what you have done. To me, to Equestria, and to Mfalme.”

“I do not recognize that name,” Warfather said, his mind drawing a blank. Zebrica had so many sub-leaders of separate tribes that one would pause to wonder as to exactly how they had managed to maintain any semblance of a centralized government.

The buffalo’s eyes snapped wide in rage, and he gave a tremendous snort.

“You,” his voice shook with pent up rage, “you do not even know the name of the first casualty of your war? You do not even bother to learn of the first good being who fell to your evil?”

Warfather sighed, using his ignorance to his advantage. Rage was a power learned to wield quickly, lest it consume you and create foolish errors. It would seem Thunderhooves had neglected his training. Excellent.

“I did not kill whoever you speak of, only the scribe to cover my allies’ escape, and even then I regret it. It was never supposed to be this way.”

An earth-shattering roar, fit to rival the dragon kings of old, exploded from the buffalo as he charged. Even at his speed, it took precious seconds to traverse the distance, more than a sufficient opening for the blood-drenched warrior. Ribbons of crimson hate flashed through the buffalo’s blue aura, visible only to the eyes of those blessed by Carniferous. Warfather breathed deep, feeding off the chieftain’s burning rage, using his bloodlust and desire for violence to fuel his own power.

The Blessing of Carniferous exploded in all its burning fury, and the world erupted in sapphire and ruby light as the wills of gods clashed. Thunder rumbled from a cloudless sky, earth cracked, and a furious gale billowed across the land for miles around as a metal bestowed upon mortals by a god clashed against an indestructible, ancient timber.

Buffalo stamped their hooves and griffons let loose raucous cheers as the combatants danced across the battlefield. Metal met wood, hoof met talon, all in a furious display of untempered violence. Chief Thunderhooves, first and greatest among the buffalo, pitted the might and spirit of his ancestors against the chaotic, blood-soaked power of Carniferous’ own champion. War clashed against peace, love against hatred, courage against fear.

Years later, the survivng onlookers would swear that the tempest lasted for days, perhaps even weeks, though in reality it lasted less than minutes. The combatants separated, both breathing heavily.

Shocked gasps echoed through the crowd as the dust settled, allowing the spectators their first good look at what had been wrought. Warfather stood on his hind legs, his sword held at an angle out to his side. His armor was all but shattered, and his feathers matted down with sweat, but what drew the eyes of his followers was his left arm. The elbow had been bent at an unnatural angle, the white of bone just barely showing through, but in his talon he clutched a black, curved object.

Chief Thunderhooves seemed equally worse for wear. His armor was gouged by deep slashes, his hooves cracked, and the right side of his face was covered in blood.

Silence reigned for seconds more, both sides unable to comprehend how such damage could be sustained without death.

Warfather chuckled wetly, bloody froth present at the corners of his beak.

“Impressive,” he laughed. “Most impressive. It has been many years since the last time someone has hurt me like this. I had almost forgotten what true pain felt like.”

Thunderhooves breathed heavily in what might have been a snort. He had managed to calm down during the exchange of blows, realizing that his overwhelming hatred was exactly what the griffon wanted. The loss of his horn had been evidence enough of that.

“I do not believe you have ever felt pain,” he rumbled. “Nothing, griffon or otherwise could suffer torment and then willingly inflict it upon others. Not even one as blackhearted as you.”

A genuine snarl curved Warfather’s beak, rage and pain flashing in his eyes for the briefest of moments, before being smothered in a sea of calm. It happened so fast, Thunderhooves was not entirely certain it had happened at all.

“You know nothing of me.” Warfather’s voice could have frozen an open flame.

Thunderhooves hefted his cudgel, its feathers gone and wood cracked.

“I know that I must end you,” he said tiredly. “If Equestria is to have any hope of peace.”

Warfather readied for a death blow, both to himself and his opponent. Truly, he had not encountered someone as difficult to defeat as the Chieftain in all his life, and rightly so. If he had, then the griffon likely would’ve died long ago.

Chief Thunderhooves of the bison clans threw his club aside and angled his skull so that his single, now significantly lengthened horn, sat level with his adversary’s chest. He gritted his teeth and breathed deeply, revealing to all that he had lost more than a few teeth, replaced now by bleeding holes.

He charged.

Warfather stepped back as the bison rushed him, angling his blade as he did so that he would end the beast’s life without pain. He did not deserve a slow, dishonorable death after what had occurred this fateful day.

However, as the two warrior met in what would be their final clash, something occurred that neither one of them would have ever foreseen.

Both the Eternal Stampede and the Blessing of Carniferous exploded as they made contact, bathing all that was visible in an indescribable white light and loud, piercing noise.

When the light had faded, it gave away to another unexpected seen. Both Warfather and Chief Thunderhooves stood opposite one another, neither warrior facing the other. Warfather felt as chill run up his spine as he turned around, his eyes finding that his swung had gone wide, missing its intended mark and leaving a horrendous gash in the buffalo’s side. Amazingly however, no blood flowed, as there was none left. Yet, the bison still stood, fueled by something even the chieftain himself could not comprehend.

The bison slowly turned around, wheezing, tired, and inches from death.

Suddenly, an unholy scream pierced the heavens as the local Corrupted queen emerged from deep underground, spraying sand in every direction. It didn’t look the same anymore, though. This queen must have undergone some kind of metamorphosis, as it now bore a striking resemblance to its mother, Empress Carapace.

A moment of silence followed, broken by the single most indescribable roar ever heard by any creature to have taken form. It had come from Chief Thunderhooves, who was now charging with every last ounce of energy left in his body.

Warfather tried to respond, tried to finish what had started, but found himself incapable of any motion whatsoever as the bison charged towards him. Thunderhooves impacted the warrior priest, sending him hurtling through the air and sprinkling bits of armor the last of his blood in every direction. When he impacted the scorching ground, he had lost all semblance of consciousness. His last words were for his warriors to end their own lives so they would not be executed when they returned home, and they did just that, piercing their bodies with blade after blade until all but one feathered creature lay dead on the sand. Throughout the entire ordeal, Warfather never let go of his sword.

However, the griffon was not Chief Thunderhooves’ final target.

It was the Corrupted Queen.

With the last of his life force, Chief Thunderhooves ran straight through the unholy offspring of a stolen Empress, leaving nothing but dark ash in its wake. The Corrupted overhead simply plummeted to the earth, their bodies quickly dissolving into nothing as they were overtaken by the desert sand.

The Chieftain came to a grinding halt and turned around, his face bearing a smile devoid of anger, bloodlust, or sorrow. There was only fulfillment. He uttered two final words.

“For. . . Mfalme!”

The leader and greatest of all bison came crashing down, the very earth shaking as he did. Chief Thunderhooves’ legs long and prosperous life finally came to an end in the only way he could ever see fit.

Victorious.


As was tradition within the clans, the body of a fallen warrior, no matter their faction, was to be incinerated in a funeral pyre the night of their death. The bison that had fallen today were granted their own pyre, and the griffons their own as well. However, if a bison leader were to perish, they would be granted their own pyre, the largest possible, and their successor would remain at its side until the embers died from lack of fuel. Specifically, the fuel being the shattered remains of any buildings unfortunate enough to have been destroyed or damaged beyond repair in the battle.

The sun had set, and the night felt unusually cold as every warrior, injured or otherwise, paid their respects to the fallen. There was no singing or dancing, or even the faintest tearful sob. There was only quiet, and the occasional crackling of the fire.

Clockwork stood at attention as he went from one pyre to the next and saluted. Sure, the griffons that died today likely wanted nothing more than his death along with every Alliance soldier, but they desired it because they felt it was for the good of their home more so that an insatiable bloodlust. They were soldiers too.

The pyre for the fallen bison was remarkably smaller, as only a few had actually been killed, though the impact was no less noticeable as a result. Death was death no matter how glorious or well deserved, and it affected everyone involved.

Clockwork stopped when he reached Chief Thunderhooves’ funeral pyre, taking a moment to muse upon its immense size. He smirked, hoping that the former leader of the bison would’ve found it of appropriate size for him. Then again, why would he have cared? So long as his people were victorious and safe from harm, he probably wouldn’t have cared how big or small his flames were, and Celestia, were they large.

Clockwork tried to stay by the pyre as best he could, but the rapidly increasing flame size and heat given off proved too much for the stallion soon enough, and he retreated a ways back before standing at Strongheart’s side, who in turn had a heavily bandaged Bull Rush standing at her other side. They all remained silent for some time,

“Should we say anything?” Clockwork asked. “Any parting words or some such?”

“Hmph. No.” Strongheart shook her head, a sad smile on her muzzle. “There is nothing to say that hasn’t already been said about him. Besides, I don’t think Dad would like us wallowing in our sorrow over his passing. Alas, we are only mortal and thus susceptible to our feelings.”

Clockwork nodded slowly. “So. . . what happens now?”

“Well, when the fire has died and I have scattered Father’s ashes, I am to undertake the rite of passage to become the next chieftain, or chieftess actually. Heh. I’ll be granted the power of the Eternal Stampede, and from there I must help my people and allies rebuild before sending my brothers to the front lines en masse.”

“They’ll do great, I’m sure of it.” Clockwork tried his best to reassure her.

“As am I. If you’ll excuse me, I must say my final goodbyes.” with that, the soon to be chieftess made her way a bit closer to the fire and knelt down. She began muttering something too faintly for Clockwork to make any meaning of it, and it was then that he decided to turn his attention to Bull Rush.

“How are you holding up?”

“What? This?” the injured warrior scoffed at the bandages wrapped around his shoulder. “Sure, it hurts like hell but that won’t stop me from helping where I’m needed.”

“We could use your help in Meteor Squad, actually," Clockwork mused. “You’d make for an excellent special forces soldier, and I think Long Shot’s had some experience working with bison before.”

Bull Rush contemplated the offer in his head, but quickly reached a decision. He knelt down as best he could. “I am honored to have been given the offer, but I must humbly refuse. To be honest, I’m actually terrified of heights.”

“Oh.”

“Not just that, though. My people need me right here, here right now, on our home turf. I can’t do much in the lines of offensive actions, but I’ll still do my best. Lastly, I’ve made a promise to my betrothed to stick by her side no matter the circumstances so that she may stay safe in even the most trying of times.”

Both pairs of equine eyes fell on Strongheart. Clockwork didn’t need to ask. “Well, the only things I’ve got left to say are thanks for all the help, and that I wish you two a safe and happy life.”

“The same to you, my friend.”

Clockwork was a little confused by that answer, but he felt no less honored. Both warriors saluted and went their separate ways soon after.


“What do you mean they couldn’t find his body?” Clockwork asked, something between horror and confusion filling his mind.

“I don’t get it much either, kid.” Long Shot ran a hoof through his mane, still a bit damp with sweat. “I’ve looked or Warfather’s body myself and all I found was this damned hole.”

Clockwork looked intently at the black circle once more. Something didn’t add up. The only thing that could dig a hole that deep that quickly was-

“Either way, he’s either dead and buried or heavily wounded and missing in action, both of which are favorable circumstances for us. Never mind that, though.” the commander’s voice took on a much more serious tone. “We’ve got a new set of orders, and they come straight from the royal sisters themselves.”

Clockwork instinctively stood at attention at the mention of his dual rulers.

“They’ve read my report on this battle and know that Meteor’s tired, but we can’t afford to just take a break in the middle of a war. We’re being assigned to a more defensive position for the time being.”

“Where are we headed next, sir?”

“Stalliongrad.”

Next Chapter: Stalliongrad Estimated time remaining: 2 Hours, 21 Minutes
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