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The Blueblood Papers: Royal Blood

by Raleigh

Chapter 11

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The volley thundered out from the front rank in a sharp, ragged crash of musket fire and magic. The smoke billowed back in my face, stinging my eyes and assaulting my nostrils with the sharp tang of burnt powder, but as I blinked away the tears and peered through the swirling morass, I saw the entire vanguard of the horde eviscerated in a storm of lead and magic. A great, screaming confusion erupted in their ranks, as the foremost drones crashed down into the dust before us in a hideous flail of twisted, broken limbs and bloodied craters of flesh and chitin. Those behind, carried forwards by the momentum of the charge, careered straight into their fallen comrades, and became entangled in the grotesque pile of eviscerated corpses.

Fire!” roared Starlit Skies again. The second rank fired over the heads of the kneeling first rank, and the volley smashed into the mess of panicked Changelings. Drones shrieked and fell as the musket balls and magic bolts ripped into the densely-packed mass, hooves lashing out blindly and tripping the ones who had somehow survived. As the smoke cleared in the stiff breeze, it unveiled a horrendous sight that haunts me still; a few scant dozen or so yards away was a bank of dead and wounded Changelings, all piled up in a bloody and twisted tangle of drones, with limbs and heads and wings stuck out at obscene angles. Some still lived, though barely, and I glimpsed one such poor creature, a raw crater in its chest oozing ichor and liquified organs, shrieking in the madness of indescribable pain, trying in vain to pull itself free from the weight of its dead comrades.

Major Starlit Skies surveyed the carnage with his usual dispassionate, analytical coldness. The enemy had been given a bloody nose, yes, but the greater mass of the horde was still unbroken, though merely reeling from the onslaught. It would not be long before the Purestrains re-established their hold on their drones, and would descend upon us before the front rank had the chance to reload.

“Fix bayonets!” he shouted. “Draw swords!” The order was relayed across the line, and at once the unicorns drew their swords and the earth ponies went through the mechanical process of fixing bayonets.

I saw one, quite close to me, struggle to insert the blade’s handle into the gun’s muzzle. His hooves shook with fright, and the bayonet slipped from his sweaty grip and landed in the dust. Sergeant Major Square Basher, who had been trotting up and down the line making sure everypony was ready and sorted, came across this poor lad, who flinched from the imposing mare and the onslaught of creative invective that was to follow. To his surprise and mine, she simply picked up the dropped blade, inserted it into the barrel, twisted it to lock it in place, and offered a few quiet words of encouragement that I couldn’t hear.

[These early bayonets were of the ‘plug’ type, which fitted directly into the musket barrel as Blueblood described, and allowed the musket to double as a spear for close combat. This, however, prevented the gun from being loaded and fired. The socket bayonet, in which the blade is off-set from the muzzle and would allow the soldier to load and fire, was introduced much later.]

Surely they would flee, thought I, in the face of overwhelming Equestrian superiority in the field, but there was no such luck. A retreat back to the high ground would still have allowed us to fire upon them with impunity and without fear of retaliation, so another frontal attack before our troops had a chance to reload and recharge was their only recourse. I could see them, beyond the jagged line of the dead and dying, regrouping and massing for the final charge that would finish us off, unless we got there first.

“Sir?” Cannon Fodder touched my shoulder, leaving a smear of filth on the already dusty tunic sleeve. “Your sword?”

It was still in its scabbard, hanging by my hip. I muttered a quiet, awkward ‘thanks’ in embarrassment and drew it with a sharp rasp of steel grating on steel. The hefty Pattern ‘12 sabre, more like a heavy machete for chopping into tough chitin than anything else called a ‘sabre’, felt oddly reassuring in my grip. Gliding Moth’s rapier, which had remained a constant and reliable companion when I inherited it, was back at camp; its elegant and slim blade was ill-suited for hacking up Changelings, and I couldn’t risk losing it, either.

Then, somewhere close by but unseen, a bugle blasted a short, cheerful little refrain that was soon drowned out utterly by the fearsome, terrifying roar, louder than the volleys, that rose up from our ranks. I was deafened by it, and cowed by its oppressive power; it was a bestial, atavistic cry that belonged more to our primitive ancestors braining one another with large rocks than supposedly civilised ponies. But then I suppose we always were those ponies, and such bloodlust only lurked behind the locked door of civility where it could be torn open by drill instructors and projected at an enemy to fight.

I was swept forwards from behind on a veritable equine wave. Try as I might to slow myself to allow those soldiers more eager than I to charge on ahead, I found myself somehow forced to the fore, as ever, to the very front line with the earth ponies. I scrambled with my newfound comrades over the piled bodies of the Changelings, my hooves sinking into ichor-soaked dust and squelching horribly in glistening entrails and exposed flesh. There was nowhere for me to go without stepping on something disgusting, that was once a living, breathing creature that, regardless of orders, probably didn’t want to die here.

I had half a second’s glimpse of the disorganised rabble that was the war swarm before we collided into it. The earth ponies smashed into the horde, their bayonets slicing through toughened chitin and into the vulnerable flesh beneath, and the dead and wounded were trampled under-hoof.

Hurled into the hell of combat once again, I swung wildly with my sabre. The drone looked shocked, horrified even, as the brutishly heavy blade came down and bit deeply into its skull. The creature hissed and shrieked as I tugged the sabre free, blood and brain matter splashed into my face, and it fell to the ground in a twitching, bleeding heap.

I stepped over the dead thing. The next one lunged at me, sharp and glistening fangs bared for my throat. My sword was raised again to fend it off, but this one ducked underneath the panicked swing. Cannon Fodder, advancing by my left, thrust his spear and caught the creature in the exposed gap between chitinous plates. It fell to the ground like a coat dropped from a hook, bleeding from severed arteries. My aide flashed me one of his rare grins, looking very proud of himself.

The Guards Division forced the enemy back, but the Changeling swarm surged against us, battering itself against the impenetrable Equestrian phalanx. For a moment the scrum was at a stalemate, as ponies and Changelings pushed against one another, struggling in the massed press of sweat-soaked bodies and sun-baked armour. Squeezed on all sides, I barely had room to swing my sword, while around me, the long muskets tipped with bayonets were now unwieldy with the enemy mere inches away, and many soldiers had discarded them. As ever, for all the advances made in the science of killing, it all came down to hooves, teeth, and fangs.

A Changeling hoof struck my nose, and it exploded in a torrent of blood and pain. There was no time to check if it had been broken; the creature hissed and reared up on its hindlegs, forelegs flailing to smash my skull. I flinched back, right into the pony behind me, who yelled something I couldn’t make out and gave me a heavy shove forwards. My horn rammed into the drone’s chest, knocking into the hard chitin without so much as a scratch or a dent and sending a jab of pain right into the centre of my skull. It tumbled over onto its back, and I, without conscious thought on my part, hacked my sword down like a great machete.

The drone raised its hooves to try and block my sword, but the heavy, inelegant blade simply chopped through and severed them. I hacked again, putting the poor thing out of its misery by burying the blade deep into its chest, and its screaming mercifully ceased.

We pushed on, and slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the Equestrians began to drive the Changelings back up the hill. Above, the light pegasus company weaved through the air, while the heavier ones lingered closer to keep our foe pinned to the ground. I struggled onwards, pushed forth by the grinding momentum of the advance, my horn aching with each and every swing of that heavy sword and my limbs with every step. What was going on elsewhere, along the flanks, ahead and behind, beyond the mere three feet all around that had become my entire world, I had no idea; there was only this narrow, solipsist view of but a tiny portion of this monstrous struggle.

Everything became a blur of blood and steel. In the press of bodies all around and my attention reduced to my sword and the snarling beasts immediately in front of me, so it was no wonder I or the ponies near me failed to see the ditch ahead. All I can recall of it is seeing the vast horde ahead of us part suddenly, opening a wide gap, and before I could look down I felt the awful sensation of my forehooves falling through where I thought the ground should have been. I scrambled back on my hindlegs, but there was a pony behind me, and with no room to manoeuvre I toppled over the edge. My hooves grabbed onto the closest thing that seemed sturdy enough, but that happened to be Cannon Fodder, and I only succeeded in dragging him down with me.

I rolled down this steep, almost sheer drop down into this ditch. Rocks jabbed painfully into my body, and scraped against my skin until I came to a stop in a bruised and bloodied heap.

Everything hurt, but that at least meant that I was still alive. I dragged myself to my hooves with Cannon Fodder’s assistance and grabbed my sword from the ground, which had slipped from my magical grasp. A cursory check proved I wasn’t gravely injured, though my new uniform would never be the same again.

About a score of us had fallen in, including the pony behind me who I had bumped into. Apparently seeing that we were trapped, a mob of Changelings braved the swarm of pegasi above and dived into the ditch to finish us off. Only then, as the grinding advance of the Night Guards proceeded above us, did they perhaps realise they were now trapped in this ditch with us.

We were stuck there, and that became readily apparent when I tried and failed to get out the way that I had fallen in. I scrambled back, trying to crawl up and out of the ditch, but the ground was too steep and the gravel too loose for my hooves to find firm purchase. What could only be described as a vicious brawl broke out, as both sides, maddened by their newfound captivity, realised the only way to escape was to exterminate the enemy.

There was no glory in this, only savagery. Here, a stallion’s neck was torn open by Changeling fangs and he fell, choking on his own blood as he desperately tried to stem the bleeding with his hooves. Next to him, another pony repeatedly stamped on a drone’s head until its skull cracked and its face turned to jelly. A unicorn blasted magic at point-blank range into a Changeling’s chest, burning a smouldering hole the size of a dinner plate clean through, before he was mobbed by three others and he fell beneath them. Elsewhere, a pony and a drone wrestled in the blood-soaked dust in a fatal embrace, until their coats and chitin became so covered in foul-smelling sludge that it was almost impossible to tell the two apart. Around us, the battalion poured around the edges, though in the mad press of bodies all around, a few tumbled in after us.

I darted right in; I don’t know, I wasn’t thinking straight, but it seemed that if I was going to survive this hell I had to do something. As the pony and the drone rolled in the dust, hooves hurled at one another and teeth snapping, I wrapped my hooves around the Changeling’s waist and pulled it back. At the same time, I brought my sword down between its neck and shoulder, impaling it right through. It gurgled, spasming in my hooves until it suddenly went limp. The soldier thanked me and joined his comrades, and I dropped the dead thing and followed.

Another drone lunged at me, this one with its right hoof transformed into a sharp spike twelve inches long from the fetlock. Bewildered and surprised at this, I scrambled back, slipping in the puddles of blood and ichor, and only just brought up my sabre in time to deflect the thrust. It was a little too late, however; pain burst around the left side of my chest as the blade sliced into it.

Yet there was no blood, though it hurt like the blazes. I didn’t know if their kind were capable of expressing surprise, but the face that the Changeling pulled looked desperately close to it. That moment of hesitation was enough for me to turn my sword in a loop, still using the momentum gathered from when I deflected the thrust, and raked the blade through the Changeling’s chest. The thing shrieked and flinched back, and blood gushed from the gaping wound. Acting more on instinct, despite knowing there was no way even it could survive that, I leapt forward and hacked the blade down, catching the creature in the neck and digging deep into its flesh.

Then it was over as quickly as it had begun. The Changelings were all dead, along with about half of the ponies. A few would join them before the day was over, judging by their horrendous wounds. This ditch had become a charnel pit; bodies were piled up at the bottom, drones and ponies alike in the still embrace of death, unmoving and yet whose lifeless eyes stared accusingly at those who had been granted the mercy of survival. Those survivors stared back with haunted, empty expressions; one of their number broke down and sobbed quietly, and were it not for my station as an officer I’d have done the same.

My ribs stung with every laboured breath, but I was still alive; Rarity’s armour had paid for itself. I pulled at my tunic, seeing the hole that the Changeling’s bladed hoof had ripped into it, and when I angled it the right way I could make out a scratch, about three inches long and quite deep with frayed edges, in the star spider silk. With it, I suffered only a painful bruise, but without it, the blade would have slid between my ribs and punctured a lung.

The stench of death and blood all around had become overwhelming, and the bile burned the back of my throat. My head swam, as though I was drunk, and simultaneously there came an immense throbbing and pounding inside my skull, or perhaps it had been there all this time and I only noticed because now I had a second to think about it. My mouth was desperately dry, and all I could taste was copper and ash, so I tried to drink from my canteen. I ended up spilling a great deal of its precious contents, and what I could greedily gulp down was not enough.

I wanted out of there. Now. The sight of so much horror inspired a peculiar sort of mania in me, and despite my injuries I threw myself against the steep slope to try and escape it. One would think that I would have become accustomed to such sights after all that I have been through, and I can say with some small element of pride that I did not, and still have not. Strong hooves seized me by the shoulders and lifted me up. I flinched, raising my sword in panic, and squirmed as they wrapped tightly around my upper arms.

“Easy, sir.” I looked up to see not a drone but a pegasus lifting me out of the ditch. His comrades had started doing the same to the others. “It’s only us.”

After being dropped unceremoniously on the dusty ground, I pulled myself up and tried to fight the rising nausea and panic. Cannon Fodder was deposited next to me by another pegasus who promptly sped off to wash his hooves; my aide looked no worse for wear after our shared ordeal, though I had lost sight of him in that gruesome fight. Looking around, from what I could tell, though somewhat delirious with pain and adrenaline, it appeared that the division had advanced without me. Good luck to them, thought I, as I stared up at the ridge and the vast band of steel and gold that stretched off unseen into the distance either side, but I was in no eager rush to join them. It looked like they had already reached the summit, and were holding the high ground Market Garden had ordered them to take.

Around us, though, was not much of an improvement on the misery of the ditch; bodies dotted the entire stretch of the slope from its base to its peak, some torn and bloodied, others whole and looked as though they were merely sleeping, and all around I could hear the pitious wailing of the wounded and dying. We might have won this battle, the turning point in the war some would later call it, but every triumph must be tinged with loss and pain. I watched, not knowing where I was supposed to go or what I was supposed to do now, as the white-uniformed medics moved like ghosts between the bodies, both dead and clinging tenaciously to the thin sliver of life, marking the fallen, tending to the wounded, and easing the passage of the dying. Teams of stretcher-bearers collected those destined for the surgeon’s hacksaw, and carted them off down the slope to where a small collection of tents had sprung up; one must have been the field hospital.

Captain Blitzkrieg landed next to me, the flutter of his wings almost silent. He looked dreadful, more so than usual, with torn feathers, a gash over his right eye, and hoof-shaped dents all over his armour. He peered over the edge and into the ditch.

“Celestia’s tits,” he said breathlessly, pointing down at the butchery below. “Were you in that?”

“Yes,” I said. “Damned rotten business.”

“Too bloody right.” Blitzkrieg pulled out a packet of cheap cigarillos from his pocket, stuck one in his mouth, then patted his hooves over the pouches and pockets slung over his armour for what I assumed was his lighter. I obliged with a small light from my horn, and I admit gaining some foalish amusement out of making the diminutive pegasus have to rear up to reach it. He mumbled a thanks and took a heavy, impatient drag on it.

“The colonel wants to see you,” he said, expelling a dense cloud of smoke that was soon lost amidst the lingering smog left by the artillery and musket fire.

“Which one?” I asked.

“Ours, you daft ninny,” he said. I ignored the insult, or I think it was intended as such; although I have spent more time than I ever intended to with Trottingham ponies, some of their slang still escaped me. “He’s been chatting to the Griffons and he thinks he’s got an idea.”

Colonels getting bright ideas was rarely a good sign, and considering Sunshine Smiles himself was the sort who applied himself to his job with far too much enthusiasm for my liking, it was even less of an incentive. Nevertheless, Blitzkrieg pointed me to where the good colonel was, which, to the surprise of nopony, was right at the very top of the ridge.

I politely refused the offer of a lift, preferring to walk, or perhaps crawl, my way up there with Cannon Fodder rather than suffer the indignity of being carried by pegasi again. After about five minutes into my journey, pulling myself step by painful step up that uneven slope, I regretted that choice. However, I could hardly go back and ask for one now after having refused it; I would never hear the end of it from Blitzkrieg and the other pegasi in the officers’ mess once this was all over. The going was slow, not helped by the fact the adrenaline had started to wear off and the wave of exhaustion that had been kept at bay came flooding in.

I was drained, completely, utterly, and totally. My legs felt like they were made of jelly, and seemed like they could barely hold me up. I felt sick too, and were I not on an empty stomach I was sure I would have thrown up by now; in fact, I was rather hungry, and while I was moderately certain that eating something would help me feel better, I was afraid that I would almost immediately expel it. My nose too, where it had been punched by a Changeling, stung awfully, though at least the flow of blood had ceased for now. When I touched it with a hoof, the pain increased tenfold, like a hot knife straight to the nerves, and I could hear and feel a horrid ‘crackling’. Still, as long as I could focus on putting one hoof in front of the other, and try to ignore the horror all around me, I knew I could manage.

It was still early morning, as far as I could tell; I didn’t bring my watch, unlike Starlit Skies, as I did not fancy losing a valuable family heirloom in that fight. To give an accurate measurement of how long the battle, or at least the part I had participated in, had taken would be impossible; it had felt like an eternity, but it could only really have been an hour or so. I reached the top, where the entire division was arrayed out in a line along the ridge. As far as I could tell the fighting had mercifully stopped, judging by the general mood and bearing of the troops now arranged neatly into their formations as before.

I found Colonel Sunshine Smiles at the front of the formation, as usual, standing with Lieutenant-Colonel Guillaume and one of the unicorn runners some distance away from the front line of earth ponies and unicorns. As I approached, emerging out of the relative safety granted by the armoured wall of soldiers, I felt so terribly exposed out in the open. I looked all around in case some Changeling would suddenly dart out from behind one of the clouds of smoke that still lingered or dispel a cunning disguise as a rock and rip me to shreds. It would have been a shame, thought I, to have survived all of that, only to be struck down by an assassin.

The ridge sloped away into a shallow valley, and lying in the middle of it was that city I had seen in the reconnaissance photograph much earlier. That image had not done it justice; taken from a great distance, it had failed to convey accurately the sheer size and thickness of the walls that surrounded it, nor the formidable castle that towered over the squat, flat houses and the twisted Changeling architecture. To advance from this high ground that Market Garden had so desperately wanted to the walls would mean charging across open land, as replete with craters, ditches, and outcroppings as the other slope, without meaningful cover for what must have been at least a mile.

Once they crossed that open ground, an attacking army would have to overcome a deep and wide ditch that had been dug around the entirety of the city, except, of course, where the river passed under the walls. Even then, the massive stone walls would have to be breached, and these were not the same as the decaying, crumbling defences of Fort Nowhere - instead, they appeared to be new, or at least well-maintained and bolstered, being tall and thick, with towers and bastions at presumably strategically-placed locations to counter assault from the air. Changelings, being the sort of conniving, un-gentlecoltly, and dishonourable creatures that they are, were likely to have a whole host of other nasty surprises hidden away too. Any positive feelings about being on the opposite side of a siege after last time were very quickly washed away when I saw precisely what we would be up against.

“Bloody hell,” said Sunshine Smiles as Cannon Fodder and I approached. “You look like shit, Your Highness.”

“I fell in a ditch,” I said. “It was full of Changelings.”

The colonel looked far from peaky himself. His grey Night Guards armour had turned black with smoke residue and dried blood and ichor, which caked his peytral and covered up the eye symbol upon his breast. There were a number of cuts and gashes on his exposed skin, though they seemed to be superficial, but his left eye was bloodshot and there was a dark hoof-shaped bruise around it like a frame. He beckoned me over and pointed at something down in the valley.

“They’re retreating,” he said. I followed his hoof to see what was left of the Changeling war swarm milling about, roughly halfway between us and the city. If they were running away, it looked like they were doing it rather slowly. “Guillaume here has come up with a cunning plan. Why don’t you tell the commissar about it?”

The Griffon stepped forwards hesitantly. He too looked as though he had been in the thick of the fighting, though I had no idea what the PGL had been up to and where, as I hadn’t seen any of them from my myopic view point. [In the Battle of the Heights the PGL had fought to maintain Equestrian dominance of the air, with individual flocks, their equivalent of companies, assigned to different sections of the battlefield] In addition to the ichor and gore smeared on his armour, his beak and talons were likewise smothered in it. Despite being part of the Equestrian Army, it still seemed that the PGL adhered to the relentless, predatory savagery of the Griffon traditions of war; namely, tearing the enemy to shreds with the weapons that Faust, in Her dubious wisdom, had granted them.

“We can cut them off,” he said, his voice raspy, as though he had been shouting an awful lot. “Gather the PGL and all of the pegasi in the division, then cut off their retreat before they reach the city. Then the ground troops can move in, surround them, and then finish them off.”

“Then Market Garden and the general staff can have that decisive battle of annihilation they’ve always wanted,” said Sunshine Smiles.

I made a quiet, impressed humming noise as I peered over his shoulder at the fleeing Changelings, pretending that I was considering his plan. It certainly sounded all very dramatic and such, I’ll admit; the sort of thing Neighpoleon himself might have pulled off all those years ago before it all went badly for him. I, however, claim to be no expert on such things, and as a general rule if I think that any sort of military endeavour is a good idea based solely on my gut instinct and my complete lack of knowledge of anything military beyond hitting things with a sword, then it will very likely lead to disaster.

As it happened, the two weren’t looking for my input, but just wanted me to accompany Guillaume when he explained his bright idea to General Market Garden.

“It might be more convincing if you’re there to back him up,” said Sunshine Smiles. “General Market Garden seems to like you.”

That was a damned lie and he knew it, but then who could really tell with her? The pony had the social skills of a bowl of cold, watery porridge with a chunk of rusty iron hidden within its bland depths. Ordinarily I’d have leapt at the chance to get away from the misery of the frontline, even if it was just a mile or so further down where the generals got to sit back and watch the battle they had planned as they sipped their morning tea, but Market Garden’s personality was so unbearable that I was considering charging on ahead and trying my luck with the Changelings instead.

Of course, sense won out, and I accepted this task, knowing full well that its success could mean me being hurled right into danger yet again. I was about to start heading back down the slope to where I assumed Market Garden and her cronies still were, when I felt the unpleasant and distracting tingle of teleportation tickling hairs on my coat.

The dizzying sensation of being shoved across space and time was at least over in an instant, but it was disorientating enough to send me toppling over into Guillaume, who seemed to fare much better with such things and steadied me with a bloodied claw. Looking around, I saw that we were now much further down the hill, back where we had started. Gazing up at those heights, the rough and dusty slopes appeared to be covered in tiny dark dots, some moving and others still, while at the summit a great number of them had congregated into a neat band like a vast silk ribbon draped over it. I tried to see if I could find that ditch I had fallen into with Cannon Fodder, but from this distance all of those lines of trenches and pits looked the same to me, and I quickly gave up.

Another one of Twilight’s new innovations, though how many of the reforms that bore her name were down to her alone over the countless names tucked away in the references section of her report was anypony’s guess. Messages and certain important ponies could now be delivered faster and more safely by a cadre of highly-trained unicorns skilled in teleportation, instead of the traditional runners who had to trot or fly; it was all well and good, but I would have appreciated a warning first.

[Just like many other things associated with the military, this has its own acronym: Teleport-Aided Command and Control (TACC). The unicorns were therefore nicknamed ‘tackers’ by the troops. While an improvement on the previous system of relaying messages with runners, teleportation is very high level magic that few unicorns can ever master, and in battle may end up draining their magic too quickly. Therefore, runners were still in use throughout the war.]

Speaking of my aide, the unusually fresh air in place of the odour of fermented vegetables made me realise that Cannon Fodder had been left behind at the top of the ridge. Of course, his unique ability to suck out magic from all around like a sponge and channel it to Faust knows where worked just as effectively on beneficial spells as it did those that would harm us. Evidently, the unicorn who brought us here hadn’t been informed of this (I made great pains to keep this whole thing a secret, as it had proved to be very useful in otherwise deadly encounters) and he was a little upset at having lost a passenger, though I reassured him that he would turn up sooner or later.

We had materialised just outside Market Garden’s command marquee, which looked suspiciously like the sort used for the Canterlot garden party I had attended a few years ago during happier times. There were a few other large tents surrounding it, forming a small camp of sorts, and with it the usual bustle of frantic activity. One other such tent, the largest one around and a reasonable walk away, was marked out with red crosses as the field hospital, where medics and stretcher-bearers carried the more serious cases from the battlefield to be dealt with by the surgeons. Those awaiting treatment were placed outside in pitiful rows, each having been quickly bandaged up and left to wait for their turn under the scalpel or bonesaw. I forced myself to look away, but the moans of pain that could not be dulled by morphine and sedatives could not be ignored so easily.

I led Guillaume into the marquee. Inside was an austere version of Market Garden’s command centre in Fort Nowhere, with the very same map table occupying the centre and the same staff officers milling about and transporting vast amounts of paperwork to and from smaller desks and filing cabinets. The tent at least provided some measure of respite from the heat of the day, which by then was starting to beat down in earnest. Here, ponies chattered, argued, bickered, discussed whatever was on these very important bits of paper, and runners and tackers in weathered armour darted in, either collected or dropped off scribbled orders and reports, and then dipped out again.

However, as I stepped inside, the general hubbub of a busy office abruptly ceased, as though the needle had been wrenched violently from a gramophone record. Judging by the reactions I received, Colonel Sunshine Smiles was not exaggerating when he said that I looked like ‘shit’, as he had so eloquently put it, and though I had neither the time nor the inclination to verify that assessment by consulting a mirror, which I was unlikely to find around here anyway, the way that I felt certainly warranted so vulgar a term. I was covered in dust, sweat, ichor, and blood, and how much of the latter was mine or somepony else’s I couldn’t say for certain. The staff officers all stared at me as I staggered in, Guillaume in tow, each bearing stunned and horrified expressions - I wagered many of these bureaucrats had never so much seen the sight of blood until today, and I feared for their sanity should they peek outside at the rows of wounded laid out by the hospital.

“Blueblood!” exclaimed Market Garden. She grinned widely and beckoned me over with a hoof. “A spectacular victory by all accounts! And by Celestia you look like you’ve been in the thick of it. Oh, how I wish I could have been there.”

I concurred; generals might be a tad more careful about ordering offensives if they had to share in the fighting and the dying like the rest of us, but then I supposed there wouldn’t be very many such operations anymore. Although, that would be no bad thing, the more that I think about it, and perhaps we might have peace instead if leaders shared in the suffering of their followers. Really, though, there was little chance of that even if I did get my wish, and knowing my luck the likes of Market Garden would only be encouraged further.

“Shall we muster the troops for an inspection?” she continued, all but prancing back over to the large map table. Market Garden preened in front of the rather exasperated-looking staff officers, all of whom probably had been putting up with this sort of thing the moment she glimpsed Equestrian flag raised on top of the ridge. “The soldiers will want to see their victorious general!”

“My division has spent all morning fighting,” said Major-General Garnet, glaring at his superior. “I think an inspection can wait, ma’am, especially if the ponies look as bad as His Highness here. It wouldn’t be fair on them.”

“Oh, fine,” said Market Garden, sounding more like a spoilt foal who had been talked into sharing some of her birthday cake with the others at her party. Still, Garnet seemed to have handled her well, and even though he made absolutely no effort to hide his displeasure she either didn’t notice or didn’t care. “Let them bask in our victory for the moment, but I want to see Virion Hive for myself sharpish.”

Even in his ridiculously ostentatious uniform Second Fiddle still seemed to disappear into the background when in a large group of ponies, so it was something of an unwelcome surprise when he abruptly said something and made me finally realise he was present. As implausible as it might sound, with his highly polished gold reflecting the bright sunlight from outside and the assortment of self-awarded medals jingling with each movement, I had completely failed to spot him. Of course, I was also dehydrated, exhausted, and quite generally out of it after that ordeal, so I like to think I can be excused for this oversight.

“Why aren’t you with your battalion, Blueblood?” he said. His face was quite pale as he looked at me, or rather the blood splattered all over my uniform, and he covered his mouth and nose with that silly hoofkerchief.

“The division’s just routed an entire Changeling war swarm, so I think they can look after themselves for a bit,” I said, choosing to respond to his rather rude insinuation that I shouldn’t be here with a sarcastic quip, instead of the rather less erudite series of un-printable expletives that my lips had first formed before my aristocratic sense of propriety stepped in. “However, Lieutenant-Colonel Guillaume has a proposal for you.”

“I am not in the habit of taking advice on strategy from Griffons,” said Market Garden, turning away from us.

“I think we should hear it out,” I said, surprised at my own insistent tone. “I would not have come here if I didn’t think it had some merit. Guillaume, if you would.”

The griffon stepped forwards, trying to hold himself confidently with his head held high and back straight, though a more perceptive eye would have seen his tail tucked between his hind legs and the ruffled feathers around his neck. He explained his observation and suggestion as he had done with me just earlier, albeit with a far more deferential tone and a great deal more ‘sirs’ and ‘ma’ams’ used, almost in the place of commas and full stops were I to write out his speech verbatim. The generals and staff officers present listened on with varying levels of interest; Market Garden looked bored but paid attention presumably because she had been informed that it was the polite thing to do, whereas Garnet, for once listening to what another had to say rather than dominating the conversation with a prepared speech about whatever useless trivia interested him at that moment, was thoroughly enraptured by the idea, and had at least held off on his rambling until Guillaume had finished.

“It could work,” said Major-General Garnet. “A total encirclement of the war swarm, just like the Battle of Canine in the Second Ponic War, when the Cartaginians completely encircled and wiped out-”

“Yes, yes,” snapped Market Garden, silencing him with a wave of her hoof. “We all read about that in the Academy.”

I didn’t, but then again I spent most of my time in the Royal Academy chasing mares, drinking, and gambling instead of studying, and I still walked out with a commission in the Solar Guard as well as a collection of easily-cured venereal diseases, a cataclysmic hangover, and a coin purse heavier than the one I had enrolled with. The poor dears here before me had wasted that time actually learning, which, now that I think about it, is probably why they got to be generals in the relative safety of a mile behind the frontline, while I had to slog through the dust, dirt, and blood with the common soldiery. Nevertheless, I nodded along as though I understood the reference.

“It would be a tremendous gamble,” said Market Garden, partly to herself as she seemed to be thinking through the proposal. “Maintaining the encirclement would be difficult; we will require enough airborne troops to keep the bugs from just flying out of it, and even then our ground forces will be spread much too thinly.”

“We have reserves,” said Garnet, stepping around the table and picking up a clipboard with a few sheets of paper pinned to it. He peered down at the numbers and charts. “The Two Sisters Brigade [the common nickname for the 1st Brigade of the Guards Regiment, consisting of the Solar and Night Guards] took a bit of a beating taking that high ground, but the 2nd Brigade is still mostly fresh. They and the PGL can pin down the enemy while you send in another division to finish them off.”

Market Garden shook her head. “This is simply too much,” she said. “Far, far too great a gamble, and the costs of failure far too severe to justify it, even to destroy an entire war swarm. Now that we have taken this high ground we must conserve our strength for the fight ahead, not squander it with this cavalier scheme.”

“Ma’am, we may never get another chance like this again!” Garnet waved the clipboard at his superior, as though that might convince her. “We simply can’t let this opportunity slip past our hooves. I simply can’t. No general ever won a war through caution.”

“No, but generals have lost wars by wasting lives and materiel on such ill-planned adventures. I’ll not have it, Garnet. We dig in and prepare for a siege.”

Major-General’s Garnet’s mouth hung open in disbelief, as though the muscles that had held it shut had been rendered loose and inoperable. He looked to me, as if for help, but I couldn’t give more than a sympathetic look; I certainly was not about to get involved in this little argument, especially if it meant coming down on one side and earning the ire of the other.

“But if we strike now we can avoid a siege!” His voice now had become exasperated and pleading.

“A siege is precisely what I have planned for.” Market Garden swept her hoof over the veritable mountain of paperwork on the map table. “Our objective is to take Virion Hive, and I’ll not throw away the victory we have won this day by marching our troops into what might very well turn out to be a trap.”

“But-”

Second Fiddle cleared his throat and stepped forwards, startling me again by reminding me that he was still present. “General Market Garden has made up her mind,” he said. He then turned to Lieutenant-Colonel Guillaume, who had stood by my side throughout this whole argument with a sort of bewildered awkwardness, as though he had wanted more than anything to interject on behalf of his plan but his inferior rank forbade him. “Thank you for your suggestion, but it is not needed here. Now if you don’t mind, we’re all rather busy trying to win this war.”

He made a shoo-ing motion with a hoof and then turned away; the condescension rankled me, but I held my tongue for now. Though I hadn’t had much stock in Guillaume’s plan, and indeed, deep down, I must admit that I was hoping it would be rejected, seeing the rather disappointed expression on the Griffon’s face did invoke at least some sympathetic feeling in me. I muttered a thanks and then led him back outside and into the glare of the mid-morning sun, the smell of antiseptic and blood, and the choking dust all around.

“I thought it was a good idea, at least,” I said. “But General Market Garden has to consider the bigger picture. Don’t take it personally.”

Guillaume shrugged his shoulders, and clicked his beak. “I know,” he said. “At least I caught the eye of Major-General Garnet.”

So, he was more astute than I had initially thought, and when said general officer emerged from the tent behind us, apparently having followed us out, he discovered he was more correct than he had initially thought. Guillaume boggled at him, and then snapped to attention and saluted briskly, which Garnet responded to with equal alacrity.

“So much for that ‘offensive spirit’ she keeps talking about,” said Garnet. “The PGL acquitted itself well today.”

“Thank you,” said Guillaume, “sir.”

“You kept them off our stallions’ backs for the entire fight so they could concentrate on pushing forward, just like the Battle of Canterlot when-” he stopped, holding up a hoof to his mouth, and grinned “-I know, I’ll tell you all about that later. Look, the general’s said we can’t encircle the enemy, but you can still do something for me. You Griffons are hunters, so I order you to hunt; harass the enemy, pick off stragglers, just don’t let them have an easy retreat back to their walls. I’ll leave the specifics for you to sort out.”

He handed over the scribbled order on a folded sheet of note paper, and that appeared to mollify Guillaume for now. After another round of salutes and ‘sirs’ he flew off back to the top of the ridge and Garnet trotted back inside the marquee.

And so that was that; we had won, apparently, and that marked the end of my involvement in this part of the battle. I could go on to describe the mopping up, consolidating, and general fretting about that took up the remainder of the day, before I could finally retire for the night and drink myself into a stupor so I could finally sleep untroubled by nightmares, but I expect that I would just be repeating myself. That’s not important, anyway, as ever, history is less about these sorts of details and more about the debate between conflicting interpretations, as Twilight had told me decades later when this accursed war had fallen into what society would call ‘the past’.

I have told you, dear reader, as much as I can remember of that dreadful morning, or wish to remember, as the case may be. If it doesn’t tally up against what you have read in somepony else’s memoirs or what some intellectual binoclard had written in a dry history book then I’m at a bit of a loss; what I have laid out are the facts as I recall them, or rather the feeling of them. Some say that Major Starlit Skies had really left it too late and the Night Guards could only fire off a single volley before charging, whereas others say there was a third volley - I remember two, and I am certain that he, who always planned everything to mathematical precision, intended precisely two volleys. Perhaps they are right and I’m wrong, I was there and even I can’t say for certain.

I mention this because I expect some who read this will do so to seek elucidation on Market Garden’s decision not to pursue the fleeing Changelings, as if my testimony will shift the balance one way or another in the debate that had been raging in the long decades since. It is not my place to trade in should-haves and what-ifs; who can say with any real certainty that Guillaume’s idea would have worked as spectacularly well as some say, or if it would have resulted in throwing away a stunning victory as Market Garden feared? Might the horror that was to come later be avoided if the fleeing swarm was surrounded and destroyed, or would that have only accelerated the escalation of misery?

I am afraid that all I can provide on this account is, again, the events as I experienced them, but if pushed, if Twilight Sparkle held her horn to my temple and ordered me to come down on one side of the argument or the other or my brains will be ejected forcefully through the opposite side of my skull, I suppose I must err on the side of caution, as is my nature, and fall into Market Garden’s camp. I claim no expertise in that matter, but after that brutal uphill fight I was thoroughly exhausted, and I do not believe it would be arrogant of me to assume that much of the division felt the same way, regardless of what Garnet said about 2nd Brigade being ‘fresh’, and to ask them, and me, of course, to go through that again with barely a rest was demanding far too much of those who had already given so much.

As I crawled back up that slope for the second time that day, weaving around the bodies and the medics dealing with them, I knew, like this ridge after reaching the apex, the only way to go was down - things could only get worse.

Next Chapter: Chapter 12 Estimated time remaining: 8 Hours, 48 Minutes
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