My Faithful Companion

Jura knelt in a bed of trampled reed grass and scanned the tracks with a practiced eye. The prints told her that the deer had been in the meadow only a half-hour before. Soon they would bed down. Her target, a small buck with a pronounced limp in his left forefoot, was still with the herd. She was amazed he had made it so far without a wolf or bear catching him. The sky was clear and dark, and a slight breeze stirred the air. A silvery cloud drifted over the mountains that surrounded her, its edges glowing with ruddy light cast from the harvest moon cradled between two peaks. Streams flowed down the mountains from stolid glaciers and glistening snowpacks. A brooding mist crept along the valley's floor, almost as thick enough to obscure her hooves. Jura was fifteen, less than a year from marehood. Dark circles rested below her intense blue eyes. Her clothes were worn from work. A hunting knife with a bone handle was sheathed at her belt, and a buckskin tube protected her yew bow from the mist. She carried a wood-frame pack.

The deer had led her deep into Spine, a range of untamed mountains that extended up and down the land of Equestria. Strange tales and stallions often come from those mountains, usually boding ill. Despite that, Jura did not fear the Spine-she was the only hunter near Ponyville who dared track game deep into its craggy recesses. It was the third night of the hunt, and her food was half gone. If she did not fell the buck, she would be forced to return home empty-hoofed. Her family needed the meat for the rapidly approaching winter and couldn't afford to buy it in Ponyville.

Jura stood with quiet assurance in the dusky moonlight, and then strode into the forest toward a glen where she was sure the deer would rest. The trees blocked the sky from view and cast feathery shadows on the ground. She looked at the tracks only occasionally, she knew the way.

At the glen, she strung her bow with a sure touch, then drew three arrows and nocked one, holding the others in her left wing. The moonlight revealed twenty or so motionless lumps where the deer lay in the grass. The buck she wanted was at the edge of the herd, his left foreleg stretched out awkwardly.

Jura slowly crept closer, keeping the bow ready. All her of the past three days had led to this moment. She took a last steadying breath and- an explosion shattered the night. The herd bolted. Jura lunged toward, racing through the grass as a fiery wind surged past her cheek. She slid to a stop and loosed an arrow at the bounding buck. It missed by a hoof's breadth and hissed into darkness. She cursed and spun around, instinctively nocking another arrow.

Behind her, where the deer had been, smouldered a large circle of grass and trees. Many of the pines stood bare of their needles. The grass outside the charring was flattened. A wisp of smoke curled in the air, carrying a burnt smell. In the center of the blast radius laid a polished blue stone. Mist snaked across the scorched area and swirled insubstantial tendrils over the stone. Jura watched for danger for several long minutes, but the only thing that moved was the mist. Cautiously, she released the tension from her bow and moved forward. Moonlight cast her in pale shadow as she stopped before the stone. She nudged it with an arrow, and then jumped back. Nothing happened, so she warily picked it up.

Nature has never polished a stone as smooth as this one. Its flawless surface was dark blue, except for thin veins of white that spider webbed across it. The stone was cool and frictionless under her hooves, like hardened silk. Oval and about a foot long, it weighed several pounds, though it felt lighter than it should have. Jura found the stone both beautiful and frightening. Where did it come from? Does it have a purpose? Then a more disturbing thought came to her: Was it sent here by accident, or am I meant to have it?

If she had learned anything from the old stories, it was to treat magic, and those who used it, with great caution.

But, what should I do with the stone? It would be tiresome to carry, and there was a chance it was dangerous. It might be better to leave it behind. A flicker of indecision ran through her, and she almost dropped it, but something stayed in her hoof. At very least, it might pay for some food, she decided with a shrug, tucking the stone into her pack.

The glen was too exposed to make a safe camp, so she slipped back into the forest and spread her bedroll beneath the upturned roots of a fallen tree. After a cold dinner of bread and cheese, she wrapped herself in blankets and fell asleep, pondering what had occured. The sun rose the next morning with a glorious conflagration of pink and yellow. The air was fresh, sweet, and very cold. Ice edged the streams, and the small pools were completely frozen over. After a breakfast of porridge, Jura returned to the glen and examined the charred area. The morning light revealed no new details, so she started for home.

The rough game trail was faintly worn and, in places, nonexistent. Because it had been forged by animals, it often backtracked and took long detours. Yet for all its flaws, it was still the fastest way out of the mountains.

The Spine was one of the only places that Princess Celestia couldn't call her own. Stories were still told about how half of her army disappeared after marching into its ancient forest. A cloud of misfortune and bad luck seemed to hang over it. Through the trees grew tall and the sky shone brightly, few ponies could stay in the Spine for long without suffering an accident. Jura was one of those few-not through any particular gift, it seemed to her, but because of persistent for years, yet she was still wary of them. Everytime she thought they had surrendered their secrets, something happened to upset her understanding of them-like the stone's appearance. She kept a brisk pace, and the leages steadily disappeared. In late evening she arrived at the edge of a precipitous ravine. The Anora River rushed by far below, heading to Palancar Valley.

Gorged with hundreds of tiny streams, the river was a brute force, battling against the rocks and boulders that barred its way. A low rumble filled the air. Jura camped in a thicket near the ravine and watched the moonrise before going to bed.