Chapters The hunter stalked its prey and was stalked in turn.
It was a magnificent beast. Tall and strong, it was the pinnacle every manticore cub dreamed of reaching. The beat of its wings brought gales of wind down, a swipe of its claws rent stone, and the touch of its poison was death. The bright red of its mane showed all that dared to look how fierce it was, and if that wasn’t enough, the countless scars marring its hide were plenty.
It tread carefully, quietly, softly, the branches it brushed past making not a sound, the blades of grass beneath its massive paws undisturbed by its passing. To move so silently was a remarkable feat for one so large. Its gaze was firmly forward, focused on the herd of deer before it. It paused briefly, muscles shifting beneath its fur as it prepared to pounce, to feast.
A branch snapped.
The deer bolted, scattering a dozen different ways through the thick forest, filling the space between the trees with the sound of their escape. But the manticore was not to be thwarted. It ruled this patch of forest; any who trod here were its prey. The manticore turned, and made its way towards the sound, eyes scanning, ears alert.
It found nothing. The sound had came from an empty clearing, and only plants remained of whatever had been here. The hunter paused, scenting the air, and caught something. It turned to face its new prey.
There was a flash of green and brown. The beast roared in pain and anger as it was struck across the face. The sound echoed across the forest, followed by the sound of an intelligent thing fleeing. The manticore stumbled away from its attacker and looked down at it.
It was a pony, a stallion the colour of leaves and dirt with enough scars to rival the manticore, staring up at the beast and baring his teeth. The manticore paused for a moment. She of the Gentle Rage had been clear on this. The creatures of the forest were not to hurt her kind. But this one had struck first; he could not be allowed to live. She of the Gentle Rage could be endured, if only just. This could not. The manticore roared again and leapt.
The pony dodged to the side, ducked a massive swipe, and struck back. A strong forehoof struck the beast across the chin, drawing blood. The pony leapt back to dodge the manticore’s sharp teeth and rolled to avoid its sting. As the roll ended, the manticore caught a hind leg with the back of its paw, sending the pony tumbling into a tree. The pony lay for a moment, dazed. The manticore charged. The pony staggered to his hooves and ducked between the beast’s legs, running under and behind them. The manticore crashed into the tree, which cracked with a sound like thunder, scaring off anything brave or foolish enough to stay after hearing the manticore’s anger. The pony found the manticore’s tail and broke off the sting, leaving a growing pool of venom and blood. The manticore roared again. The stallion tried to move, but he wasn’t fast enough to dodge the tail. The blow lifted the pony from the ground and sent him to the other side of the clearing. The manticore turned and advanced more warily.
The pony forced himself to stand, despite the blood he coughed and the pain he felt in his chest. He watched as the manticore stalked towards him, towering over him even as it crouched low to the ground. A smile grew on his face. He pawed at the ground and felt the spikes along the base of his shoes tear into the soft soil. He watched the manticore and the manticore watched him back, each waiting for the other to make the first move.
In the distance, another manticore roared. The one in the clearing twitched an ear towards the sound. The stallion charged.
Spikes tore into the ground as he sped forward, powerful leg muscles rapidly building speed. He dodged the injured tail and lashed with one foreleg in a quick jab. It struck the beast in the knee, spikes driving into muscle. The pony gave a quick twist as the manticore roared and tried to reach him, tearing the muscle even more when he pulled free. The manticore tried to move back, to get the pony in front of it, but the pony followed. He juked to the side, slamming a shoulder into the side of the beast’s injured leg. The manticore wobbled, but did not fall, its paw sliding across the now bare dirt. The pony jumped clear of the manticore as it dropped to its stomach, attempting to crush its prey beneath it.
The stallion took the chance and lashed out with both hind legs into the side of the beast. Bones cracked and muscle tore under the blow as the manticore let loose a cry like a rockslide. The manticore lashed out with a wing, a fearsome blow that struck the stallion in the side and sent him tumbling away again.
The manticore lifted its bulk off the ground and swiped at the prone stallion, batting him into a tree which cracked and bent under the force of the blow. The pony did not move. The manticore advanced carefully, quietly, softly. Still the pony did not move. The beast was upon him. Still the pony did not move. The manticore darted forward, jaws open wide enough to swallow the stallion whole.
The pony moved.
Quick as lightning, he pushed himself under the jaws of the beast, passing close enough to feel the beast’s hot, rancid breath on his back, and thrust a forehoof up and into the thing’s throat. Blood gushed forth in a red torrent as the beast staggered back, reacting as any predator would to a quick and unexpected attack. The pony kept his distance. He knew it was a fatal blow, but the beast might not have. Slowly, the beast’s movements grew sluggish as its life spilled over the floor of the clearing, painting the ground red. The stallion waited until it grew still, then he waited longer.
When he was satisfied it was well and truly dead, he allowed himself to relax, letting out a short sigh and hobbling over to the edge of the clearing. From a spot between a fallen tree and a pair of large stones, he drew out a set of sturdy dark brown canvas saddlebags. The bags were old and worn, but well cared for, with numerous stitches from repairs. In one corner, in small, tight stitches done with more care and precision than those done for repairs, were the letters B.G.
From one pocket of the bags, he drew a small blade half the length of his forelimb, which he set aside. A few minutes later, the bags were well and truly fixed to his back. Only then did he pick up the small blade, holding the wooden handle between his teeth. He made his way over to fallen manticore and pulled apart its lips, showing its massive teeth. A few minutes of work with the blade, and one of the manticore’s fangs came free, tumbling to the dirt. The stallion carefully returned the blade to the bag before inspecting the fang. It was larger than his blade by a small margin; it was also yellowed, wet, and dripping with blood. He cleaned it on the ground, and placed it in the bag alongside his blade.
The stallion turned, then looked to the sky. Night would fall soon. With his newest trophy secured, he set off through the forest and towards home.
The prey lay in wait, laying a trap for the hunter.
The hydra was old, and it’s scales no longer shone as they once did. The marshy ground squished beneath it’s massive paws, claws digging deep into the mud. A film of filth coated the beast, hiding the deep blue scales and scars under a thin layer of green and brown. It dipped one head of many down to the ground, tracing the scent left behind by it’s prey.
It was close. The scent was strong: blood and fear. It followed the scent line, it’s many tongues flicking, tasting the air. It left the swamp that was it’s home, and entered a thick grove of trees barely wide enough for it’s massive bulk. It did not try to be quiet, for there were none who could challenge it. And the pesky prey that thought it could escape with it’s poison already in it’s veins would soon find out how wrong it was. Branches were bent, plants flattened and rocks crushed as it forced it’s way through the forest.
The hydra paused as the wind changed, blowing new scents towards it. No, not a new scent. It knew this one. It was the scent of it’s prey. And it was coming towards it.
The hydra’s many heads moved in half a dozen different directions, easily avoid the blade held by it’s prey. All the beast saw was a flash of green and brown and silver as it’s quarry leapt over it.
It felt something glance off the tough scales along it’s back as two heads whipped around to face it’s prey, the others keeping an eye on the surrounding area out of instinct and habit.
The stallion that had attacked it, that had almost been it’s prey, stood behind the hydra, seemingly content to let it turn around. He dodged a strike from one head and batted the other away with the forelimb long blade held between his teeth. Taking a step back, he watched the two heads facing him warily. They moved apart, surrounding the stallion, who took a step back and stumbled on the undergrowth.
Fast as thought, the left head struck.
The stallion swung his blade and caught the head where it met the long neck of the hydra. The blade easily cut through the scales and muscles of the hydra’s neck, removing the head with a spurt of blood. It tumbled from the neck, spraying blood in an arc above the stallion as the neck fell limp, no longer bleeding. Already, a new layer of scales was forming over the stump, forming what would soon become a new pair of heads for the hydra.
The hydra’s remaining heads screeched in pain. It brought it’s thick tail up to swat the stallion away, but in the beast’s rage it missed, cracking a tree as thick as the stallion was wide with a sound like stone shattering. The stallion smiled and chuckled around his blade. There was a small, mechanical click, out of place in the forest, followed by a buzzing like a distant beehive and the blade began to glow, the blood along it’s length bubbling as it heated.
The stallion stepped forward and swung at the headless neck just below the stump, easily cleaving the top off and filling the forest with the smell of burning flesh. A flash of smoke and a scream from the hydra signalled the job was done and the stallion pulled the blade free, leaving a patch of charred ground and a disc of hydra meat. Another click, and the buzzing stopped. The hydra continued its slow journey around to face the stallion, focussing all head but one on him. It was halfway around when a pair of heads lashed forward without warning. The stallion avoided one, but not the second. It slammed into him like falling masonry, the thick skull of the hydra like a battering ram.
The stallion rolled across the ground before coming to a gentle stop at the base of a large oak tree. He had only a second to let the pain wash over him before a hissing noise reached his ears and something splashed against his fur. Very little of what hit him touched his skin, but it was enough. It burned like the sun, condensed onto a spot the size of his hoof and embedded in his side. Biting back a scream that would only make things worse, he scrambled around the tree, putting it between him and the hydra, and frantically rubbed his side against it. He managed to scrape a little off against the rough wood, but it also kept his mind from the pain long enough for him to find his canteen. Stabbing his blade into the ground, he picked up his supply of water and, twisting around, splashed some across his flank. The relief was almost instant as the water cleaned away the acid, but he splashed a little more to be sure. Satisfied, he capped the flask and dropped it. It fell to the ground around the tree with a small thud. The stallion quickly took up his blade and listened.
He heard nothing. He looked around, and could not see the hydra. Walking away from the tree, he tried to look around it.
One of the hydra’s heads appeared, hissed, and spat more acid at him.
He dropped to the ground with a thud and a woosh of lost breath. The acid passed over him to splash against the tree behind him, sizzling away against the bark. Ignoring the burn in his side, he shoved himself to his feet and brought his blade up in a diagonal slash, cutting deeply into the side of one of the hydra’s face. The blade pulled out easily. The stallion stepped forward as something clicked again and the buzzing restarted, the blade quickly beginning to glow again. Another quick slash, this time taking the hydra below the head, severing the head and leaving a steeply angled, blackened stump.
The hydra moved away from the stallion, the ground shaking slightly under it’s weight. It could feel the heat along the stumps it would never regrow, feel the pain as it’s flesh was seared. Ponies like this one were normally easy meat, without magic or wings.
The beast knew it had been burned by its attack, could see the mark, taste the scent of burned pony on the air.
The two hunters looked at each other, the now four headed hydra being stared down by the much smaller stallion. The hydra took another step backwards. The stallion followed. The hydra retreated farther. The stallion followed. The hydra retreated another step, and as the stallion moved to followed, all four heads lashed out. The stallion jumped over one, only for another to slam into his side. He slammed into a tree to the sound of breaking bones and branches before tumbling to the ground. Another head darted forward and sank it’s fangs into the pony’s left foreleg.
The stallion screamed around his blade and swung wildly, hacking into the hydra’s neck and face. The red-hot blade sliced through scales and muscle with ease, leaving the hydra lacking another head. The stallion scrambled away through the trees, dragging himself across the ground before staggering to his hooves. Moving behind a set of trees, he tried to pull the hydra’s jaw open with his hooves, but found it stuck fast. Taking a few calming breaths, he jammed his blade between the hydra’s jaws and used it as a lever, forcing the hydra’s mouth open. With a slick, wet popping, he pulled his leg free of the fangs. Jaw clenched tight, he hobbled over to where he had kept his canteen, and after a little digging found his saddlebags and pulled out a small roll of gauze that he applied to his leg with quick, practiced motions. Next he pulled out a nearly empty vial. Frowning, he took a small swallow and placed it carefully back in the bag. He would need more soon.
As the potion hit his stomach, pain faded, replaced by a detached feeling that something important was missing. He stood, careful not to place much weight on his injured leg. He might not feel it now, but the pain would be back soon. He took up his blade again and carefully walked around the tree. The hydra would be waiting. While the heat from his blade stopped it from regrowing, it also meant it wouldn’t bleed out.
With three heads down, the hydra would be less smart, less able to flank, and much, much angrier. It was quiet for now, as quiet as a beast that large could be at least. The stallion stepped out from behind his cover, watching carefully for any movement. He frowned as he scanned around him. How such a large beast managed to hide, he didn’t know. The thick canopy of the forest did block most of the light, but it was the middle of the day, with the sun directly above. The hydra should not be able to hide. He could hear it, but the closeness of the trees was working against him, making it hard to pinpoint where the sound was coming from.
He could feel the potion burning through his veins, telling him to move, to act, to run. Run somewhere, anywhere, everywhere. It filled his muscles with an energy that threatened to burn them away. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Falling leaves, shifting branches, striking hydra.
He pivoted around the first head, ducked under the second. The third missed entirely. Sword in jaw, he swung, the buzzing filling the forest again. He felt the brief resistance of the soft scales of the hydra’s neck, and the hydra lost another head.
That the beast was still conscious through the pain was a testament to it’s strength, or perhaps it’s rage. Most of it’s kind only managed to lose one or two heads before the pain overtook them. Then again, most of it’s kind only had three heads to begin with. But the stallion knew it would not remain upright for long. Rage like it’s can only take you so far before failing.
The stallion waited, body buzzing with the need to act, as the hydra spent the last of it’s rage. He could see weariness growing in it’s eyes as it stared at him, it’s heads falling lower and lower. Before it could lapse into unconsciousness, the stallion walked towards it. He took a pitiful strike on the shoulder, barely enough to slow him down for even a step. As the head fell away, he swung out at it, severing it cleanly. The hydra whimpered, a terrible sound from one previously so fierce. He neared the final head, and the hydra stared him in the eyes. The two hunters looked at each other for a long moment before the hydra bowed it’s last head. Eyes closed, facing the ground, it never saw the blade coming.
The stallion lowered his head to the fallen hydra, a moment of silent respect. It had been the most difficult so far.
But then the moment passed. He collected his saddlebags, pried a trophy from the jaw of the last head, and set of home. He paused before he had gone two steps, turning to look back at the fallen hydra. He would need supplies soon. With an unhappy sigh, he set about gathering things to trade.
Zecora bustled around her home, tidying away various alchemical supplies and the knick-knacks she had picked up over her travels. It was not every day she had visitors, living in the Everfree as she did, but judging by the sounds she had heard echoing over the forest yesterday, she would have two. The first would arrive early, as he always did. The second would come later.
Eventually, she realised she wasn’t actually tidying anymore, merely moving items from one place to another. She took a deep breath, and forced herself back to her work. Pulling only the necessary ingredients from her stores, she started working on breakfast. Maybe she could get her first visitor to join her? He should be here soon.
As if by magic, a knock came from the door.
Setting down her half-made breakfast, she moved to the door and opened it.
Outside was a stallion the colour of healthy leaves and good soil. He was big, but not overly so, his muscles visible under his dark green coat but not bulging like some she had seen. Zecora stepped to the side and waved the stallion in. He nodded and picked up a bag in his mouth, bringing it inside with him.
Zecora moved over to where she had been cooking. Looking up, she saw the stallion looking around her home as she always did. “Come, warm yourself by my fire, and tell me what it is you desire.” She shuddered slightly as the curse forcing her to rhyme washed over her. It was always worst in the morning, as the first light of day renewed it.
The stallion either didn’t notice or was used to it by now, because he didn’t even blink as he came close to the fire. Zecora set a bowl of oats and fruit in front of the stallion, who shook his head as he lay down. She pushed the bowl forward slightly, and again the stallion shook his head. It would take someone with keen eyes or who saw him often to notice the small smile on his face as they went through the usual motions.
Sighing, Zecora took the bowl for herself, eating her breakfast as the stallion emptied the sack. He pulled out a myriad of bottles, bags, bundles and boxes and set them on the ground around him. Zecora peered over her meal at them, wondering what he had brought this time. Before he said anything, he brought out a list and pushed it over to the zebra.
“I require these supplies.” His voice was deep and quiet, with no hint of an accent Zecora could hear. It was like he had schooled all traces of it out of his voice. Looking over the list, Zecora saw the usual items. Food, water, a small amount of wood treated to help start fires, some fabric, nails, a few other, minor things used for making repairs. One item, however, caught her eye, and she had to read the line multiple times to make sure she had read it correctly.
“I sold you enough of that potion to last you many months more; you cannot have already depleted your store!” A smaller shudder from the curse, barely noticeable.
All the stallion said was, “The hydra was harder to track than I anticipated.” As if that explained going through enough stimulant to drop a Manticore! Zecora glared at him, but he was unmoved, staring straight ahead without the slightest expression on his face. The zebra sighed, and placed the list to one side.
“I do not know how long your supplies will take; charged, I have been, with other potions to make. The rest depends on what you have brought; and how well it matches what I have sought.” No shudder this time. The curse was back down to its normal strength now.
The stallion nodded, knowing the terms she would give well. “I bring hydra and manticore and parasprite,” the stallion said, dividing the items into three uneven groups. Hydra was the largest, then manticore, with parasprite far behind. Zecora looked through what the stallion had brought, taking fur, bone, scales and other parts from their containers and inspecting them, judging the quality. They were their usual high quality.
“Yes, yes, these will do find.” Zecora replaced all the parts but a select few, which she began to prepare as she spoke. “Will you ever tell me your name, as I have told you mine?” The stallion started to shake his head and reply, but Zecora talked over him. “I will be forced to make enquirers, if you do not. This is something to which I have long given thought. Very few could face these beasts and live, fewer still leave with gifts to give.” The worst part of the curse, Zecora had thought long on, but if she had to pick any one part, it wouldn’t be the weakness it left in her muscles, or the chills it forced her to endure during the nights as it ate her body heat to sustain itself. It was that it was not very good at rhyming. Sometimes, she could find a rhyme for it, and it would usually take it, but more often than not she didn’t know what she would say before she said it. The intent, the general meaning of the phrase was the same, but the words were not.
The stallion looked at Zecora. Not a glare, not frowning, merely looking in the direction she happened to be in. He didn’t say anything for a minute or two, and Zecora was about to say she would respect his privacy if he wished, when he spoke.
“Big Game.”
Zecora looked up from her work. “Big Game? That is your name?”
The stallion, Big Game, nodded. “Parents were toy-makers.”
Zecora nodded back, finishing of the last item she had to prepare quickly. “These supplies,” she said, pointing towards Big Game’s list, “do you need them soon? I am planning a trip into town around noon. You are welcome to join me; I would be glad of the company.”
Big Game began to reply, then shook his head. “I still need to find some things in the forest.”
Zecora sighed, but wasn’t going to argue. And she knew not to offer any help. That was the only thing she had found so far to make him angry. But she could point him in the right direction. “Not to long back, I saw some signs of a timberwolf pack. They seemed to have a run in with a manticore, and now several of them are no more. They range to the north and east, though those that remain were not among the least. I would be much happier if you could remove the beasts, as, on my friends and I, they have several times tried to feast.” She gave Big Game a quick look. He caught her eye and gave a small nod.
There was another knock on the door.
They both looked at it. The knock had been quiet, almost inaudible. Indeed, if she hadn’t been expecting it, Zecora doubted she would have heard it. The zebra glanced at Big Game, and saw he was gathering his supplies to leave. She had hoped he would stay, that him finally telling her his name would mean he would stop being so distant. It seemed not.
Zecora moved to her door again and opened it wide, giving the shy pegasus on the other side a welcoming smile. “Hello there, Fluttershy, and how are you? Are you here for more root of denaru?” The zebra moved to one side, giving plenty of space for the petite pegasus to enter.
Fluttershy glanced up at Zecora briefly, before looking back down at the ground. She walked calmly into Zecora’s home, eyes down. “That’s what I’m here for, yes. Not that I don’t like visiting you, or anything, though the Everfree is kind of scary…” Fluttershy’s voice slowly grew quieter as spoke, until she was inaudible. Zecora just gave her a soft smile.
“It is fine, Fluttershy. Very few ponies are merely passing by. I believe I have the root that you require; while I find it, there is tea beside my fire.” The pegasus sent a small smile towards Zecora as the zebra moved over to her stores. As soon as her back was turned, she heard a quiet gasp from Fluttershy. Turning around, she saw Big Game had packed his things away and had stood up to his full height, which was easily a head taller than Fluttershy. The poor mare had frozen stiff, not expecting to see somepony else here. Big Game just nodded to the both of them and left.
As soon as the door closed behind the stallion, Fluttershy unfroze. “Oh my, who was that, Zecora? I don’t think I’ve seen him around Ponyville before. I would have seen him at one of Pinkie’s parties if nowhere else.”
“It is unlikely you would have seen him before, he rarely leaves the forest anymore. Here he has made his home, and he is not the type to roam. Big Game is his name, though why he is here I have no idea.”
Fluttershy frowned. “You don’t know why he came to your home?”
“No, no, you have misunderstood. I do not know why he is in these woods. He comes to me for supplies, to get things he would have to leave the forest to buy.” Zecora turned back to her store, quickly locating the denaru root. A rather common plant, it could be used for a wide range of minor ailments, and was the main ingredient in most minor painkillers.
“So he lives in the forest? Is his home nearby?” asked from behind her.
“The forest is where he has made his home, though deeply enough to find it I have not roamed.” She took some of her supply of the root and put it in a small canvas sack, which she placed next to Fluttershy. “It lies closer to the center than I dare go. How he survives there, I do not know.”
The pegasus stared down at her cup of tea. “Wow. He must be really brave to live there.”
A stallion the colour of dirt and grass looked down at a pool of water and frowned at the coward looking back at him. He had fled as soon as somepony else arrived, packing his few belongings as quickly as he could, just as he had fled Canterlot after the funerals. Staring down a charging manticore was easy. All it could do was kill him, and some days he wasn’t opposed to that idea, but he couldn’t die - refused to die - before he was finished. He was almost done. Just six more to go, and he would finish alone what they had started together.
Dipping his face into the surprisingly clean water, he used to shock of cold against his fur to clear his head. This wasn’t the time, and certainly not the place, to be lost in thought. Shifting the sack he used to carry supplies, telling himself for the hundredth time to get saddlebags so he would have to deal with uneven weight on his back, he set off towards his camp.
It took him a little under two hours of walking to get there, and it almost wasn’t worth the walk. It was a small camp, a sturdy campaigners tent, the sort you could tell by looking wasn’t going to be comfortable, but would keep you dry even in the most torrential rains. His supplies were suspended half again his height from the ground, and a bodylength from the nearest tree, as well as being no where near his tent. Half measures just didn’t cut it in the Everfree. In between the two was a circle of stones, surrounded by a larger circle of ground that had been cleared of detritus. As much as he sometimes felt like it, burning down the forest wouldn’t help him get the last few things on his list. The only other thing of note was the small assortment of weapons leaning against his tent.
He didn’t take any weapons on his trips to see the shamaness, at first out of fear of how she would react to an armed stallion, then because he didn’t need to. He had never seen any dangerous creatures on the track to the zebra’s hut, only the odd cockatrice or other small game. Nothing worth worrying about.
Letting the sack slide from his back, he walked over to the tent and looked over his weapons, making sure they were in top condition. Your life depended on your weapon as much as it did the pony next to you, after all. Three blades of different lengths, small medium and large, a crossbow he’d gotten from a griffon for a manticore hide, two sets of hooves spikes, one for offense, one for grip, and his heavy barding. Satisfied they weren’t in worse condition than when he left, he set about lighting the fire, thinking about what Zecora had said. Timberwolves, to the north east. He’d have to give it a look.
The pack circled around it’s prey. The hunter perched above, waiting.
The pack was small, only four in number, but the pack members more than made up for it in size. Each beast was larger than the tallest of ponies, bodies heavy with fibrous muscle and a thick coating of bark in place of fur made them appear even larger. Their yellow eyes, aglow in the darkness of the forest at night, were like spotlights, each locked onto the prey. Two members of the pack circled around the prey, moving in opposite directions, while the other two waited off to the sides in case it should slip between them.
This was unlikely to happen, as the prey in this case was the butchered remains of a manticore, stripped of anything of value, leaving only the meat. But while the timberwolves were not above stealing another hunters kill, rarely did they come across a corpse with no predator nearby. The scent of blood and food crushed all others, and the wolves possessed enough low cunning to know something was not as it should be.
It took some time, but the smallest of the pack eventually moved forward and tasted some of the meat. Finding nothing amiss, it began to eat in earnest, managing to snatch a few mouthfuls before a larger wolf shoved it to the side, taking it’s place.
The pack feasted greedily, each eating their fill and more. They did not see the branches above them shift in a wind that wasn’t there. They did not hear them creak and bend. Did not smell the pony standing on them.
A stallion the colour of dirt and leaves looked down at the pack. Getting into the tree had been an almost impossible endeavour reduced to merely difficult by his use of hoof spikes. He shifted slightly, then paused when one of the wolves raised it’s massive head, sniffing at the air. He held his breath as it glanced around, only releasing it when it returned to it’s meal.
Taking a few deep breaths, he readied himself for what might be the stupidest thing he’d ever done. Locking his gaze on the nearest - and largest - timberwolf directly below him, he stepped from the branch.
There was only one way to really kill timberwolves, and that was suddenly and violently. The fall took a few seconds, which Big Game felt was both too long and not long enough. He landed on the timberwolves back with a thunderous crack, hoof spikes piercing the thick bark of the beast, one in the skull, another at the base of the neck, as he’d been taught. The thing seemed to disintegrate under him, collapsing to the ground, though it still slowed his fall a great deal.
The other wolves retreated from the sudden attack. Big Game pressed his advantage. As soon as he landed, he rolled to one side and launched a jab at the nearest wolf, taking it in the throat, putting it out of the fight until it reformed or he killed it. Just to be safe, he tackled it, sending it tumbling away from him, then he turned on the other two wolves. They looked at the pony attacking them and moved, each going to a different side of the stallion.
Big Game took one, tiny step to the side with the smallest wolf, then dropped to the ground just in time for it to go flying over his head. He rolled in the other direction and leapt upwards, slamming his shoulders and head into the second wolf’s underside as it leapt at him as well. The force of the blow, along with the wolves momentum , caused it to overshoot and crash into a tree where it dropped to the ground, stunned.
This left the smallest wolf the only one moving, for the moment. He had to work fast, before the other two got back to their paws. He didn’t have to worry about the one he landed on. It was dead, a pile of twigs, vines and sap nopony would recognise as a wolf.
Big Game took off at a run, ignoring the pain in his skull and shoulders, weaving between trees. It was only a second before he heard the wolf following behind him. He led the wolf away from the others, buying himself time before they could gang up on him. He led it along a marked path, the notches in trees pointing the way for him. Eventually, he saw the mark he had been looking for ahead; an arrow pointing straight upwards. He leapt towards the tree, then ran around it. Behind him, he heard the wolf’s surprised howls. Rounding the tree, he saw a wolf, hanging maybe a foreleg above the ground. Lowering his head, he charged towards it. At the last second he planted one forehoof, spun so he was facing away from the wolf, then planted the other. Taking aim even as he spun, he launched a powerful two hoof kick at the wolf with his hind legs, shattering the beasts skull. Whatever magic held it together evaporated as soon as the head was gone, and the timberwolf dissolved into a mass of twigs on the ground. He kicked them apart just to be safe.
He paused, taking a moment to catch his breath and listening. Timberwolves didn’t howl, they didn’t have vocal cords, but the silence in the forest told him they were still nearby. Good. Two down, two to go.
He made his way slowly back to where the remaining to timberwolves should be, keeping his ears up and eyes open. The stallion moved with a nervous energy, eyes rolling, ears flicking every which way. It wasn’t enough.
Big Game had less than a seconds warning - a twig snapped behind him - and something was on his back, pulling him down. He felt the timberwolves tense and jerked his head to the side. He could feel the beast’s hot breath on the side of his face as it took off a chunk of his ear. He let out a high pitched neigh and thrashed side to side. He managed to get his hooves under the wolf and shove it away long enough to roll to his hooves. Pain radiated from his ear, a white hot fire burning across the side of his head. Every twitch of his ear sent a lance of pain through him, every sound another needle piercing his skull. He could feel where bruises would form, along his shoulders and back where he had struck and been struck by the beasts. He stepped to the side. The wolf did the same.
The hunters circled each other, wary and weakened.
The second timberwolf gave no warning. Only instinct, made by training and strengthened by battle, saved him. Something screamed at him to move , and he followed it with the ease of one used to following orders. Big Game dropped to the ground, landing hard, the impact forcing his breath from his lungs. Another bruise, most likely. He jumped back to his hooves, wincing as pain lanced through his chest where he’d landed on a rock.
The two wolves were in front of him now, thorn-like teeth bared. They started to separate, moving to flank him. He couldn’t let them do that. He broke into a sprint from a standing start, and like most predators do, the wolves backed away from a sudden charge. He aimed for the larger wolf. Crossing the short distance between them in seconds, he struck the wolf with his shoulder and both of them fell in a tangle of limbs. Before the wolf could react, Big Game had his teeth around its throat. It took a second, but the bark cracked as he bit through it, and he heard as well as felt the vines that made up its neck snap as he pulled back. He left the wolf on the ground, unable to breath.
It had taken only a second for the stallion to get his hooves under him, but that was a second too long. The smaller wolf was on top of him, the beasts greater weight pinning him. The stallion lashed out with his hooves and made contact once, twice, but then something was holding his leg. There was a cracking sound that disappeared under the sudden rush of pain. His vision went white and he screamed, high and loud. He could feel something warm running down his left foreleg. Thrashing side to side like a madpony, he heard the wolf let out a pained growl. Anger briefly overshadowing pain, he struck that spot again and again and again until, finally, the bark cracked and he struck the vines that made up the beats innards.
The wolf leapt off him, whining in pain, and fled into the forest. Slowly, Big Game got to his hooves and made his way over to the wolf whose throat he’d torn out. It was starting to heal already, vines and bark regrowing before his eyes so quickly he could almost hear it. It looked up at him, yellow eyes empty of emotion. He brought his right forehoof down twice, two measured beats. It’s skull cracked, and it collapsed into a pile of twigs and sap.
Turning, Big Game limped towards his camp.
At his camp, he cleaned the wound as best he could, knowing he should be relieved his bone had only cracked a little, but wasn’t able to make himself anything other than annoyed.
If he’d had a tail weight, he could have wrapped his tail around one of the wolves legs and pulled it off him. But he hadn’t thought to bring one with him to the forest.
If he’d reacted faster, he could have moved before it pinned him. But he’d grown slow, focussing on strength over speed, forgetting his training.
If he’d been smarter, he could have found a better way than just charging straight in. That was the sort of thing that got a pony killed.
If he’d just been better, he wouldn’t have been alone out here.