“Mom! He’s moving!”
It was a young voice. Squeaky. A filly, if he interpreted the clatter of tiny hooves on wooden floorboards correctly – a negligible threat. A mother, on the other hand, could be dangerous where little fillies were involved.
Osvald forced a sticky eyelid open. A thick, salty residue clung to his skin like a carapace, stiffening every feather and hair like a corpse yet to concede its death. Beneath it, his fevered flesh burned doubly hot under the binding cover-all ponies used for sleeping, filling the small cage with the smell of him – the smell of disease and death.
His sharp eye caught movement, and he flexed his limbs to gauge his condition. Joints creaked and groaned in protest. Mostly it was from disuse and awkward sleeping, but his right thigh stung like he’d been bound with barbs. Any seasoned warrior, however, knew the sensations of both wound and binding – any who claimed otherwise was either a god, or a liar.
The rest of his body was weak, and his mouth and throat dry. If his captors had wanted to kill him, they could have. His every instinct said that they should have. Pony hooves were strong enough, but their hearts were always soft and weak. They were not prey – too much trouble – but they made themselves easy to prey upon. No, he was in no immediate danger, but he still flexed and stretched his muscles, silently calculating the damage and reduction in his fighting potential.
A small pony, the colour of bluebells, skidded to a halt in the doorway. Doubtless the source of the shouting, the filly pushed the door further open. It was, however, no ordinary door: it slid smoothly to one side, and unlike the wooden walls, its cover was thin as a leaf and daubed in bright yellows and greens. Not a cage then. The child’s private nest, perhaps?
It stood there, struck dumb and meeting his gaze with awe. Such was the way with foals. Not enough fear to keep curiosity in check. Ponies may not be his prey, but he was still a predator.
“Bluebelle, come away from there,” the nearby mother said.
Bluebelle: such a typically obvious, pointless, and worthless name. So utterly pony. At least if they called themselves Weakling, or Herd-Slave it would be an honest appraisal of their culture.
Although, no honest creature would deny the proficiency with which they cowered from nature. Wooden and stone shelters, strange boxes made from trees for storing accessories of all kinds – including their unfathomable ‘clothing’ and the unnatural covering that bound him to the bed – walls to surround their encampment, even weapons. They were skilled weaponsmiths, it was true, but without the will to deploy it fully, a weapon was an admission of weakness.
The little one scampered away, and the gap refilled immediately with the mother. Her coat was the faded yellow of limestone bluffs, and her excessively long mane the colour of coastal waters in summer, but her face evoked no such expressiveness. To the ignorant, it may have seemed like an absence of expression, but this was a forced nothingness. This was suppressed fear.
She looked the griffin up and down before reaching a hoof to one side and drawing a wooden bowl into the room. Whatever fear she had, she kept in check, stepping gingerly in and fishing a wet cloth from the bowl as she pressed a hoof to his forehead. The slight pressure heightened the clammy sensation under his feathers, and he watched her without any expression of his own save the intensity of his focus.
She draped the cloth across his brow.
The cool water trickled onto his skin, bringing exhilarating relief in its wake. Osvald opened both eyes fully, blinking to shake off the last of the accumulated crud, then adjusted himself on what the ponies referred to as a ‘cot’. He fidgeted and squirmed until the mare spoke.
“Is it too tight?”
The question itself is, of course, sheer idiocy. What manner of deficiency would drive anyone to ask whether a prisoner’s shackle was comfortable or not – not that any less aberrant culture would invent something so twisted as shackles to begin with. Yet, she bent down and tugged on the binding until the tension released, and the griffin stretched his aching legs and contorted himself until he rested comfortably.
“It’s been two days,” the mare said as she turned back to the door-like panel. “But the fever only broke this morning. You need rest. The water’s clean when you’re ready to drink it.” She stepped back through the door and paused before glancing over her shoulder. “I’m Lemon Drizzle,” she said, and paused again, as if awaiting a response.
He may not be in a cage, and he may not be dead, but for all he knew, his anonymity might be the only thing keeping him alive. Osvald let his eyes drift shut; drinking could wait until he was unobserved. He was Osvald, son of Tyrol Garak, and one day he would replace his father as Tyrol of the pride – if he could survive that long.
The door slid quietly to. The crafting of such a mechanism demanded respect, but the ponies themselves had more to prove. It should have been a simple raid on the ponies’ livestock, but there had been an ambush. There had to be some reason he'd been spared, and whatever that reason was, he would probably need all his strength to face it.
~~~
“Do you eat fish?”
The mother’s voice was close. Osvald focused, but could not locate any signs of a boisterous filly, nor any other soul.
A cool breeze knifed its way through the missing feathers on his neck and breast. He opened his eyes, blinking several times in the face of the harsh, early-morning light – shutters open, water refilled, cot remade and smoothed with precision.
He had escaped his binding in the night and lay on the hard flooring in front of the door. This mare, Lemon Drizzle, had stepped over him, performed her duties, and left without alerting him.
“Ya,” he said firmly, pushing himself up on his good paw and gently testing the other with his full weight. There was a lot of bruising – enough to reduce his wings to glorified balancing aids – but nothing that shouldn’t heal.
He slid the door aside in one smooth motion. She stared at him. She didn’t blink. She didn’t flinch. When a rumble and a gurgle filled the silence, she gestured to her left with a flick of her head and walked off through another sliding door.
The room’s purpose was obvious enough; the smell of steaming fish wafted out, along with a few other smells he couldn’t quite place. He hobbled slowly after her, but his eyes drifted to a clay bowl that sat by a large window in what was probably the front of the shelter. Several flowers sprang up from the soil that filled it, and Osvald paused a moment. These ponies went to such great lengths to build shelters from nature. Then, they expended more effort bringing nature inside those shelters.
If there was meaning to the madness, it was lost to him.
Lemon Drizzle busied herself in the kitchen – another monument to pony ingenuity. A table, chairs, more of the boxy wooden constructions that would probably cause tree spirits to wail endlessly if they could see the fruits of the ponies’ work. Not that griffins didn’t fashion many things from wood, but he doubted the ponies had the sophistication to offer the correct chiminage to the forest. Nor were griffins so frivolous with their materials.
“Take a seat,” Lemon Drizzle said after peeking back over her shoulder, but Osvald remained on all fours and fixed her with a long stare.
She fussed over a pot suspended above a fire. Its contents boiled angrily, steaming two halves of a headless pike that rested on a grill over the top. Of all the pony rituals he knew of, this was perhaps the most acceptable. Delicately cooked meat did carry a certain exotic flavour to it that could be enjoyed in moderation.
After a few minutes, the mare removed the pot from the hearth and slid the two halves of fish into a wooden bowl. With a predictability that would make the seasons themselves jealous, she cut a lemon in half and drizzled its juice over the fish.
Osvald sighed, quietly.
“Do I have leave to bathe?” he asked in a blunt, matter-of-fact tone. He picked up a piece of pike with his left claw, to avoid loading his injured hindquarter, and nipped politely at it. Despite the urging of his stomach, it did taste good enough to savour, and pony manners were easy enough to mimic until he had a better grasp of the situation.
Lemon Drizzle, it seemed, had no such pretension to etiquette.
“What?” he said as she stared at him.
“Oh, I, uhh… sorry.” Suddenly, she looked at everything except him: the reaction of a lesser-minded herd creature. “I suppose I wasn’t expecting you to be so well spoken.”
Osvald cleft the piece of fish in two with the side of his beak and gulped it down. “You may stare,” he said, then tossed the rest of the fish down his gullet.
Her face flushed slightly.
“So may I bathe?”
“You’re not a prisoner,” she said. “There’s a spring—”
“To the north east about a thousand paces.” Osvald gave the pony a long, icy stare. “Only the desperate and the foolhardy engage in battle on unfamiliar terrain.”
He kept his stare on her as he plucked the other piece of fish from his plate and pecked at it, but again she neither flinched nor looked away. Something about this mare didn’t quite fit.
“You’re not afraid of me.”
Lemon Drizzle looked away, out the open kitchen window. The village outside was quiet, but in the wide concourse between the ponies’ shelters, a young pegasus mare stared back. Like most mares, she had a memorable colouration: an off-white coat the colour of apple-innards and a puffy leaf-green mane with an off-white streak down one side. And like Lemon Drizzle, while she stared like a dumbstruck bovine, there was more to her, too.
“I know that look,” Osvald said. “I killed her father.”
One pony had tackled him to the floor, where an acorn-brown stallion slashed at him with a spear. After that, he remembered only rage, and blood, and creeping oblivion.
He looked back at Lemon Drizzle. Ponies weren’t good at hiding their emotions, but this mare didn’t flinch.
“Interesting.” Osvald pushed his emptied bowl towards the middle of the table. “More.”
Now the mare flinched. It seemed hard to imagine that any creature would think that one fish would be sufficient to begin rebuilding his strength.
“Oh… yes, of course.”
She hustled out of the room. It was the first time she had seemed truly alive, as if she had forgotten her placid, herd-animal exterior for just a moment. Osvald said nothing as she returned with another pike. He stared out of the window at the now-empty concourse, instead. As Lemon Drizzle began preparing a second serving, he hobbled towards the large door in the hallway, pausing for only a moment to decipher its mechanism.
Outside, a thin veil of morning mist lingered around the treetops rising above the village’s palisade. The wooden border made the space feel cramped, although the village itself – a dozen shelters of mixed size and purpose – still seemed desolate. A stallion and two mares, all earth ponies, pottered around a large open-sided shelter, moving wood back and forth and cleaning a selection of metal tools. This place was likely the focus of the village’s work; all the shelters used a huge amount of crafted wood in their construction.
The ponies in the south used mostly stone, and to the west, coverings of woven straw could be seen everywhere. It seemed the only uniting factor is that ponies everywhere hid themselves away from the world that gave them life.
Two other mares busied themselves around the fronts of their homes, and the green-maned pegasus plodded slowly along the concourse, her every step filled with directionless melancholy. Osvald steeled himself against the pain in his muscles and snapped his wings to full spread. The older mares noticed, but made every effort to hide their attention, and the pegasus stopped, turning slowly and staring right at him.
He stood there for almost a minute, the mare caught in his gaze, until a door opposite him swung open. An old stallion stepped out of the shadow cast inside his shelter. Ironhooves, they called him. The pride had kept an eye on this one for some time.
A warrior shod not just in traditional horseshoes, but metal boots. He had fought with many denizens of the forest and won, but he was only a significant threat to the speed and agility of a griffin when the boots came off. Still, they always planned their raids to avoid him. Ponies were not prey; ponies were to be preyed upon, and this one would be a tough fight without the aid of flight. Grounded and hobbled, he would be an insurmountable foe.
Osvald looked back to the young mare and two metal boots thumped against the wooden platform in front of Ironhooves’ door. The old stallion’s face wrinkled and his features sharpened as he stared – typical herd mentality: an admission of fear in the presence of a predator.
“Interesting,” he said, then retracted his wings and hobbled back through the door. Inside, his host placed the wooden bowl on the table with two new halves of steamed fish in it. She put a hoof behind it to push it forward, but paused.
“I’m Lemon Drizzle,” she said, just as she had last time. This time, she had a hardness to her eyes and a twitch on her lips. She feared something, that much was certain, but she did not fear him.
“Osvald,” he replied.
She pushed the plate towards him. In silence, he picked slowly and carefully at the fish as Lemon Drizzle watched him. She had a question burning away inside that bulbous head; ponies weren’t good at hiding their emotions. When he finished the second half of the fish, she still hadn’t said a word.
Osvald stood for a few moments, letting his stomach adjust to the size of his breakfast, then pushed the plate back into the middle of the table.
“More.”
~~~
“Show yourself.”
Someone watched in silence as he bathed.
The warm springwater soothed his knotted and bruised muscles and pacified the throbbing in his wound. He’d removed Lemon Drizzle’s bindings, cleaned off the poultice that had been applied underneath, and begun meditating in the artificial pool the ponies had built around the spring.
It was, if he was honest, another facet of pony ingenuity he could appreciate – merely an accentuation of nature’s bounty, rather than the subjugation of it.
He lay facing the babbling weir where the water flowed down an aesthetically arranged cascade of rocks to form a stream. His wings stretched across the water’s surface, naturally buoyant on the rich, lightly steaming water that came from deep underground, and a single bird preened his plumage. While it diligently attended to oiling the feathers spoiled by his fevered nights, its mate skittered to and fro through the branches of a tall tree, agitated by the presence of Osvald’s stalker.
It wasn’t fitting to let them fret needlessly.
“You are upsetting the birds. Show yourself, or leave.”
He turned slowly towards the resulting rustle, letting the large bird find purchase on his crest with claws and beak.
“Interesting,” he said, as the green-maned pegasus stared back at him from a safe distance. Lifting a claw from the water, he beckoned her over. Still wide-eyed, she stumbled forward as if dragged in by his gesture – ponies were known to cope poorly with death, but this was far outside Osvald’s meagre experience.
Many times he had seen the same look, but only in the eyes of lesser creatures – lesser creatures than ponies, even. At the last moment, when no options remained and death was certain, many animals' hearts died before the killing blow, sparing themselves the pain of a brutal death. Raptors relished the hunt, but the greatest honour was in a clean kill.
Osvald pulled himself around to face her, and the mare balked. “Come,” he said, beckoning again and pointing to the bank beside the pool. She didn’t move. He held a claw up to his head and the bird hopped on, fanning its wings for balance.
Glossy black at the tips, its wing feathers turned to grey along its primaries, and then white, like the rest of the bird’s body. A dash of mottled brown ringed its owl-like face and speckled its fanned tail.
“A black-winged kite.” Osvald held his beak close to the kite’s face, and the bird rubbed its stubby, hooked beak against his. “He means you no harm.”
Still, the mare stared. It wasn’t fitting to let her suffer needlessly, either.
“Come. Sit. Show him you are no threat.”
Her eyes widened slightly.
“M-me?”
“Yes.” Osvald raised the kite to the top of his head and the bird hopped off. He pointed at the grassy bank again. “Sit, or leave us be.”
Step by shaky step, the mare complied. When she tried to sit face on, Osvald gestured for her to turn.
“Wing,” he said once she’d settled. She hesitantly extended a wing slightly, and he reached out a claw and gripped it firmly. “Simple birds do not understand confused ponies. Predictable is safe. Understand?”
She nodded slowly, her eyes brightening slightly as if she had something to latch on to, but the wing in Osvald’s grasp trembled. Slowly, he dipped his head and took the lead primary in the hook of his beak. The mare tensed. A stilted gasp escaped her as he gently caressed the feather’s length.
The kite cried out in confused, staccato chirps, whistles, and squeaks, hopping onto the griffin’s back and then splashing back and forth across his floating wings. Osvald proceeded to the second primary, then paused.
“I am Osvald,” he said. A moment later he continued his delicate preening. She twitched and fitted at each squawk, and eventually the kite climbed back aboard Osvald’s head and watched in silence with its blood-red eyes.
She was still tense in his claw. He pulled gently on the elbow joint, spreading the feathers further apart. After preening a few more, the wing-muscles relaxed and spread them further still.
“Osvald Fitz Garak,” he said, releasing her wing and raising his claw to the kite. It hopped on with another flap of its wings and held them out for balance. Osvald lowered the bird towards the mare’s elbow. The kite reached out, testing the limb several times before stepping over fully. After three cautionary turns, it bent down and began preening the finer feathers on the leading edge.
Osvald slid backwards into the shallow pool. He closed his eyes and focused on the mare’s breathing: slowing and deepening with a few sharp stabs and excited pauses. The kites would take confidence from his docile demeanour, and perhaps she would take confidence in theirs, more than his.
After a few minutes, the female kite swooped down from the trees and began preening Osvald’s plumage. Between the warmth of the water and the soothing touch of his fellow raptor, he had lost track of time when the mare spoke.
“Peppermint Sky,” she said.
Osvald opened his eyes slowly. Her voice was quiet, but clear.
“Peppermint Sky,” he repeated – probably related to Lemon Drizzle, if the lack of imagination in pony names held true. “Why are you here?”
Just like Lemon Drizzle, she was afraid, but not of him.
“I will answer questions,” he said.
She asked none, and Osvald crept closer again and resumed preening Peppermint Sky’s larger fathers while the kite kept at the smaller ones.
When he had worked through both layers of primaries, he pulled himself from the water and perched on the pool’s edge to begin on her secondaries. By the time he finished those, she rested her head on her hooves. Her breaths came soft and slow by the time he stalked quietly around to her other side.
She started when he pulled on the other wing, but stretched it out fully without protest. The kites had departed, so he started with the smaller feathers and used a claw to carefully separate them out, and just as he started on the longer fathers, Peppermint Sky shook.
A few silent convulsions later, she choked out a half-throttled sob.
Osvald continued his delicate preening as the mare sank into a dirge of tears. When he was done, he returned to the pool, the occasional sigh and snore adding to the babbling of the aesthetically agreeable weir.
There were matters of courtesy to attend to. But they could abide a restful vigil over a bereaved pony.
~~~
“Interesting.”
Unlike the larger pony settlements, Buckton Drift lit few fires after the sun went down. Peppermint Sky had slept for hours, and though the rest and relaxation from an extended soak had left him able to perform short hops and glides, Osvald’s fishing trip had taken a long time. But, with the limited light from the village, he could discern Ironhooves’ shape from a long way out.
The old stallion looked down from a perch atop the palisade. Below, the gate hung open by a thin sliver, like a reminder that entry was a thing to be granted, not assumed.
Osvald stopped a short distance out. He placed the basket Peppermint Sky had fetched for him on the ground and met the old pony’s stare.
Ironhooves gave him a mute nod, then reached down and pushed the gate open a fraction wider – more of a gesture than a service.
Picking up the basket, Osvald hobbled towards the gate, pushed it open, and put it precisely back where it had been once he had passed, scrutinised by the old pony’s stare all the while. He had started up the concourse when the sound of Ironhooves jumping down and closing the gate came from behind. Soon after, the pony drew close and followed him until he stood before Lemon Drizzle’s shelter.
“What is the ritual?” he said.
Ironhooves snorted. “What ritual?”
“To approach a domain.”
The old stallion chuckled once under his breath. “You knock, is all.” He trotted forward and knocked three times, firmly, then turned and walked towards his own shelter. “G’night.”
The hoofsteps preceding the door’s opening were swift, almost frantic. Lemon Drizzle rushed out onto the doorstep. “I wasn’t sure if you were—”
Fanning his wings, Osvald reared up on his hind legs more carefully than he normally would. It dwarfed a comparable display from anything but the largest of pegasi.
Lemon Drizzle’s eyes grew wide, and her breathing quickened. Even in the shadows of her home, her tremble caught Osvald’s eye.
He lowered himself back to his claws and pushed the basket, filled with four fresh fish, toward her. “Chiminage,” he said. “For the morning feast, if you approve.”
“Chimenidge is… payment?” Lemon Drizzle’s breathing slowed, but her eyes still regarded him with apprehension.
“Chim – in – aj,” he repeated. “Tribute. Appreciation.”
Lemon Drizzle hid her small gasp behind a hoof, then beckoned him forwards.
“I’m sorry,” she said breathily, and backed into her hallway. “I’m so sorry.”
He scooped up the basket in his beak and sprang to the door with one beat of his wings. Keeping his lame leg off the floor, he quickly deposited the fish on the kitchen table and returned to the small hallway.
“I do not understand,” he said, standing tall and impassive.
“I’m sorry,” Lemon Drizzle repeated. “This morning, I thought… I thought you were just being rude when you asked for more like that…”
Osvald stared for several seconds. Again, the mare gazed downwards like the subservient herd-creature she was, but there was more to her, he knew.
“You did not explain the purpose of saving me.”
Slowly, hesitantly, the mare looked up. “Purpose?”
From her quizzical stare, she must have presumed the answer was self-evident.
It was not.
“Ponies attacked us while we were hunting. One ran me down and another stabbed me. Then one saved me. Why?”
“I…” Lemon Drizzle looked him in the eye, but no further words came forth.
“I require sleep. I would like to sleep here, and I would like Peppermint Sky to feast with us tomorrow.”
Lemon Drizzle nodded. Osvald curled up on the floor, tucking his head under a wing.
“Did… did you talk to her?” Lemon Drizzle asked.
“We introduced ourselves,” he replied, making himself comfortable. “It was a good conversation.”
Lemon Drizzle scratched idly at the floor with a hoof.
“Oh. Well… In the morning, then.”
~~~
“Breakfast!”
Lemon Drizzle had busied herself for some time since waking, and Osvald had listened without moving. She’d started a fire and then left the shelter for several minutes before returning. That has been at least half an hour ago.
At no point had he heard another set of hoofsteps.
He lay sprawled out on his back, wings spread out to either side to steady him and each trapping a pleasantly warm cushion of air against the wooden floor – pleasant enough to delay rising until called.
“Where is your mate?” he said, rolling his neck and producing a few cracks and pops as he sank to his haunches before the kitchen table.
Lemon drizzle froze for a moment, then continued brushing down the wall-table and clearing away some unnameable utensils.
“We don’t eat fish unless food is scarce,” she said, a tremble of haste in both her voice and her demeanour. “But I know a recipe or two, so I hope you like it.” Grabbing a wide, tongue-like implement in her mouth, she dipped down by the fire and came back up with a whole fish, stuffed, presumably, with the source of the remnants from the side-table.
She slid the fish into one of her wooden bowls, added two sprigs of parsley and, of course, a few slices of lemon, then placed it before Osvald.
He sniffed at it a few times and turned his eyes back to Lemon Drizzle.
“Ponies have death rites. I’ve seen them. But Peppermint Sky had not shed her tears for her father. I do not understand pony rites, and I do not wish to offend. Was my question inappropriate?”
“Oh, no,” Lemon Drizzle replied, a more authentic vitality entering her voice. “No, it’s just that… Peppermint Sky. She’s my niece.”
Osvald took a deep breath and closed his eyes for a few seconds.
“I killed her father. I killed your brother. I imagine your daughter is with Peppermint Sky’s family while I am here.”
Lemon Drizzle gave him a sombre nod. “The funeral – our ‘death rite’ – there was a lot of anger, but not a lot of grieving. I spoke to Pepper this morning; she didn’t want to come to breakfast. She has a lot to think about, but I’m glad you could help her.”
Osvald bit the head clean off his fish and swallowed it whole.
“I do not understand ponies. You hide from your emotions as you hide from nature in your shelters. We griffins indulge them with the fury of a storm until the winds disperse. When I am fit to fly home safely, my mate will be furious. We will fight for days. It will be glorious.”
He picked up the knife that had been laid on the table for him, turned it around once in his claw, then set it back down. Spearing the fish’s tail with a talon, he lifted it out of the bowl and a dozen-or-so hazelnuts fell out from inside.
“This ‘recipe’ confuses me,” he said with a frown.
The front door boomed with the beating of a hoof upon it. Lemon Drizzle gasped and recoiled from the sound.
“Oh no,” she said breathily. “No, no, no, no.”
“Interesting.” Osvald swallowed half a fish and dropped the rest back into his bowl. “It’s not me you’re afraid of. It’s them.”
He turned sharply and pounced into the hallway, still heavily favouring his left paw. The door bucked and bent in its frame as the assault upon it continued. Lemon Drizzle appeared in the doorway, her mouth hanging open slightly.
“What are you going to do?”
Osvald fluffed his wings once and settled into a firm stance. “I am your guest; hospitality demands that I consider your wishes. You do not want these ponies in your home?”
“No.” She emphasised the answer with a strong shake of her head. “And I don’t want anypony else getting hurt.”
“Difficult.”
Osvald flipped the catch that held the door shut, and a mottled grey stallion staggered in as the door burst open under his hoof.
“You!” The stallion recovered quickly and lunged. “What ’ave you done with—”
An open claw shot out and smashed him square on the snout, while the other claw grabbed his mane and pulled down, sharply. Instinctively, the pony reared up, but Osvald had already let go; he dashed in low and shoulder charged the pony at the base of his chest, shoving him back through the door.
The stallion flipped and bounced off the doorstep as other ponies backed away to make room.
“Get him!” another pony cried and surged forwards, hooves raised.
Osvald grabbed one hoof and pulled himself towards the second stallion. As they collided, chest to chest, he slipped his right claw to the left of the pony’s neck, pressing an elbow into its face and wrenching the pony onto its side with a twist of his body. They came down together, the griffin’s elbow driving the pony’s skull into the woodwork.
A piercing screech split the air. Osvald raised himself up on his hind legs, spreading his wings wide and gripping the overhang of the roof with a claw. His thigh burned, and he could feel a trickle of blood running through his fur.
“Where is she?” a third stallion at the back yelled as the two in front scrambled back to their hooves.
“What did you do to her?” a mare shouted – another two with her made six ponies in total, and one of them brandished a spear.
Osvald eyed the weapon for a moment, but none of the ponies seemed eager to approach again. He dropped back onto his claws.
“I am Osvald,” he said, raising his voice and sweeping the crowd with his eyes, “son of Tyrol Garak, son of Tyrol Adalard, the Drakkenslayer. I am a raptor, a hunter, like my father, and his father before him. If you want to fight me, I will fight you. If you want to kill me—” he levelled his gaze at the mare with the spear “—I will kill you, as I did the one who wounded me.”
“You attacked us first!” the second mare shouted.
Osvald growled.
“Decades ago, my pride slew the dragon Tetheos and settled this land, and ponies have encroached upon us every year since. You poison the land with your presence and show no respect for the cycles of the forest.”
The first stallion, holding his bleeding nose with a hoof, snorted. “We’re earth ponies. We know e’rything we need to know ’bout the forest.”
“Only a forest for ponies!” Osvald’s talons sunk into the earth as his voice soared. “You claim to own the low animals, and disrupt every cycle that is not convenient to you. We came only to take back what has been stolen from the forest; it was your choice to attack us.”
Osvald stood tall and proud, leaning slightly towards the stallion and fixing him with a piercing stare.
The stallion leaned forward, too.
“They are our liveli’ood! We put our sweat into feeding ’em, keeping ’em ’ealthy, and protecting ’em. You’re stealing the sweat of our brows!”
“And we care for the entire forest!” Osvald finally butted heads with the stallion. “Perhaps it is time we started protecting our forest from the likes of you!” He prodded the pony in the chest with a talon.
“Osvald,” Lemon Drizzle said from behind. “Osvald, who are they talking about?”
“Peppermint Sky,” the mare with the spear said, a dreadful weight hanging off of the name. “Cloud Runner said she’s gone missing.”
Osvald backed up.
“She was at home just half an hour ago,” Lemon Drizzle said.
“Cloud Runner said she’d been fine until last night, and we know this one”—the mare nodded her head towards Osvald—“was speaking with her yesterday. She flew off crying about something and we can’t find her. We want to know what he did to her.”
“Oh, Buttermilk.” Lemon Drizzle spat the name like the crack of a whip, stepping down from her front door. “You stupid, stupid, stupid mare. He helped her.”
“Shut it, Drizzie! He’s a murderer and he must have done something to—”
Lemon Drizzle smashed a hoof into Buttermilk’s face. The mare collapsed to the ground, wailing, in a heap.
“That’s enough.” Ironhooves stood on the step to his own front door. He didn’t have to raise his voice much for it to carry.
The stallion at the back spun around. “Ironhooves, this griffin did something to Pepp—”
“Quit yer yappin’. I ain’t so old I can’t decide who did what to who on me tod.” The old pony leaned against his door and crossed his forelegs. “Six ponies crowdin’ a widow an’ her guest. Seems to me nopony got any more ’n they asked for. Now why don’t y’all run along. Seems there’s a young ’un to find – once y’all pick up Buttermilk’s teeth. Anythin’ else can wait.”
For a few moments, there was only some muffled shuffling.
“Go on. Git. Scram!”
One by one, the ponies broke away. Lemon Drizzle stepped on Buttermilk’s spear when she moved to pick it up, and the three mares limped away empty-hoofed. The mottled grey stallion was the last to leave.
“Lemon, honey,” Ironhooves said, lowering his voice despite the distance between the nearest other pony. “I figure it’s best if one o’ you finds our little bird first. Only Cloud Runner has the wings to chase her, so I’ll go ask her a few questions and keep her busy while you bind that wound.”
“Cloud Runner’s looking after Bluebelle,” Lemon Drizzle said as she trotted to Osvald’s wounded side. “Please make sure she doesn’t leave my little one.” She reached out and touched his thigh, pulling back a hoof with a small splodge of blood on it. “Oh my. You need to let me clean this again.”
“Should we not search for Peppermint Sky, first? Bleeding will not hinder me.”
Lemon Drizzle smiled.
“She’s a pegasus among earth ponies. She won’t be found if she doesn’t want to be.” She turned her attention to the old stallion walking slowly away. “Thank you, Ironhooves. You’re a good friend.”
The old pony stopped.
“Nope. Ain’t even sure I’m a good pony,” he said before resuming his plod. “Guess that’s not for an old geezer to judge, anymore.”
~~~
“Osvald…”
The griffin lay on his side in the hallway. Lemon Drizzle had worked in silence, making another poultice and binding it tightly to the wound with a freshly washed strip of cloth.
“There’s something I haven’t told you. I should have told you, and I’m sorry.”
Osvald moved his leg back and forth, feeling out the limits of the binding, then righted his front half, leaving his back legs sprawled out on his good side.
“I wasn’t sure if you were going to be angry,” she continued.
“Too many words,” he said firmly.
The mare stepped to one side and lowered herself down, laying belly to the floor with her legs tucked in tight.
“You’ve probably guessed that Chestnut’s spear was poisoned. That’s why you were ill. You collapsed quickly, and another griffin… she tried to get to you, and…”
Osvald sighed, deeply.
“Larger? Covered in scars?”
“Yes. She was definitely large.”
“Our females always are.” He turned to look Lemon Drizzle in the eye. “Cassik came from the east. She was a windcaller.”
“A windcaller?”
Osvald looked towards the kitchen.
“Bring me my fish and I will explain.”
A few moments later, Lemon Drizzle set the bowl before him and settled back to the floor.
“More are going to die unless we do something, Osvald, but please, let me go first while you eat.”
Osvald nodded and began nipping at the remaining fish.
“Chestnut and I were very different ponies. I was happy to find myself a good, caring husband and settle down with foals, but he was aggressive and dominating. When his bravado caught the eye of a pegasus, he was the talk of all the nearby villages. I’ve heard the tribes mix freely in the Equestrian heartland now, but out here… He considered her a trophy, and she revelled in being a rare jewel rather than a just a brash pegasus.
“I married Rye Catcher much later, and… well, there was an accident…”
Lemon Drizzle swallowed and sighed.
“It wasn’t anypony’s fault, but I’ve been focused on being a mother since then, while my brother spoke of striking out at the griffins. He was the loudest voice and he led from the front. I want to be angry, but I know he killed himself. Saving you was the first time I’ve felt in control of my life since Rye Catcher died. The elders are having a meeting over in Thistlespike Moor; I hope they decide to drop Chestnut’s folly now that he’s gone.”
Osvald dropped the tail-end of his breakfast down his open gullet.
“You are angry enough for two,” he said.
Finally, Lemon Drizzle cracked a smile.
“Rye Catcher would have wanted this. He would have agreed with everything you said. I miss him so much. I wanted you to see that not all ponies are like Chestnut.”
Osvald nodded.
“It may not be enough. The windcallers learn the stories of our ancestors and teach us to act with honour. Tevik and his sister, Cassik, were rare. Only when times are bountiful do matched siblings survive. It is normal for one pony to birth one pony, but griffins lay two eggs – one male one female. Unless food is abundant, one will kill the other to avoid overpopulation.”
He stared at the placid face of his pony companion.
“Did you expect me to be horrified?” she replied. “I’m not. Lots of races have similar instincts. I know female griffins are bigger and stronger than the males; did you have to fight your sister?”
Osvald snorted.
“We do not name fledglings in any way. I never had a sister; there was only one in the nest on my name day. But Tevik and Cassik were of the same nest – they came from a place where balance flourished. I wish you could have met them both; they have been the strongest opponents to war with ponies.”
“War?”
“Like your brother, our shaman, Germane, wanted to strike first and put the ponies in their place – to teach them that the forest was not theirs to simply take. She was the most vocal, but all three of our adjutants leaned in her—”
“Wait.” Lemon Drizzle held up a hoof. “Shaman? Adu… Ageu…”
“Add – jew – tant. They learn some of everything so that they can relate to all griffons and mediate disagreements, while Shaman keep the balance between all things beyond the pride. They ensure chiminage is given where it is due and the pride does not take more than it needs. Germane thinks we are owed a great debt for the ponies’ incursion. But we cannot win a war with them. If we were lucky, they would only swarm and drive us out. But luck is not a strategy, so we have tried to avoid fighting them.”
Osvald’s head drooped.
“In that, I have failed. It will be hard to avoid further bloodshed, now.”
“We have to try.” Lemon Drizzle rose to her hooves. “If Pepper can convince the townsponies that you aren’t what they think you are, we can stop things from getting worse, and then maybe I can meet Tevik one day.”
“Was Cassik buried?”
Lemon Drizzle nodded.
“Then dig her up. It is sacrilege to us: her cycle must be allowed to complete. As we feast on the forest, so must the forest be allowed to feast on us when we are done. Do this, and I will petition Tevik to speak with you. If escalation can be averted, he will know how.”
He stood and hopped around to face the door, spreading his wings. “I will begin with your graveyard and hope that Peppermint Sky will come to me. My wings feel good. I should be swift.”
~~~
No more words.
No more rage.
If one family of ponies could see another way, there would be more. If Cloud Runner had been venerated as a great prize, then Peppermint Sky could be just as valuable. It was a bleak way to look at a pony, but blood was already in the air.
Osvald leapt from a fallen tree. A few beats of his wings carried him to a sturdy branch overlooking the ponies’ graveyard. Typical that the herd clung to their dead so tightly that they needed to mark their resting places for all time, yet set it far enough away as to be out of sight.
If there was meaning in the madness, it was lost to him.
That would have to change.
Perhaps Tevik could make more sense of it. So many prides had already fallen from the old ways and prostrated themselves before the pony horde. It seemed inevitable that ponies would one day control everything, just as they had seized control of day and night. The world was dying, throttled by countless hooves thirsting to control it. It was worth fighting for.
Osvald shook his head vigorously and looked over the cemetery: a half dozen widely spaced graves bordered by a small palisade. It had not been visited in days. No tracks. No fresh mud. No fresh flowers. He leapt from the branch and glided down to the newest grave: Chestnut. Peppermint Sky could have flown in and left little trace, but not no trace.
Nothing.
She could have returned to the spring, but it didn’t seem likely. If she hadn’t wished to see him that morning, she would be unlikely to go somewhere that would remind her of him. But then, ponies rarely made sense.
He leapt towards the nearest tree, sank his talons into it, and climbed it to the top. The edge of the village was visible in the distance through the many trees between them, but nothing else was. As much stronger as his wings felt, it would be best to walk back to the top of the valley and save them for flatter ground.
A moment after he launched himself from his perch, a faint squeak caught his ear. He banked and landed in the next tree over.
Nothing.
Nothing.
There.
The cry of a young pony.
Bluebelle.
He launched himself again. Several strong beats of his great wings carried him high before he stretched his wings wide and soared in the rough direction of the sound. He would never hear it above the rush of wind, but a filly-sized bundle of bright blue wouldn’t be too hard to spot from above.
Bluebelle should have been with Cloud Runner.
Ironhooves should have been with Cloud Runner.
Trap.
Back at tree level, Osvald latched onto a thick branch and waited for the tree to settle. Beneath the rustling, he could hear crying nearby.
“Help!” the little filly screamed between sobs.
Another beat of his wings and he was on his way, diving headfirst through a wall of branches then spreading his wings to stall his descent. Bluebelle lay on the forest floor below, sobbing, with a heavy rope tied around her back legs.
Trap sprung.
Cloud Runner stepped out from behind a tree. She had the same streak in her pale-blue, windswept mane as her daughter, and her coat was a purer, unblemished white. Another two earth ponies scrambled from their hiding places on each side of Osvald. He recognised all of them. Three stallions and another mare – one of the ones with intact teeth.
Bluebelle tucked herself into a little ball, crying even harder and louder.
“There’s only four, little one,” Osvald said. He picked her up in his claws and placed her carefully down by the tree she was tied to. “This will be quick.”
“There’s five of us you barbaric little monster.” Venom dripped from Cloud Runner’s every word.
“I thought you bird-brains were s’posed to have good eyes,” the mottled grey stallion added. He still had a little blood on his snout.
The other three sniggered and chuckled.
Tan brown: The one he’d dropped at Lemon Drizzle’s doorway.
Mud brown: Second row. Will let others go first.
Lilac: Quiet. Wound tight. Dangerous.
“Four.” Osvald turned to face the pegasus in the middle of the formation. “The queen doesn’t fight.”
A trap in a secluded spot meant they were serious. Baiting it with Lemon Drizzle’s filly meant they were deadly serious.
“Chestnut should have finished you when he had the chance.”
Maybe the time for rage hadn’t passed at all.
He opened himself to the filly’s blubbering. Deep in his belly, the fire lit. He breathed the pain of the world – let it enter him, feed him. Such needless suffering. The earth itself reached up through his legs, lending him strength. His whole body tingled with energy – the will to fight, the desire to kill.
Grey is the muscle. He starts. Lilac’s fear overwhelms her and she follows in. Tan dies. Mud flees, then the others.
“Get him!”
As the mottled grey stallion rushed forwards, the lilac mare released an earth-shaking battlecry. They came at Osvald from opposite sides.
He stepped towards the mare and she dropped low, span on her front hooves, and lashed out at him with both hind legs – the instinctive attack of a frightened herd creature. But Osvald doubled back too fast. He struck with an open claw, just as he had before, and Grey, already twisting to avoid a head-on collision with Lilac, dodged deftly to one side.
Osvald pushed through with his hind legs. He turned the claw and grabbed the back of the pony’s neck, pushing the stallion’s head down with his elbow and reaching behind a foreleg with his other claw. He lifted the pony over his head in one fluid movement, bringing him crashing down on the recovering mare.
Both ponies grunted with the air forced from their lungs. As Grey bounced and rolled, Tan stepped forward. He was slower, more cautious – an altogether better warrior. That was a shame.
Osvald leapt forward. Tan lifted a hoof and swung, catching Osvald on the side of his head. But, he powered through again, getting a claw to the side of the stallion’s face and holding himself in place.
A second blow struck where the first had. Osvald pulled hard on the stallion to right himself, and as the third swing started, he drew the claw to the other side of the pony muzzle, reached to the back of his neck with the other, and twisted.
A lifeless, tan-coloured corpse dropped to the ground with an ignominious thud.
Lilac was still wobbling to her hooves when both of Osvald’s claws came down on the back of her neck, forcing her chin down to the ground.
“Stop,” he said, flexing the grip of his talons.
Osvald raised his gaze to Mud.
The stallion quaked. Maybe he didn’t have the wits left to run.
“Greysmoke.” Cloud Runner’s tone had lost none of its venom, but it had gained a panicked haste. “We need to get back to the village. Hurry.”
They fled. Osvald watched Cloud Runner take to the air, leaving Greysmoke to catch up on hoof. They would get back to the village first, there was no stopping that, but he had two ponies here that might be useful.
“Name,” he said, placing one claw on the mare’s head and putting more of his weight on it. Her eyes were sealed tightly shut.
“Tigerlily,” she replied in a thin rasp.
Mud stared at the mare in silence, eyes wide and still quaking.
“His name.”
“Wood… Woodwork.”
Osvald, looked up at the stallion.
“Woodwork. Is this mare important to you?”
The stallion nodded emphatically.
“Good. Do everything I tell you, and Tigerlily will survive. Understand?”
The stallion nodded again.
“Good. Untie Bluebelle, then tell me everything you know about Cloud Runner and Ironhooves.”
~~~
A little anger had worked.
Now he hoped he had been wrong about not relying on words, too.
Bluebelle gripped his neck and shoulders tightly, occasionally snivelling or sniffing. Osvald couldn’t imagine how the child felt, but the promise of being reunited with her mother had been sufficient to lull her into a sullen, post-tantrum stupor.
Following through on the promise was going to be the difficult part. Fighting off a few ponies not ready for the brutality of real combat had played to his strengths, but if they had been willing to tie up Bluebelle as bait, he had no idea what they might do to Lemon Drizzle if they had her. She had good reason to be scared of her kin – probably more reason than she knew.
And then there was Peppermint Sky – and the fact that his binding was already soaked in blood again. Even if he could defend himself against the entire village, which he doubted, what good would it do? Another dead pony drew them one step closer to an unwinnable war.
Survival alone was not enough.
Ahead of him, the village gate sat fully open and welcoming. No matter how many might be against him, they would know that the palisade was no longer relevant. Striding through it with a filly on his back and his tail swishing merrily, however, might just put off any other ponies thinking to push their luck.
His show of enthusiasm didn’t last long.
Bluebelle leapt off his back and galloped along the concourse.
“Mommy! Mommy!”
A large pole stood in the centre. Staggered iron rings dotted its surface, and a rope ran from one of these rings to a muzzle on Lemon Drizzle’s snout. When Bluebelle reached her, she couldn’t even bend all the way down to scoop the filly up, so short was the tether. She sat back on her haunches and the filly leapt up into her forelegs.
As she cradled her screaming child, tears fell from where they pooled inside her shackle.
Osvald simmered and trembled. His talons bit into the earth with every step towards the herd surrounding her. Several ponies gathered around Cloud Runner and Greysmoke, a few more around the mare that had saved his life. For every one that looked shocked or tearful, three looked ready to pounce on him at any moment. Ironhooves stood firm at the front, dressed in a grubby brown waistcoat.
The old pony stared him down as he approached. A few more ponies cowered in the shadows of open windows; whether they were grief-stricken for their herd-mate or afraid of his killer, Osvald couldn’t tell.
Cloud Runner clearly hadn’t wasted any time.
Osvald breathed long and slow – words were hardly his forte.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, coming to a halt a few lengths before Ironhooves. The hunt was on.
“Well just hold on there,” the old pony answered. “You ain’t in much of a place to go asking questions, now, are you? I took a big risk trusting that Lemon Drizzle wasn’t bringing us a heap o’ trouble, and now I got a report of a murder and the abduction of a filly. Seems we have ourselves a situation, and a likely traitor. I’m taking it kinda personal.”
Bluebelle’s bawling filled the pause as Osvald’s eyes flicked over to Cloud Runner once before turning back to Ironhooves.
“No murder,” he said flatly. “They failed.”
“You saying that Rusty ain’t dead, or that it ain’t your… claws that did it?”
Osvald blinked.
“He is dead, but—”
“You murdered him!” Greysmoke shouted.
“And he would have killed me if we didn’t give him Bluebelle!” Tigerlily added.
The lilac mare stood at the back of the group clustered around Cloud Runner. She held her ribs with a foreleg, and Woodwork stood shoulder to shoulder with her.
Several other voices cried out in support of the mare, and then Woodwork spoke out.
“Uh… Ironhooves, s-sir?”
The old pony didn’t take his eyes off Osvald.
“You got somethin’ to say, young ’un, you spit it out.”
“Well… uh, Tigerlily’s hurt, sir. Would it be okay if I took her to bed—I mean, to her bed.” The stallion’s face turned a healthy shade of crimson.
Ironhooves nodded. “All right, Woodwork. I hear we’re gonna be buildin’ you two a new home, soon, so you go ahead and look after your girl. But before you go, I need to hear your side of events.”
Cloud Runner gave Tigerlily a saccharine smile and gestured for her to step forward. Greysmoke moved aside and let her come between them.
“Well, Cloud Runner wanted to go looking for Peppermint Sky, and a few of us said we would go and help her. I was keeping an eye on Bluebelle so that she could fly up and look around, when this griffin flew in and tried to snatch little Bluebelle away. I tried to stop him!” Tigerlily’s pitch rose, tears welling in her eyes. “I really did! He was just too strong and… he attacked Greysmoke when he came to help… and then… he killed Rusty, and-and-and—” She sniffed and wiped her eyes as Cloud Runner stepped in and wrapped a wing around her.
Even amongst the herd around the pegasus, a few ponies wilted, their gazes turning downwards. One old mare broke into quiet sobbing and was quickly embraced by the stallion next to her.
“There, there,” Cloud Runner leant in and nuzzled the mare affectionately. “Just a little more and you can go. Then we can put all this behind us and start planning a beautiful wedding for you and your fiancé.”
Osvald stared at the show – the venomous queen bee sinking her fangs into another devoted worker drone.
Tigerlily sniffed again and took a deep breath before finishing her testimony: “He k-killed Rusty and took Bluebelle away.”
Bluebelle’s wails had died down, and Ironhooves took his eyes off of Osvald for a moment to look over at Tigerlily.
Of course, if Osvald did anything with the inattention, it would be a sign of guilt.
“What about you, Woodwork?” the old stallion said. “I’m guessin’ you were close by.”
“Yessir. I saw it all, but I—” The stallion swallowed, hard. “I should have been helping more, but…”
“Nonsense.” Cloud Runner withdrew her wing and gave Tigerlily one final nuzzle. “I’m very glad you were nearby. Now, Ironhooves has what he needs, so why don’t you take your future bride inside for some rest?”
Ironhooves nodded, and the two ponies plodded away, side by side.
“I didn’t see him come down,” Greysmoke said, clearly projecting his voice across the crowd, “but I heard it and found the griffin attacking Tigerlily. It was as much as I could do to stop him killing her, and I’m afraid I didn’t see it kill Rusty, but I saw him dead. And I saw him flying off with Bluebelle.”
“Well—” Ironhooves chewed his lip “—I already heard Cloud Runner’s statement, so I gotta ask: you have anything to say for yourself? ’Cos the way I see it, Lemon Drizzle brought a murderer into our village and got a good pony killed. That makes her a murderer too, in my eyes.”
Osvald’s talons sank into the earth as a faint rumble emerged from his throat.
“Where. Is. Peppermint. Sky?” he said, fixing a piercing stare at the old stallion before him.
“I got no idea, which eats at me some. I figure she’s waitin’ for you and this traitor, somewhere. That’ll be a long wait unless you feel like confessing – pretty sure we could agree on exile for all of you—”
“Agreed,” Osvald said.
A murmur passed through the herd – even Cloud Runner looked shocked.
“One condition.”
Ironhooves chewed his lip.
“Speak your mind.”
Osvald pointed a claw at a very young mare resting a hoof on Lemon Drizzle’s shoulder.
“Name.”
The mare flinched.
“Oh… I… Singing Nettle.”
Osvald took a step forward.
“I want Stinging Nettle to search Cloud Runner’s abode for Peppermint Sky. If she is there, then nothing this mare says can be trusted.”
“What?”
“Woah there, Cloud Runner. Mr. Osvald has a fair request. Course, I’ll need a couple more to make sure it’s all fair and square.”
Cloud Runner snorted, frowned, and pursed her lips.
“Agreed.” Osvald settled down on his belly. “We wait here.”
“Singing Nettle, Buttermilk, Tree-splitter, go take a walk.” Ironhooves looked down at Osvald and chewed his lip again. “Course, to be all square, I guess we ought to search Lemon Drizzle’s place, too.”
Osvald nodded and pointed a claw towards the other mare near Lemon Drizzle that wasn’t perpetually scowling.
“Moonshine, Greysmoke, Lunch Time.” Ironhooves inclined his head towards Lemon Drizzle’s shelter.
Only the teary, older mare and the stallion by her remained near Cloud Runner, and the last stallion near Lemon Drizzle had lost the hardness in his face.
Ironhooves sank to the ground in front of Osvald, and the two of them exchanged a steely glare.
They waited.
And waited.
And waited.
“Clear over here!” came a shout from one side.
Moonshine trotted back, ahead of a less enthusiastic Greysmoke and Lunch Time.
Osvald’s heart picked up its pace. He took long, slow breaths, as he was trained to do, but he could feel heat rising in his flesh. Moonshine gave him a long, empty look as she trotted past, as if she had no idea what to make of any of it. When she returned to Lemon Drizzle’s side, she wrapped her in a big hug.
From behind Osvald, a door opened and three ponies trotted out into the street.
He looked behind him. Singing Nettle’s head drooped, shaking solemnly.
“So,” Ironhooves said, “are you going to cause trouble?”
“No.” Osvald stared past the old pony. The herd around Lemon Drizzle set to work undoing the vile contraption restraining her.
“There is one other thing I gotta ask, though.” Ironhooves lowered his voice and leaned forward slightly. “We both know they weren’t going to find our little bird at Cloud Runner’s place. So why even ask?”
Osvald hummed and nodded, slowly.
“A good question,” he said.
Ironhooves frowned.
“And?”
“I wanted all ponies kept busy, including you.”
“Why?” Ironhooves cocked his head and narrowed his eyes.
Osvald pointed down the concourse with a talon.
“Terrain advantage.”
“Meaning?”
From opposite Lemon Drizzle’s shelter, a door creaked open and a lilac head poked out.
Osvald slumped with a huge sigh.
“Meaning I knew something you didn’t want me to.”
“What the—” The old pony sprang to his hooves. “Hey! What do you two think you’re doing in my house?”
“She’s here!” Tigerlily shouted. “Peppermint Sky is in here! I think she’s been poisoned.”
“Thank merciful Tyr,” Osvald said under his breath. He studied the old pony’s face as the whole herd gasped and muttered as one. He was good; his sudden panic lasted only a few seconds before a look of rage and fury washed it away.
Good at being bad, at least.
“Cloud Runner.” Ironhooves stormed towards her. “What have you done?”
“Don’t you try and put this on me; you foalnapped my daughter!”
Neither of them noticed another pony come thundering in. A hoof the faded yellow of limestone cliffs, muddied and stained with tears, smashed into Cloud Runner’s face. The mare crumpled instantly.
When Ironhooves brought a hoof up to swing at Lemon Drizzle, a piercing screech split the air.
“Enough.” Osvald stood on his hind legs, towering over the old pony. “Do. Not. Move.”
Lemon Drizzle ran over to the front of Ironhooves’ shelter, where Woodwork carefully carried an unconscious pegasus through the door.
“Pepper! Pepper!” she cried, lifting the mare’s lifeless head.
“She’s just sleeping,” Tigerlily said, ears folded flat against her head. “It’ll last a few hours more, at least.”
Lemon Drizzle nuzzled and kissed and cradled Peppermint Sky’s head as Singing Nettle approached with a worn-out Bluebelle clinging to her shoulders.
“So,” Osvald said, looking down at the old stallion as ponies closed in from all directions, “you were saying about exile.”
~~~
“Osvald?” Lemon Drizzle smirked. “Are you… trapped?”
He lay in the hot spring, tail swishing rhythmically. His wings fanned out across the water’s surface, and on his left side, Peppermint Sky pressed against his side with her head resting across his shoulders.
“It would appear so. I admit the attention is, confusing. Even for a pony.”
“She has a lot to be confused about.” Lemon Drizzle’s ears folded down as she sat by the pool. “I can’t help but realise I left my only foal in the care of somepony as vicious as Cloud Runner. I had no idea. I couldn’t even see what was under my nose, let alone understand what it must have been like for her. What does that say about me as a mother?”
“Nothing good.” Osvald’s tone was flat and even, and he kept his eyes straight ahead.
“Thank you.”
He turned towards her and raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t think I want anyone making excuses for me.” Lemon Drizzle shifted her gaze to the lilac mare a short way downstream with her nose pressed into the grass. “I don’t want them making excuses for anypony.”
“Did you learn more from Tigerlily?”
“Mostly what I expected. Cloud Runner does lots of little favours for ponies until they are indebted to her, then has them carry out favours that leave them trapped in her web. It’s not a new story, I’m afraid. She had them convinced that their love was shameful and they would never get married without her ‘help’. It seems there are lots of ponies in debt to her, both here and in the neighbouring towns. Unfortunately, there’s also bad news.”
Osvald plunged his face into the water and snapped his head back up again. He shook his head vigorously, splashing water all around.
“I’m ready.”
“Well, it seems Cloud Runner is more devious than you thought. I never imagined that she had any major connections back where she came from, but it turns out she just knew when to keep quiet. She’s the Granddaughter of Field Marshall Monsoon.”
Osvald sighed. Pony titles for pony names.
“Do you know of him?” Lemon Drizzle asked.
“No. Perhaps she is some kind of scout?”
“Scout? You mean, like a spy? No, not unless she had a seventeen-year task, anyway. But it does seem that she has Elder Sawsea under her hoof. That must be why Ironhooves is in shackles while she is sipping tea under house arrest. Osvald… there’s an armed brigade on the way here – pegasi, maybe even unicorns. You know, banners, trumpets, armour… all of it. They didn’t stop me from saving you because they never expected you to survive, and they definitely didn’t imagine you’d recover before they arrived. That’s why our two best warriors went with Elder Sawsea to consult the council of headsponies, and only Ironhooves stayed to keep an eye on you.”
“But why act.” Osvald swirled a talon around in the water for a few moments. “If they had waited, I would have left anyway.”
Lemon Drizzle frowned deeply and splashed a hoof around in the water.
“Well, Tigerlily said Ironhooves was arranging provisions for some kind of stockade – something about preparing for a cloud city on the other side of Galloping Gorge. Maybe they needed to stir up trouble to convince ponies to be generous with the terms.”
“Attacking my pride may stir up more trouble they can handle.” Osvald looked up into the sky. “Now that I consider it, I have not seen the mare that tackled me to the ground among the villagers. Silver, with long plats.”
“Steel Strike. Ironhooves’ daughter. She’s away with Elder Sawsea. His wife and son are doing some tutoring over at Traveller’s Fork.”
“Convenient.” Osvald sighed. This aptitude for deception was exactly why griffins avoided ponies – or at least why he did.
“Osvald?” Lemon Drizzle’s voice softened. “You know… you probably shouldn’t be here when the brigade shows up – or Elder Sawsea, I guess. And… I suppose you’ll want to be getting home anyway…”
He nodded. A wing lifted slowly, followed by the rush of water running back into the pool. Osvald shook it out and hung it tightly around Peppermint Sky.
“I felt responsible for this one. I did not choose to be attacked, or wounded. I did not choose to be saved, or to meet her here. Yet, she was poisoned because of me, so I had to see she was well. Once she is, I will be gone. How long will that take?”
“Oh, she’s probably fine already.” Lemon Drizzle fixed her stare on the young pegasus and smiled. “But that stuff does funny things to a pony. I just hope she doesn’t bring her lunch back up.”
Minutes passed with nothing but the babbling weir and an occasional snore to fill the space. Everything there was to be said had been said. Everything there was to do had been done. The task behind them was nothing compared to the task ahead, but perhaps the spirits of the forest had given him an important lesson before it was too late. Perhaps the ponies weren’t quite as unreachable as he once thought.
Lemon Drizzle rested her head on her hooves and sighed.
“Things are going to get worse, aren’t they.”
“Yes.” Osvald nodded. “The fight has just begun.”
~~~
Somewhere in the night, an owl hooted, and another replied. Osvald crept quietly through the forest until he found Tigerlily still lying with her nose touching the ground.
“Stand,” Osvald said. “Your penance is over.”
The mare rose slowly to her hooves, grumbling, wincing, and stretching her legs. Osvald placed a bowl containing a single pike in front of her.
“Did you move at all?”
“No. I promise I didn’t.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir. I didn’t move. I swear.”
Osvald pushed the bowl forwards.
“Take this to Lemon Drizzle’s doorstep and leave it there. She will know what it means. Then, you may go home. And Tigerlily?”
“Yes, sir?”
“If any harm comes to Bluebelle, I will find you.”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Go.”
The mare grabbed the bowl in her teeth and fled, disappearing into the trees.
“Then, you may go home,” he repeated, and launched himself into the air.
~~~
The starry sky bloomed with the arrival of morning.
Each time it rose, he wondered what it must have been like when the sun moved of its own accord, and nature danced to its own tune. He used to enjoy hearing Cassik sing the song of stars, but never again.
Osvald paused and breathed in the last of the night-time air. He checked the binding on his thigh: no blood. Any time now, Lemon Drizzle would find his parting gift, and soon he would return to Tora. Her fury would break upon him as the mountain turns aside the river – unshakable and resolute. He would show her all his strength until she fell against him, exhausted and content. Then, he would tell his kin of the gathering storm in the south, and the harsh winds to be weathered in their future.
He would not sway Germaine, but maybe with renewed hope, Tevik could convince his mate, Alicia, and then the other adjutants…
He leapt at a tree and buried his talons in its trunk. Even now, the distance had been too much for one flight, but soon he would be home. Fire surged in his muscles, dragging him upward as the promise of home beckoned.
At the top of the tree, he looked out over the thundering waters of Reaver’s Rush to the savannah beyond.
One more flight.
His mind already soaring, he leapt from the highest branch and beat his wings. There would be no thermals for hours, yet, and he did not wait. His muscles still burned, but he could not wait.
Over the river. Over the last of the thick forest kept fed by the plentiful water. Over the open miles of scrub, and grass, and field. Toward Drakkenspire Crag. Toward home, and the skull of Tetheos that adorned the great dragon’s old lair.
Nothing else existed. No pain would keep him from his destination.
By the time he arrived at the dusty plateau in front of the caves he called home, landing – in any dignified sense of the word – was beyond him. He held his wings wide, eyes clenched tight as he fought against the tremble that threatened to collapse them, until the ground came up to find him.
But Osvald’s instincts were finely honed. He folded his wings in tight by feel of pressure alone and cushioned the fall with all four legs. Then, he crumpled and rolled as his father had taught him do so many times. One more roll onto his back, and he stretched his wings out to hold him steady as his chest heaved with his gasping breaths.
He screeched.
No reply. Perhaps the whole pride was out hunting. Perhaps they would be grieving, or raging, as one. It was strange to see from the inside how easily the ponies’ individuality became subsumed by the herd. But the pride was a home that lived in his heart, as he lived in theirs. Its power did not diminish by separation, and its bonds were forged in conflict and dissent, not compromise or flattery.
The pounding of blood in his ears quietened and gasping breaths slowed into deep, controlled respiration. Osvald heard something rippling and billowing in the wind, but the fire in his shoulders held him prisoner to his comfortable rest.
There was an old, dead tree jutting out from the edge of the lair’s bluff. The old perch, they called it. It was a magnificent place to simply take in the majesty of the savannah – a magnificent way to remember that no creature made the laws: no griffin, no dragon, no god, and certainly no ponies. The laws simply were. Even the revered Tyr, keeper of the law, was beholden to them.
The fluttering came from that tree, and as he pondered, Osvald caught the faint scent of blood in his nostrils. He raised a claw to shield himself from the morning sun. The sound came from a scrap of blue cloth caught in the old branches, torn from some larger piece. A single bronzed tassel on its corner thrashed wildly in the wind.
You know, banners, trumpets, armour… all of it.
Osvald jerked himself upright and immediately fell back to the ground, wincing and hammering the rocky ground with a balled-up claw. He gingerly rolled upright, folding up his aching wings and taking in the plateau.
Faded bloodstains peppered the surface rock – at least a day old, maybe two.
The business end of a shattered spear gave off a dull shine in the shade of the lair’s entrance. Polished steel, stained with blood.
Ponies.
He cried out again and again, but still no answer came. Not a sound issued forth from the depths of Drakkenspire Crag, and the sun-bleached skull of Tetheos sat atop it in silent judgement.
Osvald’s heart raced. “It cannot be,” he said between shallow, panting breaths. “They’re just ponies; it cannot be.”
He called out again, appealing to the sky for answers, but none came.
In the distance, he saw a blackened scar on the savannah.
Fire.
Osvald spread his wings, circling and stretching them, then leapt from the plateau. He glided as far as they would carry him, and after that, he sprinted through the scrub and brush, the wound in his leg nothing more than one more ache dwarfed by the hole in his pounding heart.
Not a fire: a pyre.
A few ripples in the air revealed the last traces of heat still emanating from its core, and dozens of bones protruded from the pile of ash slowly disintegrating in the savannah winds.
Osvald looked around. The many stumps of once-healthy trees testified to the scale of what had transpired. Scrub had been cleared away for tents, and campfires, and a hundred pony hooves.
He reached out, slowly. The bones were too far away and his legs would not move. He stretched, and stretched, until he collapsed. For a few moments, he lay still, and then, he wept.
And wept.
And screamed.
And wept again.
The savannah breeze ruffled his feathers as time became a blur.
Gone.
All gone.
When his tears ran dry, Osvald sunk his talons into the dusty ground and dragged himself forward. Another claw, another few paces. Finally, he reached out and drew a long, thin bone from the ash.
A griffin wingbone.
He raised himself off the ground.
Not gone – taken.
His claw tightened around the bone.
The pride had avoided open conflict with ponies, and those ponies had rewarded them with blood.
Osvald growled and looked to the southeast, toward the pony villages.
The bone snapped in his clenched fist.
If blood they wanted, blood they would have.
The End
