Shadows in the North - A Sundering of Equestria Tale

Chapter Four

Colonel Staid examined the griffon engine with a critical eye. He wasn’t unfamiliar with technology – Imperial technology, at least – but the metal contraption mystified him. The moving parts vaguely reminded him of the iron piston-rods of the steam engines he was familiar with, but parts of it were clearly brass clockwork. The actual body of the engine just looked like a mess of metal tubes and boxes to him, with six hollow cylinders poking upwards out of the mess that apparently did not release steam, but instead exhumed some other kind of fumes. It smelled of grease.

“Is it going to explode?” he asked cautiously. He had piled his saddlebags alongside the wooden platform upon which the engine was mounted, so he could easily move them on-board if the Major was successful, but far enough away that they might be saved from any imminent fireballs. Staid wished he’d put them further away still.

Major LeFeather, who was underneath the platform bolting on the last wheel, laughed out loud. “We won’t know for certain until I turn it on,” she said cheerfully, pausing to wipe some grease off of her goggles, “The LeFeather Regulator means the engine will be firing in a lot more fuel than usual, so either it’ll go a lot faster, or it’ll go bang.”

“The LeFeather Regulator being your own invention, which you have only just thought up in the last hour?”

“Yep”

The Colonel inched a little further away from the engine. “I’m astonished,” he said conversationally, “that the speed of a locomotive could be so greatly increased by means of your little… clockwork… thing.”

“It should help that we’re not covering it in armour,” Léa said, sliding out from under the platform. Staid could have sworn that, behind the angled glass of her goggles, her eyes were glowing. “And it’s so simple too. Imagine it, Staid. Carts like this one – not military vehicles, not slowpoke Cannonade Carts, but unarmoured civilian ones – zipping about all over the place. Everyone could have one! Imagine the streets filled with griffons driving to work! Parents, taking their chicks to school! Travel times would be cut in half! And the industry. Fuel refineries, workshops and forges all over the place! Anyone can learn to hammer metal or stick bits of wood together; unemployment would vanish!”

“I think you might be getting a little ahead of yourself, Major,” Staid said, as LeFeather moved on to attaching the wheels to the engine via a complex driving system pulled off of a different Cart, “We have a similar machine in the Empire. We call them automobiles – which roughly translates to ‘self-driving cart’ in Equestrian – and they’re powered by steam rather than fuel-pumps. A few people do have them, but not many because, at least in the Empire, they are quite expensive. And those that do have them drive them very slowly thanks to a thing we call ‘speed limits’. Going fast can cause crashes and injure innocent bystanders. A friend of mine almost killed himself in one such incident.”

“Oh,” said Léa quietly.

“And of course, you must bear in mind that we are the only ones who have heard of your invention,” Staid continued, “And we are stranded in the icy wastelands of a foreign country, with no way to contact the wider world. It may be more prudent to focus on the situation we currently find ourselves in, before dreaming about the future.”

“I… I suppose you’re right,” Léa said, pausing in her work. She was facing away from the Colonel, but Staid detected that the light of enthusiasm was beginning to fade from her eyes.

“There aren’t any speed limits out here, of course,” the Imperial commented off-hoofedly, “And your machine needs to be at least fast enough to outrun a galloping shadow-pony.”

“So… I can go as fast as I like?” the griffon asked, eyes lighting up, “You don’t mind?”

“Major, if you can get this vehicle to work, I will do whatever your technology’s equivalent of stoking the engine is,” Staid said encouragingly.

“Thanks for that Staid,” the griffon said with a smile, “And call me Léa.”

“As you wish, Ma-, I mean, Léa.”

“Now help me move these fuel canisters. Watch out, they’re heavy.”

As the Colonel strained his neck muscles lifting up a charred fuel-can almost as tall as him, he briefly reflected on the various negative stereotypes that ponies in the Empire liked to attribute to other species, and to other variations of their own kind. Earth ponies were supposed to be strong but stupid, or at least incredibly dull; Lepidomares were twitchy bundles of nerves at best, and paranoid crazies at worst; unicorns were elitist and aloof, and never helped anyone that wasn’t a unicorn; Ataxi were either cold-hearted killers or idiotic insect-eaters, depending on who you asked; Lamassu were, well, just plain creepy; and pegasi were hot-headed and foolhardy. All these stereotypes were utterly ridiculous, of course. Why, his old friend Drake was…

Staid shook himself out of that line of thinking and concentrated on what was in front of him. Watching Léa attaching a pair of slick black tubes to the underside of the Cart’s driving mechanism, Staid wondered what the negative stereotypes for griffons were, and in how many ways his new friend defied them, as she undoubtedly did.

There weren’t many griffons in the World Empire – barely a few hundred, and most of them were tourists or travelling guidebook writers – but if other griffons were anything like Léa LeFeather, then Staid hoped more would come and stay.

The Colonel had just finished lowering the third fuel canister onto the Cart’s deck, when a sudden flash of light emitting an electrical buzzing noise went whizzing past the back of his head. He managed to turn his head around just in time to see a blue bolt of light hit the ground a few metres away and burst apart, scorching the ground beneath it.

In the split-second it took for him to realise what that blue light had been, and where he’d seen it before, his lifetime experience of fighting had already kicked in.

“Major! Get down!” he yelled as he, clumsily and rather unstylishly, toppled off the side of the Cart and dived into cover behind it.

“What?” Léa poked her head up and looked around through her grimy goggles. “Why? And didn’t I already say you could call me-”

“We’re under fire!” Staid repeated, terrified that the Major remained in the enemy’s line of sight (whoever they were).

“We are?”

“Get behind the Cart! Now!”

“Alright, alright.”

Léa jumped down behind the wood and metal construction, and crouched next to the Colonel. “Who’s shooting at us?”

“I’m not sure,” the Colonel said, “But the shot I saw was a blue burst, almost electrical in nature. The soldiers of the New Lunar Republic use guns that fire such things; I’ve seen so. But a single shot, so wide off the mark… it seems unlikely that a trained soldier could miss, and surely wouldn’t even consider firing at too great a distance. Possibly it was fired by a civilian, either a recent recruit or just some pony who managed to get their hooves on a Republican weapon – or perhaps, considering that another shot has yet to be fired, it was a warning shot….”

Léa stared at him. “What’s ‘electrical’?” she asked.

Staid ignored the question. “We can’t risk raising our heads in case our enemy is waiting for us to present a target, but if we wait too long we might be flanked. Hmm… I don’t suppose you have a small mirror on your person?”

Before the griffon could reply, the two of them heard a shout.

“I know you’re behind there!” a recognisably feminine voice called out to them, “Come out with your hooves empty! And no funny business – I’ve got your machine completely covered!”

Instead of replying, Staid listened. The only noise to interrupt the oppressive silence of the wintry north was the barely-noticeable rushing sound of a slight wind. No crunching of hooves on snow, no clicking of shuffling of weapons, none of the subtle sounds that signified the presence of any large number of living creatures. The speaker, Staid concluded, was alone.

Léa poked her head over the edge of the Cart’s platform and quickly dropped back down a second later. “Staid, it’s just one pony,” she said breathlessly, “She’s alone!”

“Thank you for that confirmation, Major,” Staid said quietly, and more than just a little dryly, “Now, we are going to emerge from behind the Cart very slowly and show this pony that we are not carrying any weapons. Understood?”

“Right,” Léa said.

Making sure to make no sudden movements, the two of them very slowly stood up and stepped out from behind the Cart.

Facing them, a good twenty metres away, was a pony standing upright on her hind legs. She wore dark clothing – padded, by the looks of things, but it certainly didn’t look nearly enough to keep out the harsh, northerly chill – with a stylish dark-blue scarf around her neck. Her mane, which fluttered a little in the slight wind, was half-blue and half-yellow (almost perfectly; the separation ran like a line just off-centre), while her coat was a single, somewhat darker shade of blue. Her tail, too, was blue with a yellow stripe running across it. The separation of colour was so perfect that, if the Colonel hadn’t seen similar bizarre heterochromia on many other ponies native to Equestria, he would have believed it dyed.

But of more immediate concern to Staid and Léa was the weapon the mare was pointing at them. It was clearly a kind of rifle; its sleek design and the dully-glowing crystal lodged into the weapon’s top identified it as a New Lunar Republic Starbeam Rifle. Mark 3, if Staid wasn’t mistaken. Its barrel was gently steaming in the cold air.

“Don’t move,” the mare ordered, “The shot just now was a warning shot. I won’t miss next time.”

“Don’t worry,” the Colonel said carefully, “We’re not armed.”

“Technically I’m a civilian,” Léa added, “So I’m not really allowed to be armed.”

The mare sounded confident, but Staid noticed a few little things that didn’t quite add up. First of all, there was her age; if she had applied to the Imperial Army, there was a good chance she’d have been turned away for being too young. And then there was the shivering – from the cold, or nerves, Staid couldn’t be certain – and although it was subtle, it was there.

“What are you two doing out here?” the mare demanded, “What’s that thing you’re building? Tell me!”

“One thing at a time,” Staid said. The mare focused her sights on him. “First of all, why don’t we start by sharing names? I’m Colonel Staid, of the World Empire’s Equestrian Expeditionary Force.”

“I thought you were an Imperial,” the mare said suspiciously, “You look like one. But what are you doing out here with a griffon?”

“This is my companion, Major Léa LeFeather of the Griffon Kingdoms’ Royal Engineers,” Staid explained. The Major nodded her acquiescence. “Like myself, she and the troops she was with were ambushed by creatures we’ve called shadow-ponies. She and I were the only survivors of the attacks – at least, the only ones we’ve managed to find.”  Staid decided not to mention Defiant Arc; the Centurion was a rather vexing individual and, not to mention the obvious animosity between the two sides of the original civil war, having an asset a potential opponent is not aware of is usually a good thing. “We therefore joined forces in order to better our chances of survival. Did something similar happen to yourself, Miss…?”

“Captain,” the pony said. The widening of her eyes at the mention of the shadow-ponies had slightly eroded her stony demeanour. “My name is Captain Star-Strike, of the 4th Nightstrider Brigade. I am a loyal soldier of the New Lunar Republic and sworn enemy of all those who would oppose the revolution! Death to the loyalists! Death to the Solar Tyrant!”

“Nice,” Léa said under her breath, “Friendly stuff.”

“I respect your great devotion to your cause, Captain,” Staid said graciously, “But you have not answered my question. You seem to be alone. Did-”

“We were attacked by shadow-ponies too,” Star-Strike said. Suddenly, her confident exterior wavered. “So… those things, they’re nothing to do with you two? Your countries, I mean?”

Staid shook his head. “I have never seen anything like them in the World Empire,” he said.

“Notice how they were shadow-ponies?” LeFeather added, “Not griffons, but ponies? Nothing to do with my lot.”

“We are attempting to reach a place of safety from them,” Staid continued, “This locomotive, constructed by my ingenious friend here, was built with that aim in mind.”

“Can we…” Star-Strike began, and then faltered. She no longer resembled the confident soldier who had begun holding them at gun-point barely moments ago, but now more closely resembled the very cold, very tired young mare that it appeared she truly was. “Can we join you? Please?”

“You’d be welcome to, Captain,” Staid said warmly, and Léa gave a great sigh of relief.

“I don’t want to be rude or anything, but does this mean I can get back to work now?” the griffon asked, “Only I don’t want to have to defrost the engine again before I’m finished.”

“Captain? Is that acceptable?”

Star-Strike seemed surprised that she was being addressed. “Yeah, of course,” she said. Then she noticed that she was still pointing the gun at them and immediately holstered it on her back.

Once Léa had flown back to her Cart, spanner in claw, the Colonel led Star-Strike over to the pile of saddlebags he’d made. “Please Captain, take a seat,” he said, “You must be hungry.”

“A little,” Star-Strike said, in a very quiet voice, “So… are we… are we all friends now? Nopony’s going to try to kill each other?”

“I hope not,” Léa commented, before starting to bash at a protruding screw with her spanner, “Damn ice! I swear I covered this in de-icing oil…”

“Here,” Staid said, pulling a grey bar out of one of his bags and hoofing it over. The young mare took it without complaint and began to eat. “What do you think?”

“It’s… nice.” The Captain looked a little uncomfortable.

“It’s alright Captain,” Staid said, taking a seat on the cleared snow opposite her, “I’m aware of how tasteless Imperial ration bars are.”

“No, it’s not that,” Star-Strike said, “Sorry, um, Colonel Staid, was it? But I haven’t been completely honest. I’ve actually been travelling with somepony else. Is it alright if she-”

“Of course, Captain!” Staid said cheerfully, looking around, “The more of us there are, the better a chance we stand if we’re attacked again. Where is your friend?”

“I’ll just go and get her,” Star-Strike said, unfurling her wings – which Staid had not previously noticed, camouflaged as they were against her dark clothing, “I left her with the sled; I’ll be back in a moment. Hold on.”

Léa’s head shot up from behind the Cart’s engine. “Sled?” she said excitedly.

The Republican pegasus took off and swooped away over to a small hillock, which she promptly disappeared behind. Any fears Staid might have possessed of Star-Strike being the bait or trigger for some kind of ambush quickly disappeared when, moments later, a bright yellow Earth pony with a salmon-orange mane emerged from behind the small hill, pulling a large wooden sled laden with crates and sacks. Star-Strike was hovering next to her and, from the look of things, was explaining the situation to the other mare.

“Excellent,” LeFeather said, watching with arched claws as the sled was drawn closer, “It’s made of wood. Perfect. Do you think they’ll let me borrow it?”

“You can ask,” Staid said, “If you can get your locomotive to function, we can store their supplies on that. What do you need it for?”

“Raw materials,” Léa said bluntly, “The wood here is all too burnt for me to use. And… yes, I don’t see why not….” Her eyes gleamed. “I shouldn’t need any more than four wheels… and half the sled will do for those… I think I’ve got some chains…”

By the end of the griffon’s cryptic mutterings, Star-Strike and her companion had arrived. The Republican introduced them while the other mare extracted herself from the sled harness.

“Butterscotch,” Star-Strike said, “This is Colonel Staid and Major… Léa LeFeather? Is that right?”

“Yep,” Léa said, eyes fixed on the sled.

“And this is Butterscotch,” Star-Strike said, introducing the mare standing alongside her, “She’s a civilian.”

Butterscotch gave a little wave. “Hi,” she said nervously. Staid thought she looked about the same age as Star-Strike. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” Staid said graciously, although he was a little unsure as to how useful a civilian with no military experience would be in their efforts to survive out here.

“After me and my comrades were ambushed by those shadow-ponies, I went off alone to get help,” Star-Strike explained, “I… uh, I got lost. There was a blizzard, you see. Embarrassing. But the other day I found Butterscotch here, with her sled, and we decided to team up.”

“A similar story to my own,” Colonel Staid said, “Might I enquire, Miss Butterscotch, as to any valuable skills you might have that might be useful in our situation? I do not wish to pry, but I do need to asses our little group’s strengths and weaknesses.”

“I make candy,” Butterscotch said quickly, “That was my job, before I ran away. Because of the war, you see.” She seemed nervous, almost skittish; quite natural, of course, when meeting new ponies (or new griffons) for the first time, especially foreign ones with a connection to the military. “I came up here because I didn’t think there’d be much fighting. I guess I was wrong though.”

“I know that doesn’t sound very impressive,” said Star-Strike, putting a friendly foreleg around Butterscotch’s shoulders, “But she’s a tough one! She told me she’d been up here for almost a month before I showed up!”

Butterscotch looked down at the ground. “It’s not really that impressive,” she said modestly and more than a little nervously.

“Honestly, I don’t know why you didn’t join the Republic army!” the Captain continued enthusiastically, “You’d have been a great soldier!”

“I don’t really like violence, I told you.”

“Colonel,” Star-Strike said, “Do you mind if Butterscotch has one of those grey bars? We’re kinda out of food.”

“Of course,” the Colonel said with a smile, as he turned back to his saddlebags.

“No, it’s alright,” Butterscotch said hurriedly, “I’m not hungry. Really.”

“But you haven’t eaten in-”

“Can I use your sled?” Léa blurted out, “Please?”

As the Major launched into a long-winded explanation of why she needed the sled and what she was going to use it for (which in turn led to an explanation of what, exactly, Léa  was building, in excruciating mechanical detail), Staid began to find himself paying less and less attention to the conversation.

There was something bothering Staid. How in the World had a single civilian, pulling a heavy sled, managed to survive up here in the frozen north for so long? Especially since the shadow-ponies had been active at least several days longer than Staid had previously been aware (assuming the vague details in Star-Strike’s short explanation were correct). How had Butterscotch survived them? She couldn’t have fled them; not without wings or magic, and not with that heavy sled holding her back. Did they only target large groups? No; Staid and Defiant Arc had been attacked when it was just the two of them. But then again, the shadow-ponies had originally been attacking the griffon convoy, and simply spotted them getting too close.

Perhaps that was the explanation. But then, if that was the case, they were no longer under threat from the shadow-creatures. Staid had a horrible feeling that his explanation was mostly wishful thinking; they couldn’t consider themselves safe until they got to somewhere describable as civilisation.

But still, there was something odd about-

“Staid? Hello? You still with us?”

“Yes, sorry Major,” Staid said, blinking rapidly to clear his thoughts, “I was just thinking. What is it?”

“Our new friends have agreed to let me carve up their sled,” Léa repeated, taking a folding saw out of her tool-belt and twiddling some strange-looking toggles on its sides, “Star-Strike’s on the look-out for shadow-ponies. Can you help Butterscotch take all their stuff off the sled so I can get started?”

“Of course Major,” Staid said, glancing down at the inexplicably nervous Earth pony, “I have to say, you’re not wearing much, Miss Butterscotch. Aren’t you cold?”

“Earth ponies are resistant to th-” Butterscotch began and quickly stopped, once she realised who (or rather, what) she was talking to. “I don’t know. I guess I just don’t feel the cold.”

The two of them worked for another half-an-hour, moving supplies around and helping Léa in her complex engineering work in what few ways they could, until Staid suggested it was time for a break. The griffon, in her mechanical enthusiasm, continued to tinker with the engine linkage system and the alignment of the drive-shaft while Butterscotch the old stallion took a break. Half of the runners from the sledge had been removed, chopped up, and attached to the Cart wheels to give the vehicle grip on the icy surface at high speeds. The other half had been hooked up to the back of the Cart, and it was on there that they’d very securely tied down their supplies, not wanting them to fall off when the Cart started up. Staid was very nearly worn out – he was nearing the age he could retire from the Imperial Army after all – while Butterscotch didn’t seem half as tired.

The Colonel was just reflecting on the limitless energies of youth, when suddenly Centurion Defiant Arc appeared from behind one of the wrecked Carts and ran towards them. He covered in bruises and small cuts. One of his eyes was swollen and his sword was in the air, surrounded by the blue glow of his magic.

“Shadow-ponies!” he shouted, as he ran full-pelt towards them, “They’re back! Coming from that way!” He pointed with his sword in the direction he’d just come from. “They’ll be here in minutes!”

“Oh, cluck,” Léa swore.

A second later, Star-Strike came swooping out of the air from the other direction. “Shadow-ponies!” she exclaimed, “Hundreds of them! They’re coming from over there!” She pointed from the direction she’d come from with her hoof. “Barely a minute away!”

“Double cluck,” Léa swore again.

Captain Star-Strike and Defiant Arc both reached the Cart at the same time, and then saw each other. The blood-stained Old Equestrian stared up in surprise and anger at the hovering Republican, who glared back with just as much menace.

“Triple cluck,” Staid amended.