Shadows in the North - A Sundering of Equestria Tale

Chapter Six

The following morning was a slow one. They were now far, far away from the site of the last shadow-pony attack, and all were very tired.

No-one had spoken much the previous night, with the exception of Léa and Star-Strike who had chatted like a couple of hens (or rather, one hen and a pegasus), all national divides forgotten as they gave each other hooficures and discussed mane- and feather-styling. They had occasionally tried to bring Butterscotch into their conversation, but the mare seemed more than a little reluctant, much to the two girls’ confusion. Staid hadn’t said much either, instead busying himself with setting up a perimeter tripwire and once again constructing ‘Fort Saddlebag’ for the night.

Defiant Arc, wrapped in bandages and stinking of antibacterial balm, sat by himself a short distance from all the others, saying nothing to anyone. When the time came for sleep, he had simply covered himself in his shimmering-blue, magical veil and lay down, without a word.

Once again, Léa LeFeather was the first to wake up. She slowly crawled into wakefulness, and then crawled out of her icy blankets. Rubbing her gummy eyes with an aching claw, she had a quick look around at the others. Defiant Arc was slumbering under his anti-intruder veil; Colonel Staid was just about visible from within the pile of bags and boxes surrounding him; Star-Strike was on her back, wings spread out, snoring like a Cart-engine, her newly-red-tipped mane draped over her face; and Butterscotch was….

Butterscotch was gone.

Léa silently prowled through her sleeping companions, flew over the tripwire, and landed on-top of the Cart. From this higher position, she, to the griffon’s relief, quickly caught sight of Butterscotch trotting across the icy ground towards her. A moment later, the pony caught sight of Léa; she was too far away for the Major to make out her immediate expression, but whatever it was, it quickly changed into a big smile.

“Good morning, Major!” Butterscotch said politely, when she reached the unmoving sentinel atop the Cart.

“Morning,” Léa replied, “Where’d you go off to?”

“Oh just, you know, on a walk,” the mare said dismissively, “Is everyone else awake ye-”

“A walk?” the griffon interrupted, “First thing in the morning, while the rest of us are still asleep, in an area where we know shadow-ponies are roaming about?”

“I was…. looking for food,” Butterscotch said slowly, with another too-wide smile, “You know, shrubs and bushes and things. Pony food.” Her stomach rumbled audibly. “Um, I couldn’t find anything.”

Léa raised an eyebrow. “You do know we have food here, right?” she said, “Staid has tons of those grey bars.  And you-” She paused. “You have food on your sled. You and Star-Strike had been living off of it. Weren’t you?”

Butterscotch’s eyes darted left and right as she backed away. “Um,” she said.

Major LeFeather swooped down and landed right in front of her, causing the mare to jump backwards. “Did you really think no-one would notice you acting weirdly?” she said coldly, “Star-Strike might have been taken in – she seems the trusting type – but I never was, and I don’t think Staid was either. You’re a candy-maker that somehow managed to survive out here for months, when I know there were shadow-ponies wandering around. You refuse food when you’re obviously hungry. You disappear off in the morning and don’t want us to know why. You don’t even say ‘everypony’.” She leaned in close, until she was staring deep into Butterscotch’s terrified eyes with a suspicious stare. “Who are you really? What are you hiding? Are you a spy?”

“No!” Butterscotch exclaimed loudly and then, remembering that the others were still asleep, repeated it much more quietly, “No! Look, I’m… I won’t deny I’m hiding something, alright? I am; I admit it. But it’s nothing bad, okay? Well, it might be, kinda, but not really, I- It’s not bad, for you. Please, Major; please trust me. This is just something… something I can’t tell you. At least, not yet. Can you just trust me that I’m not out to hurt any of you? Please?”

Léa remained sceptical. “Well, I guess if you were a spy, you’d be a pretty bad one,” she said, “But I’m still not entirely sure I can trust you.”

“Please Major,” Butterscotch pleaded, falling to her knees, “Please just trust me. I’m not planning anything; I don’t want to hurt any of you. Please!”

The griffon relented. “Alright,” she said, “Fine. I won’t pry. Now get up.” Butterscotch jumped back onto her hooves. “But I’m keeping an eye on you from now on. No funny business, you understand?”

“I understand,” Butterscotch said with relief, “Thank you, Major.”

“I might tell Staid,” Léa said, “If I have the time. He knows something’s up too – but I guess he’s just not as good at hiding it as I am. If I don’t tell him, then this conversation might repeat itself.”

“I don’t think the Centurion suspects anything though,” Butterscotch said, head lowered, “He doesn’t like me, but he hasn’t noticed anything odd.”

Léa chuckled and patted the mare on the shoulder with a friendly claw. “The Centurion doesn’t like anyone,” she said amusedly, “Don’t feel bad about that!”

“Thanks,” Butterscotch said quietly, “But, um, please don’t tell Star-Strike either. Please? I don’t want her to-”

“I won’t say anything to her,” Léa said, “But if she notices something’s up, and she asks me about it, I won’t lie for you. Got that?”

“Yes, Major,” the mare replied meekly.

“And stop calling me Major,” the griffon said, “Call me Léa. By the Kings, I’m not even a proper soldier.”

“Okay …Léa. And thank you.”

“No problem.” Léa smiled. “Now let’s go eat some tasteless grey stuff. Unless you’ve got anything nicer on your sled?”

“I think I’ve got some cookies somewhere. Not really breakfast food, though-”

“Let me have enough of them, and you’ll be completely forgiven, Butterscotch. Come on.”

*

“There was something I wanted to ask you, Captain.”

“What’s it about? How the Republic’s political system will work after the war is over? Why it is necessary to remove the Solar Tyrant from her position as an autocrat? The benefits of living in an Equestria ruled by a liberal democratic government?”

Staid paused in his stirring of the cooking pot. “No, Captain,” he said, wondering if all revolutionaries were as this obsessed with politics, “I noticed before that you were carrying your gun without any kind of aid, despite the fact that you possess neither levitation-magic nor claws. How do you fire it?”

Star-Strike, who was sitting nearby, waiting patiently for the grey gruel to get fully warmed up, looked at Staid quizzically. “What do you mean?” she asked.

“Well, look,” the Colonel said, raising a forehoof, “Neither you nor I possess posable digits, yet your gun, like mine, has a grip and a trigger. How do you fire it?”

“I don’t understand,” Star-Strike said blankly. She darted back quickly to where she had been sleeping and grabbed her Starbeam rifle. “Look, I hold it just like this-” She lifted it up, putting the butt of the rifle into the crux of her foreleg, and holding onto the barrel with her other hoof. “-And I just pull the trigger here. What’s so complex about that?”

Staid looked at it in confusion for a few seconds before shaking his head. “But it doesn’t- oh, forget it. Thank you, Captain.” Quietly, as Star-Strike put her weapon back, the Colonel muttered, “Must be some kind of Equestrian magic… she can’t… how can she… ah, soup’s ready! Everyone, grab a bowl!”

“‘M alright, thankf,” Léa exclaimed, her beak stuffed with cookies. She swallowed and wiped some errant crumbs from her uniform. “These are great! Staid, you’ve got to have some!”

“No thank you, Léa,” Staid said disapprovingly, “You know, cookies aren’t really the best thing to have for breakfast. Imperial rations on the other hoof, contain all the necessary vitamins and protein for a healthy-”

“No, they really are good, Colonel,” Star-Strike added, as she took the one offered to her by the Major and stuffed it into her face, “Try fome!”

Staid sighed. “I’ve already made it up,” he said, “I’m not wasting it. If you two won’t have any – and Butterscotch, I see you’re not eating either, I suppose you’ve already stuffed yourself? – then I’ll have to eat all the soup by myself.”

Léa ruffled her feathers, dislodging even more crumbs. “Sorry Staid, that was mean of us,” she said, “We’re not so cruel as to make you eat all that by yourself. We’ll have some too, for your sake. Star-Strike’ll help, won’t you?”

“Sure thing,” the revolutionary said happily, finishing off her cookie, “Butterscotch?”

“Oh, I’m already full thanks,” Butterscotch said, rubbing her stomach unconvincingly, “Like the Colonel said. I stuffed myself earlier.”

Shrugging, Star-Strike followed a noncommittal Léa LeFeather over to the cooking pot. The two of them held out their tin bowls, which were only a little bigger than tin cans (standard World-Empire issue), and Staid ladled in some steaming grey soup from the pot.

“Enjoy,” Staid said, as the two girls went away with comically-disgusted looks on their faces, “Centurion? Are you eating with us?”

Still sitting down where he’d been sleeping, Defiant Arc glanced up from sharpening his sword with a chainmail rag. “It’s that or starve,” he muttered darkly.

The inclusion of the Guardspony into the conversation seemed to cast a dampener over everything. Léa and Star-Strike said nothing as Defiant Arc passed them by on his way towards the steaming pot; Star-Strike in particular seemed to focus almost aggressively on eating her gruel, gobbling at the contents of the tin bow with choleric eyes. Staid scooped up a ladleful with a neutral expression on his face and, when the Centurion held out his magically-levitated bowl, mechanically dolloped it in.

Just as Defiant Arc turned around though, Butterscotch jumped out in front of him.

“Here,” she said, holding out a cookie, “Have this too.”

The Centurion stared at her – as did the other three present. As though suspicious that it was poisoned, Defiant Arc glanced briefly at Star-Strike and Léa LeFeather, both of whom were still covered with a light scattering of crumbs.

There was a moment of terse silence, before finally the Centurion took the cookie from Butterscotch’s grip with a tug of his magic. Without a word of thanks or a glance in her direction, the stallion strode around the much shorter mare and walked back to his pile of cold blankets and sacking that served as his bed.

The continuing silence was interrupted when, unexpectedly, Defiant Arc began to speak.

“Yesterday, while the griffon was building that infernal machine,” he said, staring into the tin bowl of grey gruel as he spoke, “I went off to try to find the waypoint. I discovered a path in the snow that led to that mountain.” He pointed with a forehoof to the nearest peak of the imposing mountain range that had loomed over them since their arrival the previous evening. “There should be a cave and a tunnel filled with supplies at its base, somewhere. I tried to reach it, but it was too far away, and I got jumped by shadow-ponies before I could get anywhere.” He took a bite from the hovering cookie, and swallowed. “That’s where we’re heading next.”

There was another moment of silence before Star-Strike blurted out, “Who put you in charge? How do we know it’s not just a loyalist trap?”

“Star-Strike, now’s not the time-” Léa began quickly, but, to her surprise, Defiant Arc didn’t reply. There was no argument from him; he didn’t even look up at the Republic soldier. The griffon was instead interrupted by Colonel Staid.

“We’re heading there because it’s the only know location with supplies and shelter,” he said, “I don’t have enough rations to last us indefinitely, and if we stay out here too much longer, we’ll most likely die of exposure. Do you know of a better destination, Captain?”

Star-Strike bowed her head. “No,” she said, “I don’t. Sorry.”

The awkward silence resumed.

“Well, on a more cheery note,” Léa said suddenly, “Now that we know where we’re going, it shouldn’t take us too long to get there. I’ve been thinking, and I think I can find a way to limit the fuel-pump engine’s boosted output – so we can, you know, not go so fast that it makes us all throw up.” There was a round of approving nods. “But it’ll take a couple of hours at best, and I won’t be able to run the engine until I’m done.”

“We don’t want a repeat of yesterday,” Colonel Staid confirmed, with a thoughtful nod.

“But the shadow-ponies are miles away!” Star-Strike announced, “Even if they travelled all night, they can’t possibly catch up with us any time soon. Right?”

“It’s best not to underestimate them, Captain,” Staid said, “But there is something strange about the way they operate. We’ve all seen how fast they can move – I recall seeing them flowing en masse like a liquid – yet they’ve only attacked us intermittently. With their numbers and speed, the shadow-ponies should be able to attack us non-stop, especially since I imagine they do not tire, like we do. And yet, we’ve all just experienced an extremely slow and relaxed morning.”

They all considered this. “Are you saying they won’t attack us then?” Star-Strike asked, “Because they could have, but haven’t?”

“It’s a question of why they chose to attack when they did,” Staid said contemplatively, “We were all attacked when advancing in large formations – with the exception of the civilian in our midst who, I seem to recall, was not attacked while by roaming these wastes by herself.”

Butterscotch looked nervously at the floor, but Léa jumped in to help her. “Maybe the shadow-ponies only attack large groups then?” she suggested.

The Colonel shook his head. “I’ve considered that,” he continued, “Whilst the Centurion and myself were most likely attacked because of our proximity to the site of the griffon ambush, that still does not explain why four of us were then attacked in the same location – a location, I must point out, the shadow-ponies left and then subsequently returned to. But perhaps four is a sufficiently large number-”

“Hold on,” Defiant Arc said, “I was attacked when I was on my own, away from you all. It can’t be to do with numbers.”

“Well, maybe they were on their way to us and you just happened to be in the way,” Star-Strike suggested.

“Don’t forget,” Staid interrupted, before Defiant Arc could speak, “We were attacked from two directions at once. Possibly there were two groups – perhaps scouting formations of some kind? – one of which was heading towards our location, while the other merely stumbled upon you, Centurion, and you led them back here when you ran away.”

“I didn’t run away,” Defiant Arc began indignantly.

“While you lot discuss this, I’m going to get on with improving the Cart,” Léa said quickly, “Better get it done sooner rather than later, after all.”

“Please do,” Staid said, as the griffon flapped into the air and swooped over to her frost-covered vehicle, “What we can conclude from all this, then, is that the shadow-ponies appear to be acting somewhat irrationally. Possibly they are some kind of natural phenomenon, or at the very least have no central command structure-”

“Or maybe they’re up to something else,” Butterscotch said, speaking up suddenly, “What if they have an aim or a plan that we don’t know about? I mean, if they could have followed us but didn’t, or be attacking us constantly but aren’t, then maybe they have some kind of plan that doesn’t involve killing us?”

“Ridiculous,” the Centurion muttered, “They’ve nearly killed me plenty of times.”

Staid considered this. “I think you may have a point,” he said, “But then there is an even greater mystery to be solved here.”

“This still doesn’t answer our original question,” Star-Strike reminded them, “Are they going to attack us today or not?”

The Colonel shrugged. “I have no idea, Captain,” he said simply, “But if they do attack, keep watch carefully as to why they might be doing so. If they are some kind of natural phenomenon, as I believe, then be sure to look for any changes in our situation between the times when we are left alone, to the time when the shadow-ponies decide to attack. Maybe it’s something we’re doing that’s attracting them. Or maybe it’s something we’re not doing that makes them attack.”

“This is a bit confusing for me,” Star-Strike said, rubbing her head.

“Assuming my theory is correct,” Staid said reassuringly, “As long as everything remains relatively the same as it is now, then the chances of a shadow-pony attack are very low indeed. As long as we are sensible and don’t act too outlandishly, we should be alright.”

*

It wasn’t snowing. It wasn’t windy. Yet the present nature of the environment – the empty, frozen northlands of Equestria – suggested that it should be.

Spongemperor Vivaldi ‘Mentosworthy’ Cloof the Caketh, curséd liberator of the co-workers and amateur hatter, was not particularly bothered by this. In fact, he was quite cheered by it; it was nice to see an environment deliberately breaking free of the stereotypes imposed on it by an independence-repressing atmosphere.

“Yaw ot og, rehtaew! Thgif eht metsys!” Vivaldi exclaimed happily, before he once again heard the sounds that came from his mouth. His smile faded. Ever since he had been cursed (or rather, curséd), his tongue had become twisted up in his vocal chords every time he tried to form an incoherent sentence.

He no longer felt compelled to swap about his hats when speaking, either. It was impolite, but what was the point when nopony could understand what you were on about?

Expelling warm air from his lungs in a display of disappointment and frustration, Vivaldi fully emerged from the tangled wreck of the hot air balloon which had delivered him northwards in the first place. Although the frozen north of the country had not been his intended destination – his original aim had been to reach the sun, so that he might convince the giant sphere of flaming hydrogen to spend some of its money at a new shop his friend had recently opened in Los Pegasus – Vivaldi wasn’t particularly bothered about his current predicament. In fact, he was somewhat proud of the wrecked balloon for getting him this far; it made him wonder as to how far he might have gotten had the hot air balloon not been completely wrecked and deflated before taking off.

“M’I ffo ot dnif emos toh etalocohc,” Vivaldi told the crumpled, ice-covered balloon, “Ll’I teg emos rof uoy oot. T’nod og erehwyna!”

The wrecked balloon failed to respond, or even to pirouette on one leg – the universally recognised action to indicate that the one doing the pirouetting was biologically incapable of speaking – and merely lay there, getting colder.

Vivaldi nodded understandingly. The hot air balloon was clearly exhausted after its long journey. He would have to leave it behind – at least, until he found sufficient quantities of ‘toh etalocohc’.

The Spongemperor trotted away from the wreck with a spring in his step. This made walking rather painful, but Vivaldi accepted the necessity of the spring. The ground was, after all, extremely icy and often slippery, and the spring stopped his hooves getting too cold or friction-deficient. Within a few minutes, the Spongemperor had crossed quite a significant distance and found himself trotting up a slope.

Cresting the top of the hill, Vivaldi paused to get his bearings. Bearings rounded up and placed securely in one of his many pockets, he took a look around.

To the north, there was an imposing mountain range with a stony-looking exterior, but the Spongemperor was sure it was just a front to hide their inner insecurities. A short distance from the base of the hill was a smoking, clanking vehicle being attacked by a swarm of shadow-creatures as its crew tried desperately to drive it away. The sky was a beautiful blue-grey colour, with nacreous, high-cirriform clouds billowing across much of it. The snow around here, Vivaldi realised, must’ve contained very high levels of nitric acid.

The Spongemperor paused. There was something in his observations that did not quite fit in to the serene picture currently projected onto the inside of his head.

Oh right, the shadow-things. From this distance, they looked almost pony-shaped, but Vivaldi knew that was impossible; who had ever heard of a shadow that looked like a solid object? The crew of the strange, chugging vehicle, however, did not seem fazed by this impossibility, and in fact appeared to be in great distress. Vivaldi even went as far to imagine that they were indeed unhappy.

Observing the veritable battle that was taking place below from his hilltop post, Vivaldi frowned. He didn’t like it when ponies were unhappy, or when balloons were unhappy, or flagpoles, or tiny buildings, or the sun, or, indeed, when anything was unhappy. If there was an opposite of tingling, then unhappiness made his left front leg do it. Or maybe that was just the spring lodged in his hoof?

“Emoc gnola, Foolc,” he said to himself determinedly, his multi-coloured, umbrella-material cloak billowing out behind him dramatically in the non-existent breeze, “S’tel tup a elims no rieht secaf!”