Shadows in the North - A Sundering of Equestria Tale

by GoggleEyedTopHat

Rating: teen
Tags: Dark, Alternate Universe, Adventure
Length: 31657

Near to the end of the terrible war known as the Sundering of Equestria, six individuals find themselves stuck in the icy north, hounded by mysterious shadow-creatures they've never seen before. To survive, they must learn to work and fight toge

The terrible war that has divided and devastated Equestria for over a decade is finally drawing to a close, but in the frozen north of the country a new threat is emerging. Six individuals find themselves alone and in great danger after each of their forces are slaughtered by mysterious shadow-creatures none of them have ever seen before. In order to merely survive, they must put aside their differences - easier for some than others - and work off each other's talents, skills and strengths to discover the origin of this new and seemingly-unbeatable foe.
What they will discover will shake each of them to their core, and reveal a danger greater than any of them could ever have imagined.

Set in the Sundering of Equestria universe, in which a war thirty years in Equestria's future is tearing the country apart. For the background of this, or for those that love history (like myself), I would like to direct you to The Sundering of Equestria - A Future History. Let the verbose Saddle-Arabian historian Al-Manākh talk you through the events of the war, and if you look closely you might even spot references to the events and characters of this story in his transcripts. Word count warning, though.

Note: there is a bit of gore in the opening chapter of this, but for the most part remains generally gore-free afterwards.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-12-11 19:57:37 UTC

Iron and Fire

Chapter Two

It was, by now, getting dark. The two stallions had been walking for some hours now, following Defiant Arc’s directions, which he drew from a tattered map and a tiny compass. They had long since left the relative comfort of the gulley. According to the Centurion, there was a waypoint with supplies and a place to sleep less than a mile north of them, but as the minutes ticked by, Colonel Staid began to doubt the veracity of this belief more and more.

Not that the old stallion doubted that Defiant Arc was trying to get them to safety. Staid had seen many soldiers during his long career in the Imperial military, and he’d come to realise that the most motivating force a solider possessed was not belief in a cause or loyalty to his commander, but how hungry he was, and where the next meal was coming from.

Therefore, Staid thought to himself, as he, the Colonel, was the sole supplier of food in their current situation, he had (for the time being) the upper hoof in their association. The tactical advantage was negligible, he knew, but the long-term strategic implications were high.

This is what Colonel Staid reminded himself of as he and Defiant Arc trudged onwards through the unrelenting sleet-storm. It helped assuage his fears that the Royal Guardspony would suddenly snap and turn on him.

“How much further?” Staid asked, raising his voice so that he could be heard above the storm.

“Not much more to go!” Defiant Arc shouted back, staring angrily at the raggedy map. After a few seconds, he turned it upside down. “A left up here!”

Staid glanced around. Every direction seemed to contain nothing but icy, storm-ravaged wasteland. He was beginning to doubt that his decision to work with the Equestrian was a sensible one.

His plan was rooted in basic military strategy, describable simply as ‘in multitudine virtutis’; or, in Equestrian, ‘strength in numbers’. It had come as quite a shock to Staid to see his task force of several thousand ponies overrun in mere minutes by hordes of shadow-creatures that erupted from the very ground. Numbers hadn’t saved them then – but Staid was not daunted. Numbers had only failed them because the enemy had superiority in that respect, he told himself. Where one is inferior in numbers, one must become superior in other respects. Moreover, one must also seek to diffuse the advantage of the enemy.

Ten thousand shadow-ponies had overwhelmed his force of but a few thousand in minutes because they were able to bring their superior numbers to bear. If ten thousand shadow-creatures were to fight two ponies, they would be unable to bring their full numbers to bear. Ideally, it would be a two-versus-two fight – which was a fight Staid was confident they could win – but admittedly was also one that would have to be repeated five thousand times. ‘Strength in numbers’; their strength, their enemies’ numbers.

At least, in theory.

“How much further now?” Staid asked, as innocently as he dared.

Defiant Arc growled. “Less than a mile!” he snapped.

After another hour, and at long last, the sun finally dropped over the horizon. The temperature immediately and discernibly dropped. Staid heard the Centurion mutter some exclamation concerning the Princess Celestia (whom, Staid recalled, was worshipped in Equestria as some kind of sun-deity) before lighting up his horn. It was clear to the Colonel that Defiant Arc intended to carry on the freezing march through the night.

“Centurion,” Staid began, his voice raw and croaky from the cold, “Don’t you think that it might be a good idea to make camp for the night?”

“No!” Defiant Arc barked, glaring at the Imperial, “We keep going! The waypoint is just ahead!”

Staid sighed. He was going to have to be more aggressive in his approach.

“Centurion,” he began again, “We have been wandering around for the best part of the day. All this time you have been declaring that your beloved waypoint is less than a mile away – and yet we have encountered nothing. I think it might be time to give up for today, and hope that the storm relents for tom-”

“Shut up!”

Staid was not an easy stallion to rile, but the freezing-cold weather and the loss of his soldiers had been slowly wearing away at his nerves. “Centurion-!” he began.

“No, be quiet!” Defiant Arc said, “Listen!”

The Colonel fell silent. His ears weren’t what they used to be – in fact, one of them was missing the top half – but after a few seconds of strenuous listening, he was certain that he could hear a distant thunderous sound, separate from the roar of the sleet-storm. It sounded vaguely like artillery-fire, but there was something slightly odd about it.

“There’s a battle going on around here,” Staid said, peering through the snow-filled darkness to try to determine the location of the sound’s source, “Another shadow-pony ambush, do you think?”

“Yeah, probably,” Defiant Arc said, as he too peered through his snowy surroundings. Just then, another explosion sounded and both stallions caught sight of the blast as it flashed in the night air. The Centurion sniffed. “Gunpowder. Equestrians don’t use gunpowder. Is that your lot?”

“I’m not sure,” said Staid, making a move in the direction of the battle, “Let’s… Centurion? Where are you going?”

“Away,” Defiant Arc stated, throwing a slight glare in the Colonel’s direction, “You've found your friends. I have a waypoint to reach.”

Somewhat surprised by his acquaintance’s reaction, Staid said, “But Centurion, I'm not even sure that is the Imperial Army. And if, by some lucky happenstance, it turns out to be just that, surely it would be folly to run from a source of heat and food in this weather?”

“I’d rather die in the snow than be the Empire’s prisoner,” Defiant Arc said flatly. He turned away and began to walk off.

Staid was at a loss at what to do. This pony was not acting logically. He began to formulate a response, when the situation unexpectedly and dramatically changed. The Colonel was the first to notice them; he spotted the sinister dark shapes approaching them out of the corner of his eye.

“Centurion!” he shouted, “Shadow-ponies! And they’ve spotted us!”

Defiant Arc spun back around, sword drawn. True to the Colonel’s word, a mass of black silhouettes was flowing across the ground towards them. There were too many, and moving too quickly, for either pony to count.

Both knew that running would not be an option.

While Staid hurriedly tried to pull his posable gun-arm out of one of his many saddle-bags, Defiant Arc rushed forwards, sword levitating by his side.

“Out of the way, you Old Billy!” the Centurion shouted as he charged, briefly mystifying Staid with his obscure reference. This momentary hesitation was apparently sufficient cause for Defiant Arc to shove the Imperial aside and bring his sword down on the first shadow-pony to erupt from the ground.

Defiant Arc grinned as he heard the sound of shattering glass, and the rearing pony-shape dissipated without a sound. His smile immediately disappeared as three more shadows took on three-dimensional forms.

“How did you kill it?!” Staid shouted, finally managing to pull his pistol free of his saddle-bags. “Did you use magic?”

The shout attracted the attention of the three shadow-ponies; Defiant Arc took this opportunity to cut through two of them with a single sweep, before jumping backwards to avoid the surviving one’s retaliatory swipe.

“Their hearts!” the Centurion called out, “Smash their hearts!”

With another enthusiastic cry, Defiant Arc stabbed forwards into the dark shape, again hearing the satisfying sound of breaking glass.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw more shapes burst up from the ground, and dived aside just in time to block their group-pounce. The Centurion got back on his hooves and at once found himself swiping at the creature’s shadowy hoof-blades – disrupting their outline, so they couldn’t hit him.

There was a gunshot, followed by a shattering of glass, and one of the shadow-ponies immediately burst apart. A second later, another gunshot ensured another creature followed suit.

“Shoot for their hearts,” Staid muttered, as he took aim again. All of a sudden, he noticed another group of shapes flow across the ground, heading this time in his direction. He switched targets.

Defiant Arc meanwhile had cut down another two of the shadow-ponies, but more seemed to be appearing every second. He smashed apart one creature the moment it erupted from the ground with a forceful downward strike, only for it to be replaced the next second with two more.

Panting a little with the effort of sustained combat, the Centurion backed away. He glanced back at the Colonel; Staid was further away than he had been earlier, moving steadily backwards from the encroaching shadow-things, all while firing shot after shot into the small but ever-growing crowd. Defiant Arc gave his own group of attackers a casual swipe with his sword, killing none but briefly disrupting them all, before turning and running towards Colonel Staid.

Defiant Arc crashed into the crowd attacking Staid, catching the shadow-creatures by surprise. With a series of swift, flashy and (the Centurion couldn’t help admitting) extremely well-placed swipes, he dispatched most of his attackers within a few seconds. The snowy ground became covered in tiny shards of crystal.

Inevitably, seconds later, more shapes emerged from the ground. They were relentless.

“Excellent work, Centurion!” Staid exclaimed encouragingly, as, increasingly surrounded, the two of them were forced closer until they were essentially back-to-back. “That’s the kind of fighting skill I’ve come to expect-” he ducked under a blow, and fired point-blank into the creature’s heart, dissipating it “-come to expect from the Royal Guard of Equestria!”

Defiant Arc didn’t acknowledge the compliment as he stabbed out at the closest shadow-pony, before turning to swipe at three more that were getting too close. “We’re surrounded!” he shouted, “You’re a colonel, you know tactics – what do we do?”

“Si nulla est perfugium, oportet stare!” Staid said matter-of-factly. He reloaded his gun and immediately emptied all ten shots into the ten closest shadow-creatures. “We fight until I run out of bullets, and you die from exhaustion.”

“What?!” The Centurion swiped at two of his attackers to disrupt them, before bringing his blade around to his right and slashing through the hearts of two more.

“Meanwhile,” Staid said impartially as he fired a shot at a perfect ninety-degree angle from the direction he was facing, destroying another foe, with barely a glance, “We can hope for a miracle.”

As if merely saying the words was sufficient to bring one about, there was an unexpected roar from Defiant Arc’s right. It was not the roar of the wind, and nor was it the roar of a great beast – although it sounded exceptionally close to the latter. Both ponies, along with their attackers, briefly paused in their battle and glanced in the direction of the sound.

Rumbling through the sleet-storm towards them, ground shaking in its wake, was an enormous, fume-belching machine. It vaguely resembled a traditional wooden wagon – its lower half was square, and it rode forwards on four wagon-like iron wheels, with metal reinforcements on its sides that reminded the two ponies of a cart’s side-struts – but its upper half was a solid metal dome, with a beak-like protrusion at the front and, most notably, several smoking cannon barrels jutting out from its sides. Several shadow-creatures were clinging to its sides, trying to break through the machine’s tough metal exterior with their barbed hooves.

The thundering machine was heading right for them, and didn’t seem to have any intention of turning.

“Out of the way!” Staid commanded, quite unnecessarily. Defiant Arc cut a short path for the two of them through the crowd of surprised shadow-ponies, most of whom had turned their attention to the much more enticing mechanical monster. The two ponies broke free of their erstwhile attackers – all of whom were now entirely focused on the moving machine – and, once they were at a reasonable distance, turned back to watch.

The armoured vehicle continued straight ahead, ploughing directly through the mass of shadow-creatures. Only a few were crushed under its unrelenting wheels; most began to swarm over it, attacking and clawing at every inch of the machine, apparently with futility.

“What in Celestia’s name is that thing?” Defiant Arc muttered. Staid had an inkling of what it might be, having heard descriptions of such vehicles after the close-fought Battle of the Nine Hills some years before, but resolved to remain silent on the matter for the time being.

Staid was about to wonder aloud whether there were any crew left alive inside, when one of the cannons abruptly fired, followed in turn by its fellows, each one firing after a small delay. The Colonel and Defiant Arc dived to the ground as one cannonball ploughed into a nearby snowdrift and exploded, flinging ice and razor-sharp shards of metal high into the air. Glancing up, head under his fore-hooves, Staid noted that the ensuing detonations of the other cannonballs blasted apart a significant number of the malignant shadow-ponies – much to their advantage.

“Idiots!” Defiant Arc exclaimed, glaring at the armour-clad vehicle, “They’re going to run straight into that snowbank!”

The Centurion was right. The smoke-belching machine continued on its rumbling path until it drove deep into the snowbank Defiant Arc had pointed out, when it came to a slow and grinding halt. Staid noticed that the machine’s wheels were still trying to turn, to push the vehicle forwards, even though the only result was a squeal of iron as the wheels scratched and scraped the icy ground.

What did the driver think they were doing?

“It’s time to go,” Defiant Arc said, standing up, “Before those shadow-ponies notice us again.”

Staid went to follow, but only after a moment of hesitation. There were too many shadow-creatures swarming over the machine now; if there was anybody left inside, attempting to rescue them would be suicide.

At that moment, a hatch on the top of the vehicle flipped open and something burst out of it. Whatever it was, it was clearly winged; it spread them as it leapt into the sky, and began to soar roughly in the direction of the two ponies. At first, Defiant Arc thought it was a pegasus, but the shape was wrong, and what would an Equestrian be doing in such an infernal machine? Colonel Staid meanwhile briefly thought it to be a Lepidomare – or ‘moth-pony’, as some called them – but he quickly exonerated himself of this idea, since it was well known that there were no Lepidomares in Equestria.

The winged shape bore down on the two watching ponies with great speed. Defiant Arc was about to raise his sword to strike at it, when the shape yelled out, “Get down! She’s gonna blow!”

The figure landed on the ground hard, casting a huge cloud of sleet around them. Neither Staid nor Defiant Arc could see who or what this thing was, thanks to the darkness and the snow, and were unable to find out further as the figure immediately grabbed them and, with surprising strength, shoved them face-first into the ground.

“Are you deaf? I said get down!”

The newcomer dived into the relative cover of the sleet-strewn ground too, just as the first of the explosions went off. A huge cloud of fire and grape-shot burst out of the side of the immobile vehicle, incinerating the shadow-ponies that had been trying to pry it open. Seconds later, the top half of the machine detonated, causing a gigantic mushroom-shaped cloud of fire and smoke to blast upwards into the night sky.

After several moments of agonising heat and pressure, the impact of the explosions subsided. Defiant Arc tried to raise his head – to see who this mystery winged figure was, and whether there were any shadow-ponies left – but found it immediately shoved back into the snow by an unusually strong forelimb.

“Idiot!” the figure exclaimed, voice somewhat muffled by the ground they were pressed against, “That was just the explosives I set up! The engine hasn’t even gone y-”

Then the engine went. The force of the explosion was greater than the previous two by far, and the very ground beneath them shook as though it was going to split in half. The light of the fireball almost blinded the two stallions, even through their closed eyelids.

Even after the immense heat had subsided, the three survivors kept their heads pressed to the ground, protected under their forelimbs, as shrapnel and wreckage rained down all around them. Fortunately, they were only bombarded by smaller pieces, leaving the two ponies with nothing worse than several small burns, which were quickly counteracted by the freezing-cold temperatures. Only when all that could be heard was the crackling of the flames and the sounds of hot metal pinging as it cooled in the snow did the newcomer let up and allow the two stallions to get back on their hooves.

When Defiant Arc finally got up, he found himself unable to look away from the scene of utter devastation that lay before him. The armour-clad vehicle was now a blazing pile of twisted metal and flaming wreckage. The heat radiating from it was still immense, but nowhere near as inhospitable as it had been during the explosions. And, as he thought of the explosions, the Centurion noticed that the land around the machine was scorched black and utterly bare; it was so hot, the sleet landing on it was melting instantly. All that remained of the shadow-ponies were the occasional lump of twisted, melted crystal lying in melting pools of snow.

As per some strange quirk of the laws of nature, a single flaming wheel rolled out of the wreckage and away into the night.

Defiant Arc was so caught up in this scene that he had completely forgotten about the newcomer, until he heard Colonel Staid speak to them.

“Our thanks, madam. It seems we owe you our lives.”

“Don’t mention it,” came the reply, in a discernibly feminine tone, “No, seriously, don’t. I didn’t even notice you there, at the start.”  Defiant Arc turned around, expecting a pegasus. “I was just aiming for the largest group of them, so thanks for bunching them up for m-”

“A griffon!” the Centurion exclaimed, drawing his sword at once.

The griffon – for it was indeed a griffon; a half-eagle, half-lion hybrid – was dressed in an extremely thick winter coat, under which could just about be seen the brightly-coloured uniform of a Griffon Kingdoms soldier. A pair of soot-stained goggles was pushed back up the griffon’s red-feathered head, above her astonishingly green eyes. Several tool belts were wrapped around her torso and just above her hips, every loop filled with some tool or pouch or small device, some of quite extraordinary design. A long metal tube strapped to her back could just be seen poking over her shoulder.

Defiant Arc didn’t spend much time noticing this however, instead choosing to swing the sword around until its tip was touching the newcomer’s throat.

The griffon was too startled to even react. She glared down her beak at the Equestrian. “What in the Twelve Kingdoms do you think you’re doing?” she exclaimed.

“Centurion, please, put down the sword,” Colonel Staid said, in a calming voice, “This lady is not our enemy! She saved our lives, and it’s thanks to her that our shadow-pony foes were defeated.”

“‘Lady’?” Defiant Arc said derisively, not lowering his sword, “How can you even tell? Yeah, she might have saved our lives just now, but you heard her – it was by accident. The moment our backs are turned she’ll slit our throats; that’s what these filthy Griffons are like!”

“Woah, speciesist much?” the griffon exclaimed. Despite that flippant remark, she was making an effort to move as little as possible; with that sword at her throat, even the slightest movement might result in a lot of blood being lost.

“Centurion, please,” Staid said, trying to interpose himself between the two of them, “Do you remember the agreement you made with me? We help one another, and do not kill one another, at least until we reach safety.” He paused. “Look around you. We are still in the frozen wastelands of the north, who knows how far away from civilisation? More of those shadow-ponies could appear at any time, and every extra pair of hooves – my apologies, claws – is an invaluable asset. Please, Centurion, lower your sword.”

Slowly, Defiant Arc levitated his weapon away from the Griffon’s throat and returned it to its sheath at his side. “Fine,” he said, “But if you try anything, feather-freak, then it’s off with your beaky head. We’re at war, you know.”

Staid reflected that the World Empire and Old Equestria were at war too (not to mention the World Empire and the Griffon Kingdoms) but there had been significantly less tension between their local representatives. The Colonel allowed Defiant Arc to walk off by himself, towards the still-burning wreck of the once-impressive machine, and decided to introduce himself.

“My apologies, madam,” he said, although the griffon’s eyes were still following the exiting Equestria, “Methinks the Centurion has been consuming a little too much propaganda. My name is Colonel Staid, by the way, of the World Empire’s Equestrian Expeditionary Force.”

“Major Léa LeFeather,” the griffon replied, switching her gaze back to the old stallion, “Of the Royal Engineers. Of the Griffon Kingdoms, obviously.” She held out her claw and Staid shook it. They both smiled reassuringly, if a little nervously on LeFeather’s part. “What’s the deal with you two?”

As briefly and concisely as he could, Staid recounted the ambush of his troops by the shadow-ponies, his stand-off and agreement with Defiant Arc, and their day’s aimless journey through the wasteland towards the Centurion’s ‘waypoint’. “I take it you and your troops were ambushed in a similar way?”

LeFeather nodded. “We were only a scouting group, in a clawful of Carts, a little way away from here,” she said, “We didn’t stand a chance. I thought a nice big explosion ought to kill them all, or at least most of them, so I rigged mine to blow up and told my crew to run for it – I really hope they made through, but…” She hesitated, and changed the subject. “You know what I mean by Carts, right?”

“Cannonade Carts,” Staid said, as though he was reading from a textbook, “Armoured battle vehicles, equipped with gunpowder cannons. A little primitive by Imperial standards, but-”

LeFeather snorted. “If you’d ever worked on one of those things, you wouldn’t call them primitive,” she said, “I heard you Imperials run everything on steam.”

“What’s wrong with steam?” Staid said somewhat defensively, “Your Carts are fuelled by explosions. And those wheels are certainly primitive. Not all battles take place on cobbled streets, you know.”

“Oh? And I suppose those ‘tracks’ or whatever you call them on your Landships are better, then? Maybe if I wanted my shiny Cart covered in mud-”

“Maybe a few extra layers of mud might give your Carts some thicker protection! I saw your Cart just now – half of it’s made of wood!”

“At least you can actually sit inside a Cart! I’ve seen inside your Landships – armour eight feet thick! You can’t even turn sideways in one!”

“You don’t need to turn sideways in a Landship! The guns are at the front! It’s not a boat!”

The two of them paused. Around them, the icy night winds continued to howl.

The griffon suddenly burst out in laughter. “Look at us two, standing around in the cold, arguing about whose Carts are best,” she said, “I’m an engineer, and I get my feathers in a ruffle over these things. I’m sorry, Colonel.

“My apologies too, Major,” Staid said, somewhat sheepishly, “Landships are, you might say, the pride of the Empire. Defending them was an instinctive reaction.”

A little way away, Defiant Arc, who was standing by the still-flaming wreckage of the destroyed Cannonade Cart, shouted out, “Are we going to get some sleep or what?”

“I think we’d better; it’s getting colder every minute,” Colonel Staid said, “We’ll make camp close to the wreckage. It’ll be warmer there.”

The two of them began to walk over to Defiant Arc, who was sweeping his own personal area of ground clean of metal shards and debris. “Just so you know,” said LeFeather, “I’d take a Cannonade Cart over a Landship any day of the week. Way more comfortable.”

“Landships are more practical.”

Any possible continuation of that conversation was cut short by a sudden brief explosion, as a small part of the wrecked Cart detonated, sending a single lump of twisted metal flying through the air. It landed with a heavy thump a few metres away from Defiant Arc, who jumped away from it in surprise.

“Maybe we shouldn't camp too close,” the Major observed.

A Clockwork In Progress

Chapter Three

The leaders of the New Lunar Republic had deliberately adopted the night-time as their symbol – the symbol of freedom, of revolution – to contrast with the day-symbols of the hated loyalists and their dreaded Solar Tyrant. The Republic’s revolutionary armies didn’t have an official uniform as such, but their commanders did expect them all to wear dark clothes, to create and reinforce a common bond between them. Or at least, that’s what Star-Strike had been told.

As a member of the Nightstrider Brigades (and not just a member, she reminded herself; a Captain) Star-Strike was supposed to be closer to the night than the ordinary revolutionaries; to be one with the darkness. Nightstriders were trained to fight and operate after the sun went down, and to shun the day. They were a living symbol of the Republic. The night-time was supposed to be her element, when she could perform her best, and when her opponents were at their weakest. The sunlight was her enemy; the night, her ally.

But as the young Captain Star-Strike struggled to do something as simple as walk forwards through the freezing-cold night-time air of the Equestrian north, she found herself wishing more and more that she could have been trained to operate on some sunny beach in Horseshoe Bay, where it was much, much warmer. Her padded cloth armour (as much as something filled with wool could be considered armour) was designed with mobility in mind, not keeping out the cold. Star-Strike could swear she could feel her exposed wings freezing up; she didn’t dare look at them, for fear they were covered in icicles.

Slowly, the young mare came to a stop. Her lungs felt like they were freezing up from the inside.

Breathing deeply, Star-Strike quickly put such dreamy thoughts of warm beaches out of her mind. She was a warrior of the revolution! She forcibly reminded herself of the sacrifices others had made in the name of freedom: Honorary Councillor Luna, renouncing her claim to the throne and her own family ties in an attempt to stop her mad sister; General Tawleed, who gave her life fighting the Discordians to allow General Trots and his troops to escape at the Battle of Fillydelphia; and of course, General Nightstrider himself, who allowed himself to be captured and sacrificed himself to defeat the Loyalist commander at the Siege of Manehatten.

They had given so much for the cause, and here she was, ready to give up in the face of a little cold weather. Teeth chattering, Star-Strike continued to march onwards, while the stiff leather straps connected to the wooden sled she was dragging along once again began to dig into her chest. In an attempt to raise her spirits, she began to sing under her breath.

“Do you hear the ponies sing?

Singing the song of angry mares?

It is the music of a country

Which from tyranny shall be spared!

When the beating of your heart-”

There was a stirring from the sled behind her, and Star-Strike cut her song short. She might have been trained to move at night, but her companion certainly hadn’t. The poor mare wasn’t even a soldier – just some Earth pony civilian she’d found wandering the icy wastes on her lonesome, just like she had been. She hadn’t the heart to leave her behind and, since neither of them knew where they were or where the nearest outpost of civilisation was, the two of them had decided to strike out in a random direction together.

“Captain?” said a sleepy voice from under a make-shift cover of cloth sacks and stacked, ice-covered wooden crates, “Wh- what are you doing? Why are we moving?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Star-Strike replied, barely turning her head around as she struggled onwards, “Go back to sleep, Butterscotch.”

There was a renewed stirring from the sled; Star-Strike knew without turning around that Butterscotch was climbing out of her improvised ‘bed’ and was about to begin walking alongside her. Sure enough, the sled suddenly lightened and, moments later, a caramel-coloured mare appeared trotting alongside the revolutionary.

“Get back on the sled,” Star-Strike said wearily, barely able to lift her head, “You’re a civilian, you’re not… not trained to… at night…” Without warning the mare suddenly dropped down, eyes closed. Butterscotch caught her before she hit the floor.

“Don’t overwork yourself,” the other mare said kindly, helping Star-Strike to her hooves, “We agreed we were going to get some sleep. Did you only pretend that’s what you were doing?”

“No, no…” Star-Strike muttered, barely able to keep her eyes open, “There was a ‘splosion…”

“An explosion?”

Star-Strike managed to lift her head up and point with a single hoof at a distant cloud of dust, still hanging in the air above where the explosion had taken place less than an hour before. It was still just about visible in the pale moonlight; more discernible though was the dull red glow at the dust-cloud’s base. Something there was still burning.

“Happened just after sunset-” The Captain yawned. “Big explosion… You were asleep, thought there might be other ponies…”

“Come on, get some rest now,” Butterscotch said with a kind-hearted smile. Ignoring the tired soldier’s protests, Butterscotch got Star-Strike out of the leather sled-straps and led her back to the tent-like pile of sacks and boxes she’d been using as a bed. “Now get in.”

“What about you?” Star-Strike asked a little blearily, “Aren’t you tired? Aren’t you…” A puzzled, yet still sleepy, expression crossed her face. “You’re not wearing anything… Aren’t… aren’t you cold?”

“Not at all,” Butterscotch said dismissively, “Now come on, go to bed.”

Without another word of protest, Star-Strike clambered onto the sled and, within moments, was dead asleep.

After pausing for a few seconds to make sure the pegasus was asleep, Butterscotch walked back around to the front of the sled and slipped into the sled harness. Lowering her head and fixing her gaze on the distant red glow, the Earth pony began to march forwards, dragging the sled behind her. She moved with surprising ease, given her small stature and her lack of protective winter clothing.

Butterscotch’s stomach rumbled quietly. It had been doing so for over a week now. Not for the first time, she forced herself to ignore it.

*

The next morning, Léa LeFeather was the first to wake. The flames from the previous night had died down, and now the wreckage of her once impressive Cannonade Cart was gently smouldering in the morning light. The falling snow had let up too, leaving their icy surroundings as clear as she could hope for.

The Major slowly got up, stretching her freezing-cold muscles and shaking the excess snow out of her feathers. She snapped her beak a couple of times and adjusted her thick winter uniform – she hated sleeping in her day-clothes. What she’d give for a hot shower right about now…

The Imperial – Colonel Staid – was still asleep. He was wrapped up in his gigantic fur coat (although fur of what, Léa had no idea) and surrounded by his mass of baggage, which he’d built up like a little fort around himself earlier in the night to keep off the wind. He’d offered to make it bigger to try and cover the other two, but Léa had confessed that her feathers and thick winter uniform would keep her warm (which, since she hadn’t yet got frostbite, assumed must be true, although it certainly didn’t feel like it) and Defiant Arc had flat-out refused the Colonel’s proposal.

Ah yes, Defiant Arc. The Centurion was still sleeping too, but his slumbering form was surrounded by a thinly-glowing blue veil. According to the Equestrian, who had explained what he was doing before he’d gone to sleep late last night, this was a spell to make sure “that filthy griffon keeps its claws to itself”; apparently, anybody touching the veil would suffer a painful magical shock, which would also wake up the sleeping Defiant Arc (who would then, in the Centurion’s own words, ‘cut off that filthy griffon’s head’).

Léa rolled her eyes at the memory. Sadly, this was exactly what she’d come to expect from ponies (or rather, she quickly corrected herself, Equestrians). The Griffon Kingdoms and Equestria had been rivals since time immemorial and, in ancient times, had fought uncountable numbers of wars – mostly to the detriment of the Griffons. It was no wonder that an Equestrian would react so harshly to her, especially now that they were once again embroiled in war.

To be honest though, the Major admitted, she wasn’t exactly thrilled to be travelling with an Equestrian herself. The Imperial was alright, for a pony, but the sooner they got to this mythical waypoint and left the Centurion, the better.

Yawning silently, LeFeather walked as quietly as she could past the two sleeping ponies and towards the still-warm wreckage. She had been thinking that perhaps there might still be something salvageable in there, maybe in one of the lockboxes, if they hadn’t been blasted ap-

The Major suddenly caught her rear paw on something and tripped. There was a click noise, and the zip-zip of a rapidly-moving wire, as LeFeather fell face-first into the ground. There was a small bang and LeFeather heard the two ponies jump to their hooves, startled by the sudden noise.

Oh right. Staid’s tripwire. She’d forgotten about that.

“Whuh?! What was-?” Defiant Arc let out a sleepy, snorting laugh. “Ha! Typical stupid griffon, setting off our own tripwire!”

“Centurion, please keep your opinions to yourself!” Staid poked his head out of Fort Saddlebag and yawned. “Major, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Léa said as she got up, annoyed that she’d humiliated herself in front of the Equestrian, “What’s for breakfast?”

“I have lots of Imperial ration bars,” Staid said, as he began to rummage through his cast-off saddlebags, dismantling his furry igloo in the process, “How about another round of soup? Once I find the saucepan, I can get started-”

“Ugh,” Defiant Arc said, turning up his nose, “Don’t you have anything else apart from those disgusting gray slabs?”

Staid glanced up at him, face expressionless. “Do you know of an alternative?” he asked flatly.

The Centurion had no response to that, instead turning away from the Colonel and beginning to levitate his golden armour onto himself, which he had taken off (with some reluctance) before going to sleep. The Major was mildly surprised to discover that Royal Guardsponies didn’t sleep in their shiny golden panoply.

“What is that stuff made of, by the way?” Léa asked, dusting herself off, “I forgot to ask last night.”

“Reconstituted vegetable matter, mostly,” Staid said. Léa raised her eyebrow. “And, well, do you understand the concept of mass processing in the Griffon Kingdoms?”

“No, what’s that?”

While the Colonel explained to LeFeather exactly how the World Empire went about extracting protein from ground up fly larvae, Defiant Arc began eyeing some of the surrounding piles of snow with a hungry look in his eye.

“So, it’s basically like eating maggots?” LeFeather asked uncertainly.

Staid sighed. “No, Major, it’s not,” he said, “They just use the protein from them, and other key nutrients. If you ground up ordinary meat and extracted the same chemicals, it would be exactly the same stuff.” From behind Léa, the Centurion was making involuntary gagging noises. “Just because the protein happens to be from maggots, you both seem so reluctant to-”

“Oh, I’m not refusing,” LeFeather said, “Go ahead and make your soup.” Staid seemed to cheer up at that, and obliged. When the griffon saw Defiant Arc glaring at her with a disgusted look on his face, she added, “What? I’m not a herbivore. And some parents feed their kids maggots. Weird parents, certainly not mine, but maggots are edible. And don’t you Equestrians think we griffons eat ponies? Be glad it’s not that.”

The Colonel didn’t comment on this. “Do you want some too, Centurion?” he asked, as he rummaged through his saddlebags.

“Since the only other choice is starving to death,” he muttered bitterly, “I’ll eat your Imperial poison.”

“Very good,” Staid commented neutrally, “It’s important we keep our strength up. Those shadow-ponies might be back at any time.”

“Or something else might show up,” Léa said forebodingly.

“What do you mean by that, Major?” the Colonel asked, as he dragged a tin saucepan out of the pile of baggage that surrounded him.

“I mean, why were they all shadow-ponies?” Léa asked, a little grumpily, “Why not shadow-griffons?”

Defiant Arc smirked, clearly deriving some sense of superiority from the fact that their enemies had taken the shape of his species, and not that of any other. Staid merely said, “I’d consider that a mystery, Major. One I hope we shan’t need to solve.”

*

Unable to find anything salvageable in the wreckage of her Cannonade Cart, Major LeFeather told the two ponies that she wanted to go back to the place where the shadow-ponies had ambushed her fellow griffons, in the hope of finding something useful, or even some survivors. Although Léa even admitted to herself that the latter would be highly unlikely, she still wanted to go back.

The Colonel, to Léa’s relief, was all for it. Defiant Arc, however, was initially quite happy to send the griffon off by herself, but when the Colonel reminded him how dangerous it would be for one of them to be alone when shadow-ponies were on the prow, and thus that they needed to go with her, the Centurion (who, the Major was aware, knew full well how dangerous it was) went back to insisting they follow his tattered map to his beloved ‘waypoint’. After a bit of quick-thinking, all it took was an off-claw mention by Léa that some food supplies might have survived for the Centurion to grudgingly accompany them.

Colonel Staid had frowned at that, apparently disliking the implied objection to his rations, but didn’t appear to be particularly angry about it.

The battlefield, when the three of them arrived, was as desolate and empty of life as they’d expected. A grand total of four ruined Cannonade Carts were dotted about the snowy ground, one of them still burning. Chunks of twisted metal, blackened shrapnel and fired shot were everywhere. In a few places a scattering of glass shards could be seen; the remnants of the clawful of shadow-ponies that the griffons had managed to destroy. Everything was covered in a thin layer of snow.

“Where are the bodies?” Defiant Arc said. He was the first to speak since they’d arrived. “There should be dead griffons all over the place.”

LeFeather clamped her beak shut and didn’t say anything. She couldn’t trust herself to speak after a comment like that. She instead settled on glaring at the ground.

“The shadow-ponies must have carried them off,” Staid said, his voice coming from somewhat closer to LeFeather than she’d expected, “Another mystery. Major, do you want to see if there’s anything salvageable here? The Centurion and I will keep watch. More shadow-ponies might appear at any time.”

“I won’t be watching for shadow-ponies,” Defiant Arc muttered loudly, “I’ll be watching her. Who knows what kind of crazy griffon weapon she might pull out of one of these wrecks, and turn on us?”

“Please, Centurion, there’s no need to be so paranoid,” Staid said.

“Whatever,” he said darkly, “You stand watch here, if you like. I’m going for a walk.”

And with that, Defiant Arc went trotting off, eyes staring off angrily into the middle-distance. In a few seconds, the Equestrian had disappeared behind one of the ruined Carts. Staid looked like he was about to protest, to call him back, but Léa stopped him.

“Let him wander off,” she said, “He clearly doesn’t like being around me.”

The Colonel frowned. “I had heard that Equestrians can be hostile to foreign species,” he said, “But this behaviour is simply intolerable. We need to work together if we’re going to survive. If this was the World Empire, the Centurion would have violated at least five different clauses of the Interspecies Harmonisation Act!”

“But this isn’t the Empire, is it?” Léa reminded him, briefly wondering what kind of country could introduce laws that could actually stop species hating one another (if such a thing was even possible), “Now, if you don’t mind, climb on top of that mound and keep an eye out for shadows.”

“Of course, Major,” Staid said as he turned away, “I apologise for the outburst.”

Personally, Léa thought the outburst was perfectly justified, but she had other things to focus on for the time being. She took a deep breath and turned her attention to the nearest smoking wreck.

As the griffon picked through the lumps of charred wood and jagged spikes of twisted metal, she tried to imagine the possible devices she could construct with the things she found, changing her mind every time she found something new, or discovered that the thing she had found was actually broken or useless. By the end of her search through the first fire-gutted Cart, she had in her collection a few useable cogs and springs that had somehow survived being melted into tiny brass puddles, a large number of screws and bolts (most still stuck inside whatever piece of wood or metal they’d been hammered into), and a mostly-functioning steering system. The second Cannonade Cart had been utterly smashed, as though something huge (maybe a falling tree, if Léa had had to guess, as unlikely as that seemed) had crashed down upon it from above. The wheels were still intact and could theoretically be hooked up to the first Cart’s steering mechanism – but without any way to power them, they’d just be left with an ordinary wooden wagon, albeit a very elaborately-constructed one with rudimentary suspension. There were a couple of undamaged clockwork parts too, which she duly collected.

At this point Léa realised that she was trying to find all the right parts to reconstruct a working Cart and stopped herself. Such a thing was impossible in her situation; to build a working Cannonade Cart required a whole team of specialists from a number of fields (mechanists, blacksmiths, gunsmiths, clockmakers – not to mention all the skilled labourers to put the thing together) to work for days to create the necessary parts and make sure they fit, and several further weeks in which to hammer and weld the Cart together. And that wasn’t even taking into account the fuel and gunpowder necessary to power the fuel-pump engine and arm the cannons; the two things most likely to have gone up in flames.

The third wreck the griffon examined sadly confirmed this view. It was totally destroyed. From the appearance of the remains of the Cart’s metal shell, it looked as though the shadow-ponies had peeled the exterior apart with their claws, before climbing inside and trashing everything. Léa shuddered at the memory of those same dark claws stabbing through the armoured hide of her own Cart – before she’d blown it up and melted them all.

She chuckled at that.

The final ruined Cart was the one that was still burning. On closer inspection though, Léa discovered that the stuff on fire was actually the oil for the oil lamps, which had spilled from a broken crate and had pooled in a metal dish (which had previously been part of the front ‘beak’ of the Cart, but had apparently been torn off in the fight). That, Léa thought, explained why it was still burning; Cart fuel burned itself up pretty quickly (not to mention explosively). Other than that, though, there was very little sign of fire damage. Climbing carefully past the flaming oil-dish, the griffon looked into the rear end of the Cart, and what she saw made her gasp.

It was a fuel-pump engine! And it looked like it was in one piece! How was this possible? Fuel-pump engines were famous for blowing up if left untended for too long, or if damaged in any way, or even if looked at funny. As a device that took in extremely-flammable liquid, exploded it, and turned it into motion, this was to be expected. Léa took a closer look.

After a few moments of examination, the Major thought she had discovered why. Some clever griffon engineer had rigged up the engine with a kind of emergency fuel-release system; a blackened valve attached the engine’s side led, via a series of thick rubber tubes, to a robust-looking metal canister with a clockwork pump mechanism bolted on top. It looked like a simpler version of the clockwork device that regulated the fuel-pump engine itself – but simple was often the best. Léa unscrewed the canister’s lid and looked inside; as she’d hoped, it was filled to the brim with precious, precious fuel.

Now that was true griffon ingenuity! She’d like to see a pony come up with something so clever! Or Equestrian – knowing the World Empire, some Imperial boffin had probably come up with a similar device for… channelling steam, or something.

But, species aside; this was perfect! A working engine! Léa beamed, her eyes glowing with engineering glee. All she had to do was hook it up to the steering system and the wheels from the other Carts (the engine was already mounted on a perfect, unburnt base) and she would have– oh wait, the engine’s regulator was broken.

The griffon’s heart plummeted. The clockwork regulator was necessary to ensure that the fuel was pumped into the engine at regular intervals, and at precisely when the internal compression chamber (where the explosions happened) was open and ready to receive a new injection of fuel. If the timing was off by even a millisecond, either the engine would stutter and shut down due to a lack of fuel, or it would blow up due to excess. Without a regulator, the fuel-pump engine was worse than useless.

Already certain that she didn't have the necessary components, Major LeFeather nevertheless looked inside her bag of cogs and springs. As she had expected, she didn’t have the right pieces.

Léa looked down glumly at the disparate clockwork parts in her claws. Some gears and a ratchet wouldn’t be enough to repair the broken regulator. She began fiddling with them absent-mindedly. Clockwork regulators were very complex pieces of machinery, requiring not only a strengthened version of the time-keeping mechanism found in watches (proudly invented by griffons, the Major thought glumly, as though it really mattered), but also a delicate mechanism known as a Kipfilet Plunger (named after the inventor, naturally) that allowed the small clockwork device to operate the much larger fuel-pump. Both parts were broken.

Slotting the spare gears onto a large spring – just to give her claws something to do – Léa had another look at the broken regulator. The brass arm that pushed in the pump was still there, attached at one end to the engine, but the Kipfilet Plunger itself was in tiny chunks spread across the Cart floor. The Major pulled a small clockwork mechanism from one of her pockets (one she’d built herself, designed to be put in a watch) and began trying to attach it to the gear-filled spring.

It was surprising, Léa reflected glumly, how slow the clockwork regulators were. They had to be, of course, since speed and strength were anathema to one another in the world of clockwork. She began to wind up the purposeless device in her claws. That was the reason Cannonade Carts were so slow; the output of the fuel-pump engine was limited by the speed of the regulator. Fewer internal explosions meant less speed. If only there was some way to make the mechanism faster while maintaining its strength-

The Major’s thoughts were interrupted when the amalgamation of clock-pieces she had been winding up suddenly sprung and jabbed a sharpened gear into her palm. She winced and immediately put the wounded extremity to her mouth – but then looked down at the thing she had created. The nameless device had launched a gear into her claw with such force – far more than an ordinary spring mechanism should be capable of….

Léa looked at the gears. She looked at the spring they were mounted on. She looked at how the gears on the spring connected to the gears in the watch. Finally, she looked up at the damaged regulator. Slowly, she reached into her pockets with her wounded claw and removed a small file and few other delicate tools. Her eyes were gleaming with the implications of what she had discovered.

Yes, it should… it should be possible… It would be difficult, and would need the expertise of a master clockmaker – which, to be fair, she was…

“Major!” Staid called out suddenly, from his post on the snowy mound, “You’ve been sitting in that one Cart for almost half-an-hour now. Are you all right?”

“Colonel, I think….” Léa called back, not daring to look away from the mechanism in her claws, “I think I’ve just invented something!”

New Faces

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.

Survival of the Fastest

Chapter Five

“Tyrant pig!”

“Treasonous vermin!”

“Pitiful dog!”

“Rebel scum!”

“What? Who is this?” Butterscotch exclaimed, “Colonel? Léa?”

Staid ran towards them as fast as his injured back leg would allow and put himself between the two frothing-mouthed adversaries. To their credit, neither of the Equestrians had actually attacked each other – yet - but on the Centurion’s side, possibly that was only because he couldn’t quite reach his airborne enemy.

“Please, Centurion, Captain; calm yourselves,” he began, “There’s no need to-”

“So, showing your true colours at last, Colonel?!” Defiant Arc exclaimed, continuing to glare and wave his sword up at the hovering Star-Strike, “Decided to wait until I’d gone away before siding with one of them?! A traitor! Where’d you get her from, hmm? Gonna use her to ambush me, huh?! Cowards and traitors, the lot of you!”

“Centurion please, she’s in the same situation as us-”

“Who is this, Colonel? Somepony you didn’t want to tell me about, huh?!” Star-Strike yelled, pointing her gun down at them both and growling, “I knew an Imperial like you would be in league with a Celestian dog! Plotting to kill me in my sleep, were you?! Enemies of the revolution must die! Down with the Solar Tyrant!”

“Captain, I’m sorry, I only didn’t mention him because-”

“Traitorous filth!”

“Loyalist warthog!”

Unable to get a word in, Staid floundered. The two Equestrians were on the verge of killing each other.

Star-Strike levelled her rifle. Defiant Arc readied himself for a leap.

“Stop! Both of you, stop this!”

Both parties and Staid looked around in surprise as Butterscotch skidded to a halt alongside them.

“I know you two must hate each other,” she continued, glaring at them both, “But this is no time to be fighting! Put away your differences, for a little while at least, and stop this pointless arguing! I don’t really care for either the Republic or Celestia, but…” She took a deep breath. “Let’s just calm down, alright? What you believe or think about each other isn’t important right now. We need to work together, or we’re all going to be dead when those shadow-ponies get here. Let’s not be stupid.”

Slowly, hesitantly, and like two young foals that had just been scolded, the two Equestrians backed down. Star-Strike lowered her rifle and hovered back down to the ground. Defiant Arc lowered his sword and his gaze, instead glaring bitterly at the floor.

“Well done, Miss Butterscotch,” Staid muttered, and the mare, her body almost shaking from the effort of yelling, nodded in recognition of the compliment. The Colonel’s opinion of her had risen. “Centurion, this is Miss Butterscotch and Captain Star-Strike. Miss, Captain, this is Centurion Defiant Arc.”

Butterscotch gave a hesitant wave, which the Centurion completely ignored. He and the Captain were steadfastly refusing to look at each other, but at least they weren’t tryin got kill each other.

“Now,” Staid continued, addressing the entire group, “The shadow-ponies will be here in a matter of minutes, so we don’t have long to prepare. We can’t hope to defeat them all – but we can outrun them. Léa, how close is your machine to being ready?”

“Very nearly,” the griffon called out, her eyes focused on the rubber tube she was screwing into a pedal. She had been working on the Cart continuously, throughout the Equestrians’ entire argument, “Five minutes to get this done, and maybe another minute or two to get the LeFeather Regulator calibrated.”

“Excellent,” Staid said, “Everyone, our objective is to protect the Cart, and the Major. Captain, I want you in the air above us; pick off as many as you can with that rifle of yours, before they close in.” Star-Strike nodded, and took to the air. “Centurion, you’re on the ground; kill anything that gets close.” Defiant Arc nodded and, with a slight grin, raised his sword, ready for action. “I will be on the Cart itself, providing short-range firepower. When Léa tells us that the Cart is ready, everyone is to get on board immediately; we need to get out of here as fast as possible.”

“What about me, Colonel?” Butterscotch asked. Staid turned; he’d momentarily forgotten about her. “What should I do?”

“I’m not sure,” he replied, “See if Léa needs any help. If not, see if you can find something to fight with. Stay on the Cart, close to the Major and myself, and try not to get yourself killed. Alright everyone – positions! And remember, aim for their hearts!”

*

The shadow-ponies came in like a wave, attacking from all directions at once. There were thousands of them; so many, in fact, that they couldn’t all attack at once. Huge numbers of them circled the area like sinister black clouds, while the others rolled in like a gigantic sea of murderous, murky fog.

In the centre of this tidal wave of doom was a small island; a wooden Cart, where a small group of ponies and one griffon were making their stand, their weapons flashing in the day’s fading light.

“There’s no end to them!” Star-Strike called out in horror, as she fired bolt after bolt of lightning-blue energy into the shadowy mass from her Starbeam rifle, to apparently no effect, “I knew I should’ve brought a Multibeam!”

“I told you, aim for their hearts!” Staid ordered, as he fired a pistol shot through the heart of barbed shadow-pony that had somehow gotten through the whirling wall of bladed death that was Defiant Arc, “Pick off the closest ones! Major, please tell me you’re almost done!”

“Stupid… fiddly… tubes!” Léa shouted in anger, her head shoved underneath the engine, “Pipe wrench! Now!” She stuck out an open claw.

“Um, um, which one’s that?!” Butterscotch said desperately, rummaging through the pile of assorted tools by her fore-hooves, “This one?” She hoofed it over.

“That’s a pipe! You’ve given me a pipe! Where did you even find this?! It’s not a tool! Why was it in the pile?! GAAAAH!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry – here!” Butterscotch said hurriedly, quickly hoofing over a likely-looking contender with serrated teeth and an adjustable top.

“At last!” Léa exclaimed, taking the spanner and turning something underneath the engine, “That should hold up! Now pull me out of here so I can regulate the thingy! Now!”

Defiant Arc, meanwhile, was enjoying himself immensely. He ran back and forth around the circumference of the Cart, hacking and slashing at the shadow-ponies with his floating blade. Once he’d got the hang of fighting these monsters, he’d found they weren’t so hard to beat after all!

The Centurion whirled his blade around and cut through three shadow-ponies’ glass hearts with a single sweep of his sword. A single blow against their heart was all it took to kill them! They couldn’t even defend against it! He raced around to the front of the Cart and cut down another four within a few seconds.

“Ha!” he exclaimed breathlessly, a grin on his face, “Stupid shadows!”

“Centurion! This side!” he heard Colonel Staid call out, the shout accompanied by more gunshots, “Occidite eos! Hope you’re not tired!”

“Not on your life, you old fool!” Defiant Arc called back as he raced around the Cart, slaughtering the attacking shadow-creatures as he passed.

“How much longer?!” Star-Strike yelled out from above them, “I’m almost out of crystals!” As she spoke, she pulled the empty, steaming crystal out of her rifle and shoved in a new one pulled from her belt. The Captain fired a burst of shots from her gun which, very neatly, incinerated a nice semi-circle of shadow-ponies approaching the back end of the Cart. “Yes! Taste Republic justice! Major, how much longer?”

“Just adjusting the LeFeather Regulator!” Léa replied, “By the Twelve Kingdoms, why did I invent this thing to be so complicated!” Behind her, Staid was firing almost continuously from his metal-arm-held revolver, the posable metal tubes swinging back and forth as he fired out from both sides of the Cart. “Right, it’s calibrated! Now tick! Tick! WHY WON’T YOU TICK?!”  In her frustration, she hit it with the pipe wrench. Immediately, the ticking commenced and the iron pistons began to pump. “Ah! Aha! It lives! IT LIVES!”

The roar of the engine was loud and clear above the sounds of combat and the sinister growls of the massed shadow-ponies. For a brief second, every one of the attacking creatures paused in their efforts and looked up at the chugging locomotive.

“It’s time to go!” Colonel Staid shouted, as Major LeFeather jumped past him and slid into the roughly-constructed driver’s seat, “Centurion, get on board!”

“I’m trying!” Defiant Arc yelled out. As soon as the engine had started, it seemed as though the shadow-ponies had doubled their efforts; the Centurion could do nothing but defend himself from a constant, never-ending stream of attacks. If tried to turn around to climb on, he’d be torn apart. “I trapped here! I can’t move!”

Staid saw what the problem was. “Captain Star-Strike!” he ordered, as the aforementioned mare dropped onto the wooden floor of the Cart, “Lift the Centurion up and onto the Cart! Quickly!”

“What?” Star-Strike exclaimed, “I’m not lifting him up!”

“No way is a traitor lifting me up!” Defiant Arc said, almost simultaneously with the Captain.

“We don’t have time for this!” Staid yelled as he fired shot after shot into the shadowy mass surrounding the Cart.

“Star-Strike, if you don’t get him on board, we can’t leave and everyone’s going to be killed!” Butterscotch shouted, “Do it!”

Obeying the two ponies, Star-Strike holstered her rifle, swooped down and grabbed hold of Defiant Arc. He struggled and swung his sword at the shadow-ponies until the very last moment, when the Captain dumped him onto the open deck of the Cart.

“Now Major, get us out of here!” Staid ordered, “As fast as possible!”

“As fast as possible? Good!” Major LeFeather snapped her goggles on over her eyes. She tugged at a number of levers. “‘Cos that’s the only speed I’ve got! Hold on tight!”

The griffon stamped her paw down on one of the pedals, the engine gurgled and growled, and the Cart shot forwards. The shadow-ponies were left attacking a Cart-shaped empty space, filled with nothing but a couple of cast-off spanners and a few stray feathers.

Meanwhile, a large grey-brown blur, trailing exhaust fumes, went streaking across the icy wastes, flattening a path through the sea of shadow-ponies, leaving only wisps of dark fog, broken glass, and the screams of the blur’s passengers in its wake.

*

Eventually, a great distance away, the self-propelled Cart came to a gradual, creaking stop. Léa pulled a single lever, causing a great groaning noise to emanate from the wheels, and the engine to splutter into silence. Then there was only the pinging noise of cooling metal and the slight squeaking noise of the various bolts and screws as they adjusted size in accordance with their lessening temperature.

Léa peeled her goggles off of her face and dropped them around her neck. Not bothering to supress the inane grin plastered across her face (it had gone so fast! Faster than flying even!), Major LeFeather turned in her seat to examine her passengers. “Everyone enjoy that as much as I did?”

Her four passengers appeared to be in various states of shock. Colonel Staid was just behind the driving seat, lying down, clutching at the wooden platform with all four legs; his eyes were open, and he looked a little green. Defiant Arc had actually stabbed his sword into the platform, and clung to that – fortunately, the blade didn’t appear to have cut through anything important, so Léa let the Equestrian’s damage to her Cart slide for now. Next to him was Butterscotch, who promptly got up, walked in a very wobbly fashion over to the edge, and fell off the Cart. At the very back was Star-Strike, who was still hovering in the air, wings frozen in the open position. She had grabbed onto the backmost part of the Cart just as it had started up, and had been pulled along through the air. She seemed the least affected though.

“…. That was… fast….” Star-Strike muttered, before her wings curled up and she dropped to the ground, “Urp.”

“Everyone else still alive?” the Major asked cheerily.

There was a chorus of groans, many vaguely in the affirmative.

“So, who wants to go again?”

There was another chorus of groans, this time notably angry, negative ones.

Léa grinned. “I’ll give you all a minute,” she said, unstrapping herself and getting out of the chair, “No-one touch the engine.  It’s still hot.”

A little wobbly herself, Major LeFeather jumped off of the Cart and had a look at their surroundings. The landscape was just as desolate and rocky as their previous location had been. In fact, there were even more rocks; how they’d avoided crashing into one on their high-speed ride, Léa had no idea. In the near distance was the shadow of an imposing mountain range, which broke up the otherwise monotonous scenery quite nicely. Emanating from behind those mountains was the faint orange glow of the setting sun. A slight flutter of snow was falling from the sky.

With the steaming, groaning Cart in the foreground, the Major thought it made quite a pretty picture.

She had built the Cart facing north-west, so presumably that’s the direction they had gone in. Perhaps she should have put a little more thought into that, but there was nothing Léa could do to remedy that problem. They had gotten away from the shadow-ponies, of which there was absolutely no sign, so that was one good thing anyway.

Star-Strike had managed to pick herself up and wandered over to where Léa was standing. “How are you feeling?” the griffon asked her, “Not too much vomit?”

“Only a little bit,” the revolutionary said, “I’m not really one for going fast. Thanks for the lift though.”

Léa raised an eyebrow. “A pegasus that doesn’t like going fast?”

Star-Strike gave her a look. Since she was a good half-head shorter than the griffon, Léa found the effect almost adorable. “There’s no need to stereotype me,” she said, “Not all pegasi like flying, not all unicorns are good at magic, and not all Earth ponies are strong. In the glorious new Equestria that the revolution will bring, ponies will not be restricted by the circumstances of their birth, but will be free to pursue whatever they might dream of being! Can you say the same of your country?”

Léa was a little taken back. She was just making light conversation; she hadn’t expected a lecture. “Okay,” she said, “I guess not. But griffons don’t have cutie marks, like you ponies, so we can do whatever.”

“But is that true freedom?” Star-Strike pressed, “Or just an illusion, created by a self-serving bourgeoisie monarchy, so that the proletariat never question their role in a fake society?”

Léa paused for a full three seconds. “I don’t know,” she said carefully, “Sorry. Ask Staid. I get the impression he knows more about politics than me.”

The revolutionary looked confused. “Don’t you care about how your country is run?” she asked, “Don’t you want to avoid being taken advantage of? The Griffon Kingdoms are ruled by a selfish monarchist oligarchy, almost as bad as the Solar Tyrant! Doesn’t that bother you?”

The Major shrugged. “I don’t know what half those words mean,” she said, “Ask me about blacksmithing and fuel-pumps and clockwork. I know my mechanics – that’s what I’m interested in.” There was a short, awkward pause. “Do you like the Cart, by the way? I think I can get her to go a little slower next time.”

“She’s… nice,” Star-Strike said uncertainly, turning her head to look at the Cart, “I was told griffon technology exploded a lot. Does that actually happen?”

“It’s not supposed to, no.”

There was another awkward pause in which Léa began to realise that, in all probability, she and the Captain had nothing in common. Perhaps the pony felt some burning resentment towards the Griffon Kingdoms too? Léa felt she owed it to Staid to try and keep the group together, since she now felt as he did that they’d die if they didn’t work together. Just then though, Star-Strike spoke up again.

“I like the feathers on your head,” she said, as innocuously as she could, “The red-tipped ones, I mean. I always wanted to have red tips on my mane, but mane-dye is pretty hard to come by nowadays…”

“You know,” Léa said suddenly, “I think I’ve got some dyes packed away on the sled. We use them for dyeing canisters of fuel – if one lot is unsafe for use, for example, you can mark it by dyeing, or if some griffon really doesn’t want someone else using their petrol. Plus they make good paints. I don’t see why we couldn’t use them to dye your hair.”

“Really?!” Star-Strike said, her eyes lighting up, “But… do you really think this is the time or the place?  I mean, we’re kinda stranded-”

“Why not?” the Major countered, “We’ve got a little while before the others stop throwing up and walking around like they’ve concussed themselves. There aren’t any shadow-ponies around, for the time being, and I can’t work on the Cart while it’s still hot. Come on, I think I remember where Staid put them.”

The two girls took to the air and swooped over to the sled. “You know,” Léa said conversationally, “Personally, I’ve always been a little envious of you ponies and your manes. You can do so much stuff with them. Feathers, on the other claw…”

“I think your feathers are great! You don’t need to do anything with them, they just look great naturally.” Star-Strike paused, and then asked concernedly “They’re not dangerous, are they, these dyes? I mean, if they’re meant for fuel…”

“Shouldn’t be an issue,” Léa said, confidently, giving her red-tipped head-feathers a little stroke, “Just stay away from open flames and don’t chew your mane; you should be fine. Oh, of course; Captain, there’s some spare timber tied up on the other side. Why don’t you start making a fire while I look for the dyes, so we can heat up some water?”

Star-Strike grinned. The griffon smiled back. “Right away, Major!” the revolutionary said, and flew off.

*

Colonel Staid, meanwhile, was very slowly getting back on his hooves. That incredible speed – no wheeled Imperial vehicle went that fast! Trains probably didn’t either!

It had given the Colonel a vivid flashback to his days in the Air Corps, during the Pacification of Lemuria, when the Airship he had been serving in had had its envelope shredded by enemy fire. Staid had pulled the vessel’s wounded Captain down two flights of stairs to get to the life-balloon; the Cart journey had reminded him all too horribly of the tremendous speed with which the Airship had been plummeting during that horrible, chaotic journey.

At least this time he had been going along the ground, rather than toward it.

The Colonel took a couple of deep breaths to clear his head. “I take it we all managed to get away unharmed?” he asked. When he received no reply, he turned around. Major LeFeather and Star-Strike were gone – no, not gone, just a little distance away, lighting a fire (good thinking on their part, Staid thought, the sun was going down and it was important to keep warm at this latitude). Butterscotch was nowhere to be seen (but she’d tumbled over the side, hadn’t she? So at least she was here) and Defiant Arc was…

“Centurion, you look awful,” Staid said, looking down at the prone pony, who was still gripping tightly to the hilt of his Cart-embedded sword, “You are alright? Here, let me help you up-”

“I don’t need your help,” Defiant Arc said grumpily, as he forced himself upright, but only made it as far as a sitting position, “I’m fine.”

“You are clearly not fine,” Staid said flatly. The Colonel had already noticed the Centurion’s many cuts and bruises when he’d suddenly reappeared, just before the shadow-ponies had attacked, but the full extent of his injuries only now became apparent. Not only was his eye swollen, but there was a huge, bloody cut across the cheek below it; furthermore, many of the slashes across his body were not the small slices that Staid had previously thought, but were actually extremely deep and, in many cases, looked close to being infected. “Did you get injured more than I thought during our last battle?”

“No, these are all from earlier,” Defiant Arc said gruffly, “Got ambushed – shadow-pony cowards! Do you really think they could even scratch me in a straight fight?”

Staid thought to himself that thousands on shadow-ponies swarming down on five combatants could hardly be considered a straight fight, but he didn’t suppose it really mattered. “I’ve got some medical supplies in one of my saddlebags,” he said, “Come along Centurion, I’ll get you patched up.”

“I told you, I don’t need your help.”

“Oh don’t be ridiculous,” Staid said, stepping off of the Cart, “Miss Butterscotch? Are you there?”

Butterscotch appeared from around the Cart’s corner. “Hi,” she said, surprisingly chirpy, “I’m here. Uh, wild ride, wasn’t it? Couldn’t stand up straight afterwards! Eheh!”

Odd behaviour. Staid put it down to some kind of speed-induced concussion. “I’m glad to see you’re alright,” he said, before lowering his voice, “The Centurion seems to be quite badly injured. Could you please stay with him – make sure he doesn’t pass out, or try to wander off again, that sort of thing – while I get the field medicine?”

“Sure,” Butterscotch said, and Staid felt that her happiness had suddenly become a little more genuine, “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

She hopped back aboard the Cart while Staid carried on to the sled where, whilst searching for the bag with the medicine in, kept one tattered ear angled towards the imminent conversation on the Cart.

“Hey there, uh, Centurion,” Butterscotch said nervously. Defiant Arc opened his wounded eyes and glared at her. “Staid asked me to keep an eye on you. So you don’t pass out, or anything.”

Defiant Arc didn’t speak. He looked down at the floor, his expression one of general anger at the world.

“We didn’t get to speak earlier,” Butterscotch continued, “So… you’re in the army, huh? The Royal Guard? Must be a pretty tough life.”

“Obviously.” After a few seconds the Centurion asked, “What side are you on, anyway? Are you with Celestia or the traitors?”

“I’m not with either,” Butterscotch told him. Defiant Arc harrumphed. “I don’t care about politics. I just want everyone to get along.”

“Sounds like rebel talk to me,” the Centurion muttered, “If you’re not helping us, then you’re helping the enemy.”

Butterscotch sighed. “Does it really matter?” she asked, “Out here, right now? You don’t like me because I’m neutral, I get the impression you don’t like the two foreigners too much either, and you definitely don’t like Star-Strike-”

“Don’t you talk to me about that filth,” Defiant Arc said darkly, “She’s a traitor to Equestria. If it weren’t for all of you getting in my way, I’d have her head.”

“I get that you don’t like what she stands for,” Butterscotch said carefully, very aware that the angry stallion had his front hooves resting on an extremely sharp-looking sword, “But what do you have against her personally? I’ve only known her a little while, but Star-Strike is a great friend; if you can earn her trust, she’ll always be there for you, even when it’s her that needs the help.  Everyone else here seems nice as well, yet you’re so angry. Haven’t you at least tried getting along with them?”

Defiant Arc growled – literally growled, like a furious wolf. “You have no idea, do you?” he snarled, turning on Butterscotch, every word dripping with fire and venom, “No idea at all in that STUPID little head of yours! You just want everypony to get along, don’t you? Just wishing, as though that helps! IDIOT!” Butterscotch physically flinched. “The so-called Republic started this war – tens of thousands, dead, because of them, those scum, and the heartless World Empire dogs, and the avaricious griffons, and the Changelings and the mad-ponies – all of them, and their stupid, greedy fighting! Princess Celestia and the Royal Guard – Old Equestria – we’re doing our best to stop it all, to make everything normal again… and then ponies like YOU come along.” He jabbed Butterscotch in the chest with a bleeding hoof so forcefully it hurt both of them. But the Centurion didn’t seem to care; his eyes were aflame. “You think that, just because there’s no fighting here-and-now, we should all be the best of friends?! These ponies, and that creature, are all partly responsible for this war, for all the killing. I have to be on guard all the time, because if I, or any other Old Equestrian, relents for even a moment, then the last bastion of true Equestria will crumble and burn! And you think that you’re innocent in all this, but let me tell you something, you neutral; by standing aside like this, by dreaming your stupid little dreams of everypony getting along, you’re letting the crazies and the bugs and the foreigners and the bucking traitor scum destroy all that remains of Equestria!” There were tears in his eyes now; tears of hatred, of anger, but also of some great pain. The pain at the death of his country. “And now… and now, the Crystal Empire….”

Silence fell. Defiant Arc looked down at his bleeding hooves. Butterscotch was too terrified to speak, or even to move.

Colonel Staid chose this moment to appear around the corner of the Cart and poke his head over the side of the platform. “I found the medicine,” he said neutrally, “Come over to the fire and I’ll get you patched up. Miss Butterscotch, you as well.”

The Earth pony gratefully hopped down from Cart and hurried over to the nearby fire, which flickered in the otherwise impenetrable darkness. The Centurion remained where he was for several moments, before eventually getting to his hooves.

Staid was completely silent, his forcibly-impassive expression giving nothing away as he helped the dead-eyed unicorn down from the Cart and over to the merrily-burning fire.

Mysteries and Meteorology

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!”

The Sixth Arrives

Chapter Seven

“Léa! Can’t you make this thing go any faster?!”

“I can’t drive and fix the engine! Be glad I managed to get her going at all!”

“There’s another group coming from the left! Centurion, on point! Captain, target the centre of groups – they seem to want to flow together, it might slow them down! Major, get this thing in gear!”

“I didn’t have time to put the gears back on, Staid! Why doesn’t someone else drive while I bash the engine into working?”

“There’s more catching up on the right!”

“I’ll drive! I’m not helping by just standing here – just tell me what to do!”

Léa glanced briefly behind her. Butterscotch was standing by her shoulder, her eagerness to help clear on her face. Behind her, posable-armed-revolver in hoof, was Colonel Staid. He was standing in the centre of the Cart’s platform, giving out orders and firing when he could. Star-Strike and Defiant Arc kept switching between the left and right sides; Star-Strike to the places where their shadow-pony pursuers were further away, and Defiant Arc to the places where they were about to board the vehicle.

The Cart itself was barely going a fraction of the speed it had been on its first trip, a result of Léa introducing a new device to deliberately reduce and control the flow of power from the fuel-pump engine, but not having enough time to calibrate it properly before the shadow-ponies suddenly and unexpectedly attacked. They were barely travelling three times the speed on an ordinary pony, which, as it turned out, was about the same speed the shadow-ponies liked to travel at.

“This pedal makes it go,” Léa told Butterscotch, “This lever slows it down, so you don’t need to worry about that one. Don’t pull that one because we might explode. This thing turns it. The rest don’t do anything. Don’t hit any rocks, don’t slow down, and don’t take your hoof off of that pedal! Go!”

The griffon and the pony swapped positions. Leaving Butterscotch to do her best at the Cart’s controls – which, although very simple compared to the controls of a full Cannonade Cart, were still not designed to be used by a pony – the Major hurried to the rear of the Cart and grappled with the engine.

“They’re getting too close!” Star-Strike shouted, snapping a fresh, fully-charged crystal into her Starbeam rifle, “Centurion! Swap with me!”

“I’m a bit busy right now!” Defiant Arc yelled, swiping with his sword at several snarling shadow-ponies that were clinging to the side of the Cart, the jagged spikes that grew from their hooves stabbed into the wooden platform’s edge.

Staid swung his revolver around and blasted apart a number of the boarding shadow-ponies. “I’ve got this side covered,” he announced, “For the moment. Centurion! Swap with Star-Strike!”

While the two Equestrians swapped sides, Léa LeFeather, who had been desperately trying to adjust the makeshift regulatory valve (which did not seem to want to release any fuel on every third pump), shouted out in frustration.

“I can’t get this clucking valve to work!” she shouted, “Staid! I’m sorry – I can’t get the Cart to go any faster without stopping it altogether!”

“Then we’re in trouble,” Staid said quietly. Despite the wheezing of the engine, the sounds of battle and the crunching of the Cart wheels, everyone present could somehow hear his voice. “We can’t outrun these creatures forever, and the waypoint is no sure place of security-”

Suddenly Butterscotch shrieked and the entire Cart lurched. For a moment the entire group feared that the Cart was about to turn over, but by some miracle it did not.

“I think I just hit somebody!” she exclaimed in terror, jerking the wheel around to try and stay on course.

“Good!” Defiant Arc called out, stabbing the closest attacker through the heart with a quick jab of his blade, “The only things around here are shadow-ponies!”

“But shadow-ponies aren’t solid…” Léa began.

Butterscotch shrieked again. Léa and Staid turned around.

A face had popped up in front of her; a pale-orange-coloured face, with a tyre-track imprinted across its forehead, and an inane grin on its muzzle. The face was attached to a body dressed in bizarre, patchwork clothes, with a flapping, multi-coloured cape, and was clinging to the front of the Cart.

“Sgniteerg ot uoy lla!” the strange new unicorn exclaimed happily, as he climbed over the Cart’s front and onto the platform, “I ma Rorepmegnops Idlaviv ‘Yhtrowsotnem’ Flooc eht Htekac! Ereh ot pleh!”

“What,” Léa said, her tone utterly deadpan, her eyes staring blankly at the newcomer in all his eccentric glory.

Staid said nothing, seemingly paralyzed by this strange sight. Butterscotch, Star-Strike and Defiant Arc were all much too busy to do more than glance briefly around and give some exclamation of surprise before getting back to the much more important work of not getting everyone on board killed.

“Eert srewop ETAVITCA!” the stallion shouted. His horn briefly blazed a bright orange, before an immense tidal wave of sawdust burst forth from the air above his head. Staid managed to shout out a warning before the sawdust swept through them, apparently to no effect. The shadow-ponies were still there, the Cart’s passengers had all managed to stay upright; the only difference being that now everyone was covered in extremely itchy sawdust.

Then the engine gurgled, chugged a few times, before the Cart suddenly sped up. The greater mass of the pursuing shadow-ponies were left behind them in a trail of engine-fumes, air-flung ice and, yes, sawdust.

“What-!” Léa repeated, staring at the engine in amazement.

“There’s still some clinging on over here!” Defiant Arc shouted, shaking his head to dislodge as much sawdust as he could, “I don’t know what the hay is going on, but-”

The strange unicorn jumped over to the Centurion. “Tel em pleh!” he exclaimed in his strange, backwards voice. He looked down at the shadow-ponies, with their clawed hooves stabbed into the wood of the Cart, and the stallion’s horn glowed once again.

The edges of the Cart that the shadow-ponies were hanging on to started to bend and, bizarrely, stretch out. Defiant Arc began to back away; it wasn’t just the edges with the shadow-ponies, but the whole side of the Cart. He spun around to see Star-Strike glancing up at him – the side she was standing by was bending and twisting too.

Before either of them could ask what in Equestria was going on, the sides of the Cart unfurled into two gigantic, bat-like wings, which quickly shook off the shadow-ponies lodged in them. Everyone on board, even Butterscotch, looked on in terrified amazement as the mighty wooden wings flapped once, then twice.

Within moments the Cart was flying, wings flapping, wheels spinning on nothing but air.

“WHAT?!” Léa shouted, overwhelmed by this insane turn of events, and at what had been done to her Cart.

The newcomer laughed. “Selims lla dnuora won!” he said happily, and did a little jig.

All five of his fellow, now-aerial passengers stared at him. The stallion stopped dancing and looked at them.

“Tahw?”

*

Somehow, Léa managed to get her transfigured Cart under her control – asking it politely seemed to have had more of an effect than pulling on any of the levers – and bring it down for a smooth landing at the base of the mountain that had been their original destination. The ice had initially seemed to be a problem but, to Léa’s vague unease, the Cart decided for itself to grip the ground with its new wooden wings, and that managed to slow it down enough to stop them crashing.

The passengers had all immediately disembarked without a single word spoken to one another, before hurrying to a reasonable distance away. Major LeFeather had paused briefly; long enough to have a fleeting glance over her shoulder at the strange new form of her vehicle. As she watched, the Cart folded its bat-like wings around itself and seemed to settle down, as if to await their return.

There was not a shadow-pony in sight.

The five companions were now gathered in an apprehensive circle around the newcomer. The strangely dressed unicorn was smiling somewhat stupidly at them, Léa thought; apparently he was completely unaware of the way the others, particularly Colonel Staid, looking at him.

“Let’s start with the basics,” Léa said, realising that no-one seemed to want to speak first, “Who are you, exactly?”

“I dlot uoy, I ma Rorepmegnops Idlaviv ‘Yhtrowsotnem’ Flooc eht Htekac,” the pony explained – although the bizarre tongue in which he was speaking made the ‘explanation’ perfectly useless. “Sa rof ym eciov – I saw desruc! Désruc!”

“Anyone know what language he’s speaking?” the griffon asked exasperatedly. Everyone shook their heads. “Staid? Anything you recognise?”

“This stallion is speaking complete gibberish,” Staid said coldly, “Worryingly so.”

The unicorn made a motion as though he was about to stand on one leg, but then stopped. He sighed, sadly. “I dluow etteuorip no eno gel, tub yletanutrofnu, ti dlouw eb yllaicos xuaf sap, sa llew sa gnieb a eil.”

“It sounds to me like he’s speaking backwards,” Star-Strike spoke up suddenly, “Not whole sentences, but maybe some of the words-”

“I think he’s a Discordian,” Defiant Arc interrupted, “Look at the way he’s dressed, and his stupid way of speaking. And that freaky magic earlier – that’s not normal.”

That would round off the group quite nicely, Léa pondered. A representative from nearly every group in the war. Or maybe even all of them. A quick glance in Butterscotch’s direction showed to Léa that she might well have been thinking the same thing.

“So what if he is a Discordian?” Star-Strike said, turning on Defiant Arc with an impudent look, “They are merely the innocent scapegoats of the Solar Tyrant, harmless cultists blamed for the assassination of the Princess to cover up the Tyrant’s role-”

“That’s a lie and you know it!” Defiant Arc shouted. Star-Strike opened her mouth to counter, but the Centurion was faster. “I’m not going to start arguing now about whether or not Princess Celestia was responsible – she wasn’t, and I’m not going to listen to your filthy slander – but you know as well as I do that Discordians are not harmless.”

The pegasus paused. “You’re right,” she said at last, “About the second thing. I was at the Battle of Fillydelphia. I know what they can do.”

The Battle of Fillydelphia, from what Léa knew, had been an attempt by the New Lunar Republic to take control the city of Fillydelphia, after a Discordian uprising had overthrown the loyalist rulers. The Republican forces had ended up completely (or nearly completely) destroyed; eventually the World Empire had shown up and, after a long siege, wrested the city from the Discordians, taking it for themselves. But that had been three years ago; if Star-Strike had been present then, how young must she have been? How young must she have been when she joined up?

“I was there too,” Staid said, in an oddly flat tone. Star-Strike looked at him in surprise, but the Colonel’s eyes were fixed on the smiling Discordian. “But that’s irrelevant. If this pony is indeed a Discordian, as he seems to be, then there is only one suitable course of action.” He spoke directly to the eccentrically-dressed stallion. “Are you or are you not a Discordian? Nod for yes, or shake your head for no.”

The pony nodded repeatedly. He didn’t seem at all embarrassed by it, nor affected by the hostile glare he received from Defiant Arc. Staid tightened his lips. The rest of the group shifted about uncomfortably.

“Look, Staid, I know Discordians are dangerous,” Léa said, trying to be reasonable, “But we can’t just turn him away. He’s probably starving, and he did save our lives – and this is coming from the girl who had her Cart turned into a giant wooden bat.”

“We can’t trust him,” Defiant Arc countered, “Discordians are crazy. We can’t take him with us. Sure this one saved our lives – if that’s even what he was trying to do – but the next thing you know, he’ll be tying us up and roasting us over a fire! ”

“I don’t think he’d do that…” Butterscotch said quietly, but no-one seemed to hear her.

“We can’t abandon him here,” Léa said, “The shadow-ponies would tear him to pieces!”

“Look, Léa, I hate to argue with you,” Star-Strike said, “But you haven’t been in a battle against Discordians. I’ve seen them do some awful things. Keeping this guy with us is just like… like keeping a wild animal around. Discordians might seem docile and silly, but they can flip out just like that.”

“Staid,” Léa said, turning to the group’s centre of reason, “Help me out here.”

“You all have some valid points,” the Colonel said, gaze still fixed on the Discordian, “but as I said, there is only one course of action we can take.” He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out his revolver. “We need to put him down.”

“What?!”

“I don’t want him with us, but there’s no need to kill him!” Star-Strike exclaimed, eyes wide.

Defiant Arc said nothing, his expression one of surprise more than anything else. Butterscotch looked panicky.

Colonel Staid raised his pistol and pointed it between the Discordian’s eyes. The stallion looked at it curiously – maybe he hadn’t ever seen one before, and didn’t know what it did – and gave it an inquisitive sniff.

“Ebyam dda emos nomannic?” he suggested.

“Discordianism is an infectious disease,” Staid explained coldly, “It makes a pony go utterly and irrevocably insane. The disease is conveyed both intellectually and through the air, in a miasma; even being near this creature carries the risk of our infection. To let him accompany us is suicidal; to allow him to survive, as unfortunate as it sounds, would be to risk others becoming infected. It is our duty to the rest of our appropriate species, and my duty to the World Empire, to end the infection wherever it is found.”

“Staid, listen to yourself!” Léa said, jumping forward and grabbing his outstretched foreleg. She tried to pull it down – to pull the pistol’s barrel away from the Discordian’s unknowing expression – but the pony’s stance was like iron. “Listen to what you’re saying! You can’t just kill someone because they’re a little bit mad!”

“There is no cure!” Staid exclaimed, a measure of distress finally showing through, “To let this stallion live is to risk ourselves and others degenerating into creatures like him. Permanently! It is terrible, I know, and I am sorry, but there is no other option. I have to do this. It’s for the greater good.”

Léa became frantic, looking around in desperation. Staid had always been the voice of reason, arguing with a firm voice and cool head for them all to get along – hadn’t it been him who had convinced Defiant Arc not to kill her, when the Centurion had his sword at her throat? She had known that the Imperials didn’t like Discordianism, but the griffon had never expected something like this. She couldn’t let Staid go ahead and kill this pony, regardless of the logic. But what could she do?

“Star-Strike, help me out here!” she blurted out, “You can’t let him go ahead with this!”

The Captain shook her head. “I’m sorry Léa,” she said quietly, “I’ve seen what Discordians can do. It’s… it’s the best for everypony.”

Léa desperately turned to Defiant Arc, but she knew immediately she’d get no help there. The Centurion was staring at the Discordian, eyes strangely devoid of malice. Those who called themselves Old Equestrians believed that one of their Princesses had been killed by Discordians, Léa knew; the Major was half-surprised that the Centurion wasn’t baying for the stallion’s blood.

Staid twisted his foreleg, causing his hoof to press against the revolver’s metal arm, and thus tightening the pistol’s trigger. The Discordian’s smile began to waver.

“Did I yas gnihtemos gnorw?” he asked, finally beginning to look worried.

Suddenly, Butterscotch leapt from her place cowering beside Star-Strike and landed in-between the Discordian and the gun. On her face was an expression of pure determination.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” Staid exclaimed, his grip on the pistol wavering, “Get out the way, Miss Butterscotch! This is for the benefit of everyone!”

“Everyone except him!” the mare countered, staring down the old soldier, “This pony saved our lives – and even if he hadn’t, he deserves the same right to live as everyone else! He hasn’t done anything to harm any of us, while all we’ve done is complain about his magic, and talk about getting rid of him, and- and run him over! And what’s wrong with being a Discordian anyway?”

The rest of the group were extremely quiet, not daring to interrupt the confrontation. The space between Butterscotch’s determined glare and Staid’s duty-driven stare seemed to waver in some imagined heat.

“Miss Butterscotch,” Staid said quietly, “Please remove yourself from in front of the Discordian. Not only is your proximity to him a risk to your health, but your behaviour is starting to suggest that you might have been infected yourself.”

“So shoot me.”

Staid’s gaze wavered, but his pistol remained steady. “I don’t want to do that,” he said, “Please, Butterscotch, this is necessary for all our sakes. Don’t make this any more difficult than it already is.”

“Why is it necessary?” Butterscotch exclaimed, glaring around at the two Equestrians too – Defiant Arc met her gaze, while Star-Strike looked down at the floor, “Because you think he might be a danger to you? But you still go around with the Guardspony, even though he’s threatened to kill every one of us at some point! And you’re perfectly fine with me!”

Léa immediately became aware of where this was going. But the shock and tension in the air seemed to freeze her muscles; one sudden word, one unexpected movement, might shock the Colonel into firing. And his gun was pointed at Butterscotch.

“Why wouldn’t I be fine with you?” Staid asked, suddenly confused, “Civilians are not conventionally considered a danger. Miss Butterscotch-”

Butterscotch screamed in agitation, and was instantly enveloped in a bright green light. Everyone jumped back – Staid managed to maintain enough motor control to wave his pistol away before the surprise caused him to fire it, sending the bullet pinging off into the sky.

The light covered Butterscotch’s entire body – and then, bit by bit, the light receded inwards, towards her centre, revealing only the extremities of her body at first.

Her hooves and legs were no longer bright yellow, but jet-black, and with a certain gleam to them that suggested not a coat, but some kind of polished exoskeleton. Holes could be seen twisting through her limbs, giving her a disturbingly organic appearance. As the light continued to pull inwards, wing-tips appeared, initially seeming to hover in the air – but these were not the feathered wings of a pegasus. They were the transparent, black-lace wings of a fly, scaled up the size of a pony.

Her body too was altered, changing to the same exoskeleton-like black carapace. The carapace disappeared around her waist, where a glowing, translucent thorax now appeared, resembling in part the body of a firefly, or the writhing, wormlike form of a maggot.

The light changed her head too. No longer was there a sign of the slightly off-centre button-like muzzle, the soft yellow coat, the reassuring large-pupilled eyes, or the salmon-orange mane. Now her head was covered in the same gleaming black carapace, with sharp, pointed features replacing her rounded muzzle. Strangely reflective, compound-like pupils now appeared in otherwise equine eyes, and a long, sickly-green mane that seemed to have more in common with the furry antennae of moths than any mammalian hair. A ragged tail of the same insectile fur sprouted from the other end. From her forehead reared a jagged black horn, composed of the same thick, carapace-like material that made up the rest of her body.

“My name isn’t Butterscotch,” she said quietly. For all that her appearance had changed, her voice sounded exactly the same.

There was a moment of stunned silence.

“Ch-changeling!” Star-Strike blurted out, “You’re a changeling!”

“And not just any changeling,” Defiant Arc added, drawing his sword, “A Swarm Commander!”

“Wait, wait!” Léa said, jumping in. She was as surprised as the rest of them, but at least she’d known that Butterscotch – or whatever her real name was – had been hiding something. And this was a big something. “She’s still the same pony as before, except she’s not, well, a po-”

“You’ve been lying to me this whole time?!” Star-Strike exclaimed, backing away from the changeling, tears beginning to form in her eyes, “Trying to- to gain my trust! When all along you were going to betray me?! I thought you were my friend!”

“I am!” the changeling said, pleading with the pegasus, “I am your friend! I never lied to you! I just never told you-”

“Enough of this!” Defiant Arc said, rushing forwards, sword readied for a fierce stab. To his sudden and immense surprise, the Discordian leapt out from behind the changeling and snatched the sword out of the air with his mouth. The Centurion stopped dead in his tracks and charged after him – the others, however, paid no attention to this.

“A changeling! This whole time!” Star-Strike was blabbering, clearly in total shock. She had now taken to the air, to get as far as she could away from the insectile creature. “I- I trusted you!”

“I’m still the same inside!” the changeling formerly-known-as-Butterscotch tried to explain. She took to the air too, on buzzing wings, but this turned out to be a fatal move. Her following words were drowned out by the pegasus.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” Star-Strike shrieked, hovering away from her in terror, fumbling for her rifle.

Defiant Arc was wrestling with the Discordian, trying to pull his sword from the latter’s tightly-locked jaws. Léa LeFeather was jumping and flapping about, trying to get everyone to stop and calm down, to no avail. Staid seemed to be immobilised, staring with a bewildered expression at the space where the changeling and the Discordian had been standing earlier.

The one who had called herself Butterscotch, tears welling up in her eyes, cried out in despair and flew away. The buzzing of her wings quickly disappeared as she fled upwards and around the bulk of the ice-shrouded mountain.

At last Defiant Arc managed to pull his blade from the Discordian’s mouth, and seemed to be about to strike at him, when Léa swooped past and plucked it out of the air. Star-Strike was still hovering, somewhat erratically, gripping tightly to her Starbeam rifle.

Staid emerged from his stupor turned and looked around at them. “I…” he said slowly, “What… I don’t…”

He looked down at his still-smoking pistol. At last, a single coherent sentence managed to form out of all the confused thoughts swirling about in his mind.

“What’s wrong with being a changeling?”

March to the Waypoint

Chapter Eight

Tears blinding her vision, the changeling who had been calling herself Butterscotch fled as fast as she could from the people she’d dared to consider her friends. Insect instincts taking over, she sought out dark, small places; she found a cave in the mountainside, and dived into it. Blindly she flew deeper and deeper, the air around her getting darker and darker, the echo of her buzzing wings increasing in volume as the stone walls closed in on her.

Eventually her tearstained eyes spotted a small crevice in the rock and – like a woodlouse fleeing the daylight – she scuttled into it backwards, folded her wings and curled up. She closed her eyes.

Her name was Exuvia. She had been cursed from birth – a defect, in an otherwise flawless changeling body, moulded and grown to be the perfect mirror-image of the Changeling Queen – with something no changeling was supposed to have.

A heart.

Changelings did not have hearts. No other changeling did and, from what she knew, ever had. From the lowliest drone to the great Queen Chrysalis herself, no changeling possessed the complex organ that, in mammals, pumped blood around their bodies. Changelings were simple creatures, with fluids that oxygenated easily and did not need pumping around their bodies.

Perhaps Exuvia could have continued in her previous life, had not that heart come bundled with a mass of chest-twisting, always-painful, worldview-altering emotions. She hadn’t been able to look at the ponies the Changelings had taken over without feeling empathy – a disabling sympathy, combined with sadness and regret, which formed an emotion so strong she could have sworn that her unaccustomed body was going to tear itself apart over it.

Exuvia was an anomaly. Had her fellow Swarm Commanders – a caste created with the sole purpose of leading the lesser changelings in war – discovered that she was different, they would have torn her apart. She knew this; when it came to behaviour, all changelings knew how they were supposed to act. It was swarm instinct. Feeling mercy, helping non-changelings, wanting to find a way of living that didn’t hurt anyone – pony or changeling – was not how she was supposed to be.

So she had fled. Exuvia had flown from the Changeling-ruled city of Vanhoover under the cover of night, disguising herself as a pony she’d once known as soon as she’d reached the nearest Republic settlement. Even with her inherent changeling skill at infiltration, it quickly became clear to her that she couldn’t remain there, living alongside a species that was not her own.

She might have hated her brethren for how they treated other species, but she was still a changeling. Try as she might, she couldn’t convince herself otherwise.

From there she’d made her way north, where the towns and villages were sparser. Exuvia had realised that she didn’t belong with either the changelings or the ponies; so she struck out on her own.

Her stomach growled. Exuvia curled up tighter.

Food had been a problem. Changelings did not eat food in the same way that ponies and other creatures did; they fed on emotions. Stronger, purer ones, like love and companionship, filled a changeling moreso than fear or hate, but any emotion, felt strongly enough, was a source of food.

Exuvia had avoided eating. Eating meant feeding on pony’s emotions – something she was not willing to do. She was afraid of losing control. A changeling could feed on a pony over time, draining their emotions bit by bit until the unfortunate prey eventually became a dried-out husk, but Exuvia was so hungry that she was afraid that, if she tried to feed, she’d drain her prey’s emotions all in one go, hurting them or even killing them.

Not that she wanted to be a parasite anyway. Exuvia believed that there must be a better way of living than how Queen Chrysalis was ordering them to. Not that she could think of one…

Her stomach growled again, this time much more painfully. She hadn’t fed in so long. She was…. hungry. So very, very hungry.

Suddenly Exuvia heard a shuffling, scraping noise, coming from deeper into the cave. It came closer and closer; Exuvia tried to pull herself deeper into the crevice, afraid of being discovered. She stared out fearfully into the cave.

The shuffling became footsteps, and all of sudden Exuvia was staring up into the glowing eyes of a hulking, four-limbed creature. It had an enormous torso, gorilla-like forelegs, and a spiked collar around its neck. What finer detail there might have been remained unseen, in the darkness of the cave. Though she had never seen one face-to-face, Exuvia had heard of such a creature.

Diamond Dogs.

The dog leered down over her, lips parting to form a smile, revealing a jaw full of teeth strong enough to crunch through rock. Several more Diamond Dogs appeared from behind it, also looking down at the frightened Exuvia.

“Well, well, look what we have here,” the closest Diamond Dog muttered, in the strange accent of their kind.

“What is it!?” another asked, peering around the larger dog’s shoulder, “A po-nay?”

“No, a bug-thing,” another said.

“Can pull a cart, good enough,” the closest one snapped, “Drag it out!”

As a mass of sharply-clawed paws closed in around her, Exuvia, in her terror, became fully aware of just how hungry she was. She had been suppressing her hunger for so long now. She was so very, very hungry…

When the first paw touched her glossy black carapace, her fear pushed her instincts into overdrive.

She was a changeling. She needed to feed.

*

“What in the Twelve Kingdoms is wrong with you all?!” Léa was shouting, “Star-Strike, she was your friend! You don’t point guns at your friends! And Staid, that goes for you too – are you even listening to me? Stop staring at nothing! And Centurion – you know what, I’m not even surprised you tried to kill her. Why were you attacking the Discordian, anyway?”

“He tried to eat my sword!” Defiant Arc protested. The aforementioned Discordian was sitting next to him, patting his forehead lightly with a forehoof, a cross-eyed expression on his face. The Centurion eyed him suspiciously and curled a hoof protectively around his sheathed sword. “So are we killing him or what?”

“No-one’s killing anyone,” Léa told him firmly. She had been the one to pull the two wrestling stallions apart, just as Defiant Arc had got his sword back was about to run it through the Discordian’s grinning face. “As ridiculous as it sounds, that mad-pony’s probably the most sensible one here. Speaking of sensible; Staid – come on Staid, get a grip.”

The Colonel was sitting down in that strange, dog-like way of his, staring at nothing. “It’s not the same…” he was muttering, “Is it? Nothing wrong with being a changeling, I know that, I know that. Discordians aren’t… I’m not… It’s not the same….”

The griffon shook her head and turned away. The final member of her group was sitting a way away from the others, holding her head in her hooves. Léa swooped over to her.

“Star-Strike,” she said gently, “I’m… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. You were just surprised.”

“No, you’re right,” Star-Strike said quietly. She was almost fully curled up on the cold ground, her Starbeam rifle discarded on a patch of snow nearby. “I was her friend. I shouldn’t have…” She sighed in despair and frustration. “Why didn’t she tell me? You knew, that’s why you weren’t surprised! If only she’d told me before, I wouldn’t have reacted like that! Why didn’t she tell me earlier? Didn’t she trust me?”

“Maybe she was just scared as to how you’d react,” the Major suggested. Star-Strike looked back down at the ground. “And I only knew because I’d noticed something was up and confronted her. She must have trusted you far more.”

“She was alone when I found her,” the pegasus said quietly, more to herself than the griffon, “She looked like she needed help – needed somepony to protect her against the shadow-ponies. I thought… heh, I thought I was being a big hero, swooping in with my rifle and boasting about being a Nightstrider. I must’ve looked like such an idiot.”

“I think she did need help,” Léa said, “She doesn’t seem like a normal changeling. I think she needed friends. And then we let her down. All of us.”

Defiant Arc trotted over to them, leaving the Discordian where he was. “I don’t really care about all this friendship stuff,” he said, obviously having overheard their talk, “But what do you mean, she’s not a normal changeling? She looked just like all the other bugs I’ve ever seen.”

“Don’t call her that,” Star-Strike said quietly; too quietly.

“What was that, rebel?”

“I said – don’t call her a BUG!” Star-Strike leapt up and slapped the Centurion across the face with her hoof. Outraged, the Old Equestrian straightaway went to draw his sword – and was immediately tackled to the ground by the Discordian.

“Ecneliov si tuo fo noihsaf!” the surprisingly strong unicorn exclaimed, while Defiant Arc struggled to get out from under his hooves, “M’I gnivas uoy morf laicos tnemssarabme! Msificap si os ni thgir won!”

“Thanks, um, whatever your name is,” Star-Strike said, emotionally exhausted.

The Discordian smiled, whilst Defiant Arc tried to pull his hoof off of his face. “Llac em Idlaviv!” he told her.

Star-Strike frowned. “Viv… ladi, aldi… Vivaldi?” she asked, a smile spreading across her face when she realised that her theory had been correct. “Is that your name, Vivaldi?”

The Discordian – Vivaldi – nodded joyously. “S’that ym eman!” he exclaimed, “T’nod raew ti tuo!”

“Sorry, I didn’t get any of that. Could you say it again?”

“For Celestia’s sake, mad-pony, get your hoof off of my face! I promise I won’t spill her traitor guts on the ground, alright!?”

Leaving the other three be for now, Léa made her way over to Colonel Staid. He was now standing up, but continued to stare somewhat worryingly into the middle-distance. Léa wondered what it was about previous events that had shocked him so badly.

“You alright, Staid?” she asked, “Having an OAG moment? Or should that be OAP? Old age something.”

“I’m not that old,” the Colonel replied, shaking his head to clear it, “Sorry Major, it was a bit of a shock to me to see that transformation. But you… you already knew, didn’t you?”

“While you were coming up with your theories about what was going on, I noticed something was off and asked her about it,” Léa told him bluntly, “She didn’t tell me outright she was a changeling, but, well, in retrospect, it kinda makes sense. Ha, look, there’s one for each of the factions fighting now – a griffon, an Imperial, a loyalist, a rebel, a Discordian and a changeling. Isn’t that neat?”

“Yes…” Staid said suspiciously, “A coincidence, do you think?”

Léa brushed off the idea. “No getting off track,” she said, “The transformation wasn’t the only thing that surprised you, was it?”

“No,” Staid admitted, “It was… what she said. ‘What’s wrong with being a Discordian?’ Discordians are a problem, they are a threat to civilisation, I know that; that’s an immutable fact! But… what’s this one done to us? Nothing. Miss Butterscotch – or whatever her real name is – was right. This Discordian has saved our lives, not once acted violently towards us, and yet we were discussing killing him, just because of what he is – or what he has become.”

“Deep,” Léa commented, “So, are you saying you’re okay with Discordians now?”

Staid shook his head. “Discordian, come over here!” he called, “Actually, could all of you, please? I have something I’d like to say.

“We think he’s called Vivaldi,” Léa told him, as the Discordian came bounding over, followed shortly by Defiant Arc and Star-Strike.

“Very well. Vivaldi, if that is your name,” Staid said to Vivaldi, as the others gathered around, “I will begin by saying that I remain opposed to Discordianism, in thought and action. However. I have… been convinced that I should not perform what I believe to be my duty and shoot you. So, Vivaldi the Discordian, here is my proposal. You will not attempt to harm either myself or any in our group. You will remain at a minimum distance of six feet away from me at all times, unless it becomes necessary for either your safety or my own. You will not leave my sight unless a plan of action calls for it. In return, I will not attempt to harm you and will keep anti-Discordian comments to a minimum. We may even be able to co-operate on some things, if you maintain this agreement faithfully. Do you accept this proposal?”

“I, ni thgil dnim dna detnecs ydob, od eerga ot lla esoht sgniht uoy tsuj dias, Retsim Dlo Yug!” Vivaldi said happily, and held out a hoof.

With a certain amount of reluctance, Staid held out his own hoof. The two shook.

Star-Strike and Léa LeFeather gave a few enthusiastic claps at this momentous occasion. Defiant Arc rolled his eyes.

“Not quite what I’d hoped for, but it’s something,” the griffon said, “Star-Strike, you’re alright with this I hope?”

The revolutionary nodded. “Of course. It’s what Bu-, my friend, what she wanted. She’ll be proven right about Vivaldi, I’m sure of it.”

“What about my opinion?” Defiant Arc said gruffly, “I don’t want a Celestia-damned mad-pony following me around.”

“Centurion, you don’t want any of us around,” Staid said laconically, “Your opinion is therefore most regrettably null and void in these matters.” This elicited a chuckle from Vivaldi. “Discordian, you may stop shaking my hoof now.”

“Ho, yrros.”

“Now we’ve got that sorted,” Star-Strike said suddenly, with a degree of force in her voice that surprised them all, “We’ve got to find Butterscotch, or whatever she’s really called. I drove her off, and I’m not letting her stay out here by herself. Even if she doesn’t want to be around me anymore, at the very least I can say I’m sorry. But I can’t find her by myself. Will you… will you help me?”

“Of course!” said Léa, putting a friendly arm around the smaller pony’s shoulders, “Girls stick together, right?”

“Eht Rorepmegnops si syawla pu rof gnipleh sih slap!” Vivaldi said encouragingly, and wrapped a foreleg around Star-Strike’s shoulders from the other side.

“It may not be part of the original plan, but it was my actions that prompted this series of events,” Staid said solemnly, “Of course I will assist you.”

“Well, I guess since my opinion is ‘null and void’…” Defiant Arc muttered.

“Thanks, everpo-, I mean, everyone,” Star-Strike said with a grateful smile, looking around and the three kind faces and one grumpy frown that surrounded her. “I think… she flew off that way around the mountain. I don’t know if there’s a path so, Léa, do you think you can get your Cart to fly again?”

“Maybe,” Léa said modestly, “I built the thing. But, having said that; Vivaldi, come with me. Let’s get moving, every¬pony!”

*

The wind had picked up again. The sun, never far above the horizon this far north, had been completely blocked off by the granite-faced mountain range. The five quadrupeds making their way up the gently-rising, rock-strewn mountain slope thus faced increasing difficulty, battling against the ice-laden wind and the rising cold.

Captain Star-Strike was in the lead, rifle slung over her back, head raised in defiance of the weather as she traipsed forwards, wind beginning to batter at her furled wings. Her eyes were fixed dead ahead, occasionally glancing up to scan the skies for any signs of pony-sized, aerial invertebrates. She would have been shouting out her missing friend’s name if she knew it, or if there had been any chance of her hearing it over the terrible wind.

Behind her, scowling at the ice and snow swirling around him, was Defiant Arc. A significant distance between these two demonstrated that the Centurion was second more out of being the only one capable of matching the pegasus’ determined pace than any desire to walk with her.

Following the two of them at as fast a pace as he could was Colonel Staid, who was wrapping his fur coat as tightly around himself as he could. Most of his saddlebags were once again draped over him, as well as two lighted lanterns. He had tried repeatedly to get the two comparative youngsters to slow down, but either they couldn’t hear him or they had chosen to ignore him.

The sounds of mechanical growling and the creaking of wood overhead, heard now and again, served to remind the three on the ground where the other two were.

“This is pointless!” Defiant Arc growled, loudly enough for Star-Strike to hear, “Even if your changeling friend is around here, there’s no way we’ll be able to spot her!”

“She went this way!” Star-Strike countered, shouting back at him, “She’ll be here somewhere, I know it!”

“She just flew off!” the Centurion shouted, “She could be miles away by now! What makes you think there’s even the tiniest possibility you’ll ever find her again?!”

“I have to try!” Star-Strike retorted angrily, “I drove her off, but I want to see her again. I know you might not give a flying feather about her, but some of us have hearts, Centurion! Some of us!”

Defiant Arc growled in annoyance, but held his tongue. Vaguely he could hear Staid behind him, shouting at them to slow down, but continued to ignore him. Suddenly, Star-Strike gave a squeal of excitement.

“There she is!” she shouted joyously, rushing forwards towards a dark shape that had appeared out of the sleet-storm, “Butterscotch! It’s me, I found y-!” She skidded to a halt by the shape. “Oh, it’s just a rock.”

Defiant Arc stopped alongside her. Star-Strike expected him to laugh, or say something hateful, but instead he was staring, almost speechlessly, at the rock.

She looked up at him, confused. The Centurion continued to stare at the rock – or rather, pile of rocks. The Captain wasn’t sure, but she believed it was called a cairn. It was a kind of marker, wasn’t it?

“What is it?” she asked. No explanation was forthcoming, however.

“Shut up,” Defiant Arc said, not even glancing in her direction. He began examining the cairn closely, as though looking for something.

A moment later, Staid finally caught up with them. “Have you found something?” he asked, not at all breathlessly.

“The Centurion’s met the rock of his dreams,” Star-Strike said, “Or rocks.”

“Centurion? Care to explain?” Staid asked, watching impassively as the Guardspony continued to examine the pile of rocks from every side.

“It’s called a cairn,” Defiant Arc began.

“I knew that,” Star-Strike commented.

“Whatever. See this hole here?” He pointed with a hoof. “There should be a stick or a metal rod or something here. It must have fallen off, or got blown away.”

“But what is it?” Star-Strike pressed, “Why make a pile of rocks in the middle of nowhere?”

“It’s a marker, you idiot,” Defiant Arc said, glaring at her, “The stick or whatever points in the direction of where you want to go. Making these things is basic Royal Guard training, when you’re sent to remote locations like this.” He traced the line of the hole with his hoof, and followed its direction. “It’s pointing to that cliff.”

Star-Strike and Colonel Staid followed his line of sight. There was indeed a cliff, just visible through the ice-laden wind, jutting out from a point where the otherwise gently-sloping mountain they’d been steadily climbing became astonishingly steep.

“I found one of these cairns earlier,” Defiant Arc continued, “When the griffon was building that machine of hers. That one had a stick in it, but before I could get its direction I was attacked. THAT, fillies, right over there, is the waypoint.” He sounded extremely pleased with himself. “Or leads to it, anyway.”

“Excellent!” Staid said, “At last, fresh supplies and a warm place to sleep. But let’s not celebrate just yet; we don’t know-”

“Hold on!” Star-Strike said, moving between the two stallions and the distant cliff, “We can’t go there yet! We still haven’t found Butterscotch! Or, you know – our friend! That’s who we’re looking for, remember?”

Defiant Arc opened his mouth to speak, or possibly yell, but Staid held out a foreleg and stopped him.

“Before we start arguing over this,” he said calmly, “Let’s see if our allies have had any success in their endeavours.” He unhooked one of the lanterns he was carrying with a hoof, and began waving it over his head in a repeating pattern.

A few moments later, there came a great rumbling, creaking noise, and from out of the storm-shrouded sky came Léa LeFeather’s Cart, swooping down on them with its great wooden wings. Its engine continued to chug and roar as the machine landed somewhat ungracefully, bouncing a few times on its immense spoked wheels before it came to a skidding stop some distance away.

The Cart folded up its wings and gave out a gurgling noise – it may have been just the engine slowing down, but it sounded to the three ponies listening like an animalistic chuckle – before the engine stopped altogether. Major LeFeather and Vivaldi jumped off of its back and hurried over to them; the griffon gliding on her robust wings, Vivaldi hopping after her in a strange pronging motion.

“Oh cool you found some rocks,” Léa commented, as she noticed what the three ponies were standing around.

“Did you discover anything of use?” Staid asked them, “Any caves, paths, lights?”

“Nothing,” Léa said, shaking her head, “Nothing that looked like a place our friend might have buzzed off to. We went all the way around the mountain, and some of the next one.”

“I saw gninialpxe tahw ew erew gniod ot eht sduolc,” Vivaldi chimed in, “Yeht t’nevah nees gnihtyna gnitseretni, tub yeht t’nod evah seye os s’ti ton gnisirprus yllaer.”

“You were… something about clouds?” Star-Strike guessed, trying to replay what words she had picked out backwards in her head.

“What about you three?” Léa asked, “Find anything? Other than this fascinating pile of stones, of course.”

“It’s a cairn,” Defiant Arc growled, “Pointing the way to the waypoint. Remember, the waypoint? The thing we’re heading towards? Before we all die out here?”

“Apparently there is a hole indicating the direction of the waypoint,” Staid elucidated, “That cliff, behind you, either contains said waypoint or leads to it.”

“But we can’t go over there yet!” Star-Strike protested, her tri-coloured mane flapping about wildly in the wind, “We haven’t found Buttersc- the changeling, our friend! She’s still lost out here!”

“I have a theory!” Staid said loudly, trying to speak over the rapidly-rising wind.

“What?!”

“I said-”

Staid was cut off by a sudden roar of wind that slammed into them all like a physical force. Flakes of ice and snow were blasted against them like sand in a sandstorm. Vivaldi grabbed hold of what was apparently thin air just above his head and clung on, like a pony trying to hold onto their hat in a storm.

“If she’s sensible,” Staid shouted, in a sudden lull in the wind, “She’ll have taken cover in a cave! Now since-”

He was cut off by another fierce blast that almost knocked him over. Star-Strike, being a much lighter-boned pegasus, was actually lifted up into the air for a brief second. Léa had to stab her talons into the ice below her to maintain her balance. Vivaldi dropped straight to the ground, apparently extremely protective of the small empty space above his head.  Defiant Arc seemed to just shrug it off.

“We get it, to the waypoint!” Léa shouted, “We can shout more there!”

“Enoemos teg em emos gnirts ot eit ym stah no htiw!”

Shadows in the North

Chapter One

The icy chill of the harsh wind cut through Defiant Arc’s padded under-armour clothing and thick golden barding more effectively than any blade ever had. The Equestrian soldier trudged forwards through the sleet, head bowed. The few stray strands of his electrum-coloured mane that poked out from under his helmet were blown about wildly by the wind. Following the white-coated Centurion through the snow was a column of soldiers from the Royal Guard – his soldiers, under his command – who were likewise struggling against the harsh northern weather.

“Sergeant!” Defiant Arc shouted over his shoulder, his voice almost lost in the howl of the blustery winter air, “Are we still on course?”

“Yes, Centurion!” the soldier just behind Defiant Arc yelled back. Hovering in front of the unicorn – levitated by his magic – was a tiny compass and a snow-drenched map, the latter of which was barely still in one piece. “Still heading north! Only a mile and a half to go, sir!”

There was an element of hopeful cheer in the junior soldier’s voice that Defiant Arc chose to ignore. A mile and a half; he’d already lost nearly a fifth of his troops to the elements and enemy ambush since the beginning of their journey. The land around them now was completely open and devoid of shelter – miles and miles of rock-strewn, icy wasteland. How many more would he lose before they reached the waypoint and set up camp?

The Centurion’s thoughts were interrupted by a muffled thunder of hooves on snow, and Defiant Arc glanced back yet again to see another of his soldiers push his way through the falling sleet to reach the front of the column.

“What is it, soldier?” the Centurion called out. He didn’t know the pony’s name or rank, and didn’t much care. “What are you doing out of formation?”

“Centurion!” The pony stopped to salute, but Defiant Arc didn’t, and kept going. The other pony hurried after him. “Lieutenant Makewell, sir, of the Hospitaller Corps. Three more soldiers have dropped down – that makes twenty-four now. They need medical treatment, and we can’t help them while we’re still moving. Sir, we have to stop.”

“Don’t be so insolent, soldier!” Defiant Arc bellowed, “I have been put in personal command of this expedition by Princess Celestia herself! We stop when I say we stop!”

“But sir,” Makewell protested, “If we don’t make camp, we might lose them. I know we didn’t stop before because of the risk of enemy ambush-” Not true, Defiant Arc thought to himself, but it was good that the rank-and-file had come up with a viable excuse, so he didn’t have to. “-but we’ve long since passed through rebel-held territory. We’re almost at the Crystal Mountains, can’t we ju-”

Defiant Arc spun around and smashed the medic across the face with his hoof. “We stop when I say we stop!” he repeated angrily, “I am in charge - do not question me!”

Frightened, Lieutenant Makewell nodded and backed away submissively, the blood dripping down his muzzle already freezing in the sub-zero temperatures. The pony quickly saluted, before turning around and fleeing, tail literally between his legs.

Defiant Arc shook his head at the unruliness of his subordinates and continued marching, maintaining his position at the front of the column. The violence wasn’t strictly necessary, he knew, but he needed to make sure that his soldiers respected him. After all, it wasn’t much of a chain of command if he wasn’t being obeyed, was it?

The real reason he didn’t want the column to stop and make camp was, of course, because he didn’t want to. Certainly he was cold, but he had grown up in the cold. He was used to it. Defiant Arc didn’t much care if the others wanted – or even ‘needed’ – to stop. He could and would keep going, so his subordinates would have to keep up.

He hadn’t made the order to leave behind the bodies of his fallen soldiers lightly. He may have not thought very highly of them in life, but they didn’t really deserve to be left as frozen corpses in some distant place. But, nevertheless, it was necessary to keep moving until they reached the waypoint. That was all-important.

After that, it was on to-

The Centurion’s thoughts were interrupted yet again by another pony shouting. Their words were too incoherent to be heard and were quickly lost in the roaring wind. Defiant Arc turned back for the third time in five minutes, his rage slowly building. “What is it now?” he shouted.

The soldiers nearest to him looked bewildered, but were quickly shoved aside by a powerful-looking Earth pony. “Centurion!” the newcomer bellowed, “Sir, it’s an ambush! We’re under attack!”

“Impossible!” Defiant Arc shouted back, as the cries and sounds of weapons being drawn became louder, and closer, “There’s wasteland in every direction! Even with this sleet, how could the rebels have snuck up on us?!”

“It’s not the rebels, sir, it’s-” The Earth pony never got a chance to finish the sentence, but to Defiant Arc it didn’t really matter. When the dark shape leapt onto the soldier’s back and slit his throat with a shadowy blade, the Centurion discovered for himself that it wasn’t the rebels that were attacking.

“Ambush!” the Centurion yelled, using his magic to draw his sword. The dark shapes (whatever they were, they certainly weren’t ordinary ponies) seemed to erupt from the very ground itself. At his command, the soldiers nearest to Defiant Arc drew their weapons, but the mysterious attackers were everywhere. Soon every Royal Guardspony was up in arms against these strange assailants.

Hurrying through the screams and the snow-storm back towards his column, the Centurion fell upon the first dark shape he found; a pony-shaped shadow that had just finished decapitating a spear-wielding trooper. Defiant Arc yelled as he swept his gleaming broadsword straight through the creature’s neck. A head for a head, he thought neatly – but then his eyes widened in shock at the truth of what had transpired.

The blade had passed through the creature’s neck – and that was it. The blow had done no damage at all, but had merely disrupted the creature’s shadowy outline, and even then only for a moment. Unharmed, the pony-shape launched itself at Defiant Arc.

The Centurion ducked under the attack, only now noticing the blade-like shapes protruding from the creature’s face and fore-hooves. To his horror, the shadow-thing changed direction in mid-air and turned back towards its foe.

Defiant Arc swung again, trying to knock it away from him, but his sword once again passed through the creature without harming it. Fortunately, the attack seemed to disrupt the thing’s shape a little more, and rather than feeling shadowy blades sink into his flesh, the Centurion was momentarily enveloped in a tangible cloud of darkness.

What in Celestia’s name was this thing?

Defiant Arc burst out of the cloud, only to see his attacker reform back into its pony-shape and launch itself at him again, shadow-blades re-growing from its face and hooves. In desperation, Defiant Arc swung his blade again, this time aiming for the creature’s heart.

To his surprise, his sword made contact with something. There was a sound like breaking glass, a gaseous hiss, and the creature instantly dissipated.

The Centurion looked about, wide-eyed and startled by his sudden victory. The shadow-pony he had been fighting – and he had no doubt that it had indeed been made of shadows, as impossible as that sounded to him – was nowhere to be seen. All that remained were some fragments of glass, or possibly crystal, lying on the frozen ground where the creature had once stood. In moments, the fragments were covered by the falling sleet.

“Soldiers! Their hearts!” Defiant Arc bellowed, turning back to face his soldiers, “Aim for their… hearts…”

His personal duel had taken the Centurion quite some distance from the main fight, which, as it turned out, was probably the best thing for him. Defiant Arc could see at a glance that the battle was lost; the shadow-ponies were everywhere, overwhelming the Royal Guard in huge mobs. More were attacking, appearing every second, emerging straight from the ground.

None were attacking him. None, it seemed, had even noticed him.

Hoping that at least some of his soldiers had heard his cry (and that nopony was unengaged and watching him) Defiant Arc put away his sword, and used his magic to levitate over to him the unattended compass and map that lay by the body of one of his fallen soldiers. Once he’d done that, the Centurion turned away from the battle and fled ignobly into the icy wasteland, trusting the sleet-storm to cover his tracks and obscure him from sight.

*

The year was 1043LB – that is, one thousand and forty-three years since Princess Luna (now Honorary Councillor Luna, and a traitor to Old Equestria) had been banished to the moon for crimes against Equestria – and the whole of the country had been embroiled in a war of previously-unimagined destruction for the last decade.

Much of Equestria was under the control (however nominal) of the self-proclaimed New Lunar Republic, the creation of which through a national revolt had resulted in an Equestria-wide civil war. The rebel’s opponents – those still loyal to Princess Celestia, who referred to themselves as the forces of Old Equestria – had fought back, and continued to hold out in the capital city of Canterlot.

The widespread violence and breakdown of order had led to further problems. Crazed religious fanatics calling themselves Discordians had taken over several cities, and now wandered across the land, looting and killing (as well as partying) with impunity. The inequine Changeling Swarm had also re-emerged from their forest hiding-places in inconceivable numbers and had since enslaved countless ponies, the emotions of which they fed upon voraciously.

Foreign powers had also intervened in what had previously been essentially a civil war. The Griffon Kingdoms – long-time neighbours and rivals of Equestria – had taken the opportunity presented by the principality’s weakness to invade. The gigantic World Empire, on the other hoof, had invaded nominally in a peace-keeping mission to combat the growing Discordian ‘infection’, but had since annexed Equestrian land at an astonishing rate.

Nothing, Defiant Arc reflected, had been right in Equestria since the assassination of Princess Twilight Sparkle.

He had escaped the ambush with nothing more than a slightly-shortened mane-cut and, following the map, had carried on northwards alone. The sounds of battle and the screams of dying ponies had quickly (and, from Defiant Arc’s perspective, thankfully) been blotted out by the sleet-storm.

The Centurion was now travelling through a slight gulley in the icy wasteland. The sides of the gulley were high enough to keep out the worst of the sleet, but low enough that he could climb out of it should he come under attack. There was no sound around him now, other than the roar of the wind and the steady slushing noise of his hoof-steps through the snow-covered ground.

After some time, Defiant Arc’s stomach began to growl. He didn’t have any food on him; it was the privilege of the higher ranks to have their subordinates carry their supplies for them. But it was only then that he began to regret not staying around the ambush site longer. Maybe he could have stripped a few bodies of their provisions, not to mention their weapons or even extra layers of clothing. It seemed to be getting colder too.

Well, the Centurion thought, the waypoint couldn’t be that much further away. There would surely be food and water there, as well as a fire, and somewhere warm and dry to sleep. There would be other ponies there too, to whom he could boast of his exploits, as the only survivor of an ambush by evil shadow-creatures. It wasn’t as heroic as Defiant Arc would have liked, but it was much better than being labelled a cowardly runaway.

He continued to trudge onwards. After a while, small icicles began to form on his muzzle. His muscles were beginning to get tired.

“Halt, Equestrian, in the name of the Empire!”

Startled, Defiant Arc spun around wildly, trying to find the source of the voice. His aching, frozen muscles protested at this sudden burst of activity. After a moment, he spotted it; a stallion (definitely a solid one) standing on the lip of the gulley. The low sun was shining from behind the newcomer, so the Centurion couldn’t see much of him, but the pony was definitely pointing some kind of device at him. He guessed correctly that it was one of those Imperial ‘pistols’.

“Keep that weapon sheathed, or I will shoot,” the newcomer said, as the grip of Defiant Arc’s sword began to glow, “I have a very good aim.”

“Don’t you know who you’re talking to, Imperial?” Defiant Arc hissed at the pony above him, sword still glowing but undrawn, “I am a Centurion of the Royal Guard of Canterlot! Do you really think one of your little bullets is going to do much more than scratch me?”

“Yes,” the pony replied bluntly, “But it is my hope that I will not have to shoot.”

“What?”

Slowly, the newcomer made his way down the slope and closer to Defiant Arc. A foolish move, the Centurion thought; now he was closer to the Guardspony’s blade. The gun’s advantage in range had been lost.

Now that both ponies were in the gulley, Defiant Arc could make out the newcomer in more detail. He was an Earth pony of grey colouration, and an old one at that. His head had a number of bald patches – most likely through age, though a number of faded scars suggested that it may have been something else – that showed through a short-cut and similarly-grey mane. His slow pace, which the Centurion had mistook for cautiousness, was actually the result of a limp in his left-hind leg. There was no obvious wound, so he took it to be an old injury.

The stallion was dressed in the typically grey and dreary, but exceedingly neat, uniform of the World Empire’s army. On top of that was a very thick (and warm-looking) winter coat, apparently made out of the fur of some exotic beast that Defiant Arc had never seen. A number of shiny pips on the pony’s shoulder and medals on his chest was further indication to the Centurion that this was not just some common soldier.

Piled on his back was a great deal of baggage; the Centurion, in his state of great hunger, immediately assumed that they were filled with food. From one of these bags, however, extended a very thin, spidery, limb-like appendage made of metal. The end of this appendage was attached to the pistol the Imperial had threatened him with, and seemed to be holding it in place in the air. The old stallion’s hoof was hooked into a small loop, right next to the gun’s trigger. It seemed to Defiant Arc like a very roundabout way of allowing non-unicorns to hold and fire a gun with one hoof.

“I see that you are alone,” the stallion said as he came closer, stating the obvious with a perfectly straight face, “I take it you and your comrades were ambushed by those… shadow… things. I do not know if you have a word for them in your language.”

“Are they something to do with you?” Defiant Arc demanded.

The stallion shook his head. “No,” he explained, sombre-faced, “They attacked my soldiers as well, in huge numbers. We were completely unprepared. I managed to escape from the slaughter with a few companions, but we were pursued. As far as I know, I am the only survivor. I assume a similar thing happened to you?”

“We were attacked as well, yes,” Defiant Arc said, and then, because he couldn’t help it, he added, “My entire column was slaughtered, but I managed to fight those shadow-ponies off single-hoofedly! A single thrust through the heart is all it takes to kill them!”

“How very admirable,” the pony said, apparently unimpressed, “You are clearly an excellent fighter – as I have come to expect from the soldiers of Old Equestria, as you call yourselves.” He slightly lowered his gun. “May I ask you your name, Equestrian?”

“Centurion Defiant Arc,” the Guardspony said, unsure why he hadn’t lunged at the Imperial the moment the stallion had let his guard down, “Of the Canterlot Royal Guard.”

“My name is Colonel Staid, of the World Empire’s Expeditionary Force to Equestria,” the stallion said, lowering his gun even further, “Seeing as we are both by ourselves, I have a proposition for you, Centurion.”

“What’s that?” Defiant Arc said gruffly.

“I propose that, until we reach a place of relative safety, we work together,” Staid replied, apparently completely serious, “I believe the colloquial Equestrian term is ‘team-up’ – please correct me if I am wrong.”

The Centurion stared at him incredulously and more than a little suspiciously. He, a brave soldier of the Royal Guard of Canterlot, ally himself with a heartless Imperial dog? The idea was utterly ridiculous!

But this Colonel Staid appeared to be quite serious, and as the seconds ticked by (and as the wind grew colder, and his stomach rumbled louder), Defiant Arc could find fewer and fewer reasons to object. At the very least, if they were attacked again by those shadow-ponies, the Centurion was sure that he could outrun the old stallion and escape while the enemy was distracted.

“… Okay,” Defiant Arc said at last, “But this is only temporary, you understand? You help me, I help you, neither of us kills each other – until we reach safety. Those are the terms. Got that?”

Staid nodded. “I accept those terms,” he said, and held out his hoof.  Hesitantly, Defiant Arc held out his own, and they shook. “Now, Centurion, you look hungry, and you seem to be devoid of any provisions. How about we rest here a while and eat?”

“That’s… that’s probably a good idea,” Defiant Arc acquiesced, and allowed his tired limbs to lower him onto the cold ground.

Staid sat down too – in a rather strange position, the Centurion noted, that made him look a little like a baying dog – and began to rifle through his many saddle-bags. “Here,” the Imperial said, pulling something out and hoofing it over to his new companion, “Have you tried Imperial rations before?”

“No,” said Defiant Arc, examining the unappealing, compressed grey bar with a critical eye, “You said you’re a colonel; don’t you have anything nicer-looking than this?”

Colonel Staid looked confused for a moment. “Every soldier in the Imperial Army gets the same standard rations,” he said, “Unless they’re ill or injured. My apologies, but this is all I have.”

Mentally shrugging at the weirdness of the Imperials, Defiant Arc took a bite out of the hard, grey bar. It tasted a little like porridge, with old cabbage mixed in. It didn’t taste awful, though, so Defiant Arc quickly ate it up. “What’s in it?” he asked casually, wiping the last few crumbs off of his muzzle.

“Reconstituted vegetable matter,” Staid said, taking a bite from his own bar, “Mostly.”

Defiant Arc stopped. He had heard stories. “… ‘Mostly’?”

“Well,” Staid began, “We in the Empire believe in a concept – it’s difficult to translate, but it involves mass production of food, to ensure maximal nutritional output for the minimum of cost. Anyway, ever since it was realised that all the necessary proteins and some nutrients necessary for pony health can be found within, uh, ground maggots-”

The Centurion nearly vomited. “What?!” he exclaimed, looking down in horror at the crumbs on his hooves, “Maggots?! I’m eating maggots! That’s disgusting!”

“Oh! No, no, no,” Colonel Staid said hurriedly, waving a hoof, “All the fly larvae are thoroughly processed and ground up, so all you’re eating is the dried protein and other nutrients taken from it, identical to the nutrients from anywhere else. It’s simply a chemical compound.” He took a bite out of his own bar. “I say, Centurion, you look somewhat unwell, are you alright?”

“No, I’m- I’m fine,” Defiant Arc said, his white face turning a nasty shade of green. As his cheeks bulged, he wondered if he could survive by just eating snow.