The Equestrian Godfathers

Beyond the reach of rebel control and pony grip on the land, and past the rigidly structured and heartlessly directed caribou population clusters stood the trackless waste. Stripped of earth mana by the mindless policies of the caribou barbarians and given over to the creatures red in tooth and claw, the imbalance had had a ripple effect far greater than could have been predicted.

Nature could be resilient, but met shocks primarily with mass death and desolation. After centuries of careful management and intelligent balance and reshaping by ponykind, the almost-instantaneous erasure of all of that sent chaos to reign through all the land abandoned by both sides. It would recover on its own terms, but only by starting with a clean slate. The wild waste was ruled by creatures that could prove their strength but also persist in the radically altered environment. All plants made every effort to survive, with the magically inclined ones losing out by and large, save in natural mana wells where they could thrive within sharp borders. The hardiest mundane plants held where they could, seas of brassica and wild poaceae with others holding forth, including succulents in places where the weather permitted.

Magical prey and mundane prey were scarcely seen, aside from insects that could live on what was provided. Abandoned corpses only lasted so long, driving another boom-bust mini-cycle, which again fluctuated and stabilized into herbivorous insects eaten by insectivores, and everyone eagerly snatched by those few carnivores that could maintain themselves. Magical megafauna were confined to regions where magic still held sway and they were of use, such as in the pits of the caribou who could dispose of unwanted bodies into the maws of small ursas and mantcores.

What few structures existed in that wild place were in worse condition than even the hovels and ruins of the conquerors, suitable only as nuisance posts for those that had fallen out of favor or were deemed worthless. They served as waystations and rough staging grounds for strikes against rebel softpoints. After the disastrous battle at Trout and the expurgated three sieges of Cherrywood Acres no rebel hardpoint would ever be considered a military target. They cost blood and profited nothing.

At one nameless post on an ordinary day there came an inordinate amount of activity. Three separate collections of low-ranked collaborators brought in three figures, bound for the pits or processors in Canterlot. Each one had a bounty in slaves and status, not much in the end, but enough to justify their hunt and capture.

One was an older unicorn, surely not much below sixty, if not at the threshold already. Though looking mild and defeated he was chained up securely, in a manner typically reserved for enormous Diamond Dogs, including with a formerly police-issue iron horn-cap. He did seem very strong for a unicorn, one of the bulkier sorts with feathered fetlocks and obvious muscle moving under his dun coat. His mane, mustache and tail were both tousled messes of wan gray, speaking of some wild encounter, that seemed to go along with the huge scar across his forehead, abutting the horn, but seemed at odds with the plodding figure whose gray eyes were hollow and staring. His clothing was near nonexistent, scraps of a well- tailored green vest and some semblance of black trousers, the rips showing his Cutie Mark to be a clock face set in a tower.

The second was a younger stallion, of perhaps late twenty-something, thrashing and struggling against the heavy chains binding him. He was orange of coat, with a mane and tail red as a rose. He threw himself in every direction he thought would earn him freedom, screaming incoherent hatred at all the brainwashed ones he could see. He was a captive rebel, easily seen by the yellow and gray stitching on his torn-up padded shirt, the attempted obliteration of a bicolor hexagon, a common motif seen in dedicated rebel warriors on the padding under their armor. His padded cloth trousers were also decorated in a rebel style, his Cutie Mark dyed onto them, seen to be a bluish gust of wind with golden shine around it.

The last one was an uncommon sight, one that everyone seemed hesitant to notice. He was a large, muscular Andalusian jack, his coat pale, but lightly dappled with soft gray along his face and back. He walked tall, almost daring the brainwashed ones to look at him in his chains. He had no trace of a shirt and only the ripped remains of rough white pants, splattered in mud and blood. Everyone ignored where the donkeys had gone. Even those under powerful brainwashing tried every moment to forget what was happening. They especially ignored the Odal rune carved into his forehead and given prominence with dark charcoal rubbed into the scar that formed.

The three groups threw their charges into a cage just big enough for the three and locked with a weathered bolt, before setting to conversing.

“We're taking all of them in. We had to fight hardest to get that cowardly rebel! We had to net him on a swoop after he ran out of rocks and he still tried to beat the shit out of us!”

“Don't you know what the old stallion did? We were lucky to get out of this alive! We just managed to catch him napping, and got enough chains on him to keep him from doing to us what he did to all those caribou. He's a King-accursed psycho-killer and his bounty is the highest."

“No the... donkey... is the most valuable. We get extra pay for him and he nearly killed us with a rockslide ambush. It was just luck we caught him and we get to claim his bounty. We can all share the magnificent rewards.”

“Our bounty is higher and our work was harder!” The leader of the rebel-catcher group cried.

“We had far more danger! We were allowed to bring him in dead, but for far less reward. But he had to come in for all his murders,” the leader of the group that caught the old man countered.

“I just told you he tried to kill us. The caribou pay well to bring back the lesser creatures. We pony folk are better than the lesser beings, the caribou have allowed us to be their enforcers and soldiers, so what they do is unimportant. They pay us well for it, so obedience to the demand to capture them is right.”

“You caught a lesser being, that's not anything of import,” the rebel-catcher leader snorted. “We caught a pony, one with blood on his hands and allegiance to the degenerate rebels. He was still engaged in active assault on the representatives of the invincible Stag King.”

“Blood on his hands? Ha! He's a coward and a young nothing. How many battles could such a weak flier have been in? I told you, the old stallion is a psycho-killer. He slaughtered caribou! Never mind anything else, he spilled caribou blood and that makes him more dangerous.”

While the three posses were arguing, the three prisoners had a chance to size each other up, changing their expressions based on the statements of the leaders. The three were almost a smooth height gradient, the donkey the tallest while the pegasus was the shortest, with the unicorn in between.

“So, all to the block if we're lucky. Maybe they'll kill us in the middle of the trip back,” the donkey rasped, voice soft and low.

“Rebels are taken alive if they can be, and delivered alive for conversion,” the pegasus sighed.

“I'm due for the block, public spectacle. Conversion, but no brainwashing. They need me aware and well-informed of my own impending doom before they give me the blood eagle in front of the King himself. They'll make sure that no one ever strikes at them. A futile endeavor, to be sure,” the old stallion muttered with a matter-of-fact tone.

“Viniendo muerte... at least you're allowed to know when it's going to happen. All we get is disdain and a vague idea,” the donkey huffed. “Even the children know that once they reach the proper age they begin their meaningless life in Tartarus.”

“It's Tartarus but not meaningless as long as we fight. The world can recover,” the pegasus insisted.

“It's meaningless now, Niño. Don't talk to me about the future, I'm not sure there is one,” the donkey grunted. “There certainly isn't one from here.”

“You'll live until you die. They're not killing you today. I know what they plan to do but they haven't yet,” the older stallion said. “If you give up, then ram your head into the bars and be done with it.”

“Don't you tell me what to do, Viejo, I won't die on your timeline any more than I'll die at the command of that pendejo King of theirs,” the jack huffed.

“You certainly should appreciate that, rebel, he actually wants to go on,” the older stallion grunted.

“You're not a rebel too? But, but they said...”

“Idiots like those say lots of things. I thought you rebels were smart enough not to buy their chatter. Doesn't your Phantom's sly wit actually filter down to the rest of you?” The old stallion snapped.

“He taught us plenty, and we know enough to hope for a future and fight hard for the promise!” The pegasus snarled, voice rising loud enough to carry.

“Hey! Quiet back there! We don't need all of you alive go get a good reward!” One of the posse members screamed.“What do you mean 'we'? We've didn't agree to that!” Another one yelled, setting off a new round of arguments.

“So, what now?” The younger stallion asked.

“Chains... están ineficaz... they look super macho, and these idiots can't think past the ends of their own pajaritos, so of course they use them. Ropes bind tight and they have them, but refuse to use them. Chains are like a puzzle, move the right way and...” the jack twisted and worked his bulky body around, the chains shifting and softly clattering. He worked his arms out of the hastily-wound twists of chain. At last, he slowly let the chain down to the floor, watching the door into the main part of the prison.

“Take off this horn cap. I'm honestly surprised these idiots had these and used it, they're usually more arrogant than that when they're brainwashed,” the old one said.

“Propaganda derides them to keep the refugees feeling secure; a wise rebel never underthinks them. Give them enough credit and you're prepared for any eventuality just in case you get one of the dwindling few competent ones,” the pegasus stated, keeping watch for the two.

With his horn freed, the unicorn began the laborious process of working his own chains off, the magic largely used to keep all the action silent. “Chains are easier than ropes or straps, true, but it still takes preparation. You must have kept yourself flexed and as expanded as possible, trusting they were unwilling to look at you too closely.”

The jack chuckled deeply and slowly nodded his head.”Pajarraco... you see more than I would have thought. It does help a great deal. But it's still true the chains are less useful.”

The pegasus had started working the chains off himself, moving himself with some sinuousness but making slightly more noise than the others. “It's not standard training, but we all chose to learn how to get out of bindings. For active agents it was considered entirely appropriate. Get out of the bindings, take out the captors, reach a rebel hardpoint. I don't think that's going to be possible.”

“At this point, I don't think any of us care about where we go, do we? We could vanish into the waste, forage for food and just run until we hit a coast, a border or a town. Since we're going away from where they want to take us it's likely to be a rebel town,” the unicorn said.

“'Lo mismo. I die no matter what. Better on my hooves than in their pits.”

“I need to have some chance to get back to the rebels. I have a report to make and some information to pass along, and any chance is better than a certain doom.”

“But, the escape...” The jack mentioned, pointing out at the other room. “Viejo, can you open this bolt quietly?”

“High impurity iron... I only think I can move the bolt, but I can muffle the sound no problem. Getting out is just the first step. What about them?”

“They're standard believers and brainwashed ones, highly fractious and covetous, very self-interested and not inclined to introspection and consideration,” the pegasus said. “Just open it up and let me out there. I think I can do something to give us a chance to get out. We just need to take back our things from there. They've got food and water, plus other necessary items.”

“I know you were trained by someone that can kill from the shadows or out of thin air or something like that but there must be a limit,” the unicorn said, magic wrapping around the bolt, which slowly wriggled and ground, moving in tiny motions.

“I know what some of the more cynical types think of the Black Knight, but he is highly effective,” the pegasus whispered. “A proper rebel does not squander his strength. Fight slyer, not more berserk. Yes, lay them out as a bloody tribute to the fallen and make the Heartless Hind write his debts in blood, but only when it's safe to do so. Otherwise, disrupt and confuse.”

“I like you, Niño, you make a lot of sense,” the jack said with a smile. “I wish I could do the same.”

“All are welcome in the rebellion. You could be one of the Blue Bloods.”

“One step at a time, Niño. Paso a paso.”

“Step one, complete...” the unicorn mumbled, the bolt passing the loop holding it closed, the magical muffling aura surrounding the hinges, allowing the door to open just wide enough to let out the lithe pegasus.

The younger stallion slipped smoothly out through the narrow opening, creeping low to the ground, right up to the edge of the door frame into the other room. He cupped his hands around the end of his snout, concentrated for a moment while waiting for a lull and called out, in an imitation of one of the posse members, the sound seemingly coming from the group. “Fuck you all! We're taking them all and getting the bounty!”

“Like Tartarus you are! We're not giving up our share! Who said that?”

“Yeah, come out coward!” the pegasus shouted, in a different voice. “Try and take our reward and I'll beat the shit out of you!”

“Not if I get you first!” One of the stallions swung and cracked the nearest one in the face, winding up for another when he was clocked across the face by a member of the posse of the one he had hit. Members of the various factions began to hammer each other, punching and kicking at each other.

“Stop that! Get a hold of yourselves!” The pegasus called out, waiting a moment before slinking back to the others. “If I say it the others won't have to. They'll be too lazy and disconnected. They can keep their anger and fight on, without having to interrupt themselves by being reasonable.”

“Maybe now I see some validity in this Phantom of yours...” the unicorn said.

“We beat them into unconsciousness and tie them down, then grab the things and make an escape once they're too weak and incapacitated.”

“Bueno. It sounds like one side is winning,” the jack said, striding to the frame and looking out, where the fight had dwindled into a lot of clutching and struggling.

“In a battle, the winner isn't always secure. They put effort into winning and are weakened by the fight unless they were overwhelming, which is why the cowards throw so many expendable troops at small problems. Once they almost stop, we move.”

A short wait followed, the winning posse standing, if barely, over the others. One of them was down, looking half-conscious, with the other four holding swollen jaws and sore stomachs. That sent the trio out, crashing into the standing figures and throwing heavy punches.

Though all of the catchers were injured, most were not unconscious. But they could not easily help, clasping at legs and taking kicks to the arms or face. They fought with all the fury they could muster, the older stallion using his magic to pick up scrap wood to use as a weapon.

They ended up winning the battle, but not completely. One of the standing stallions that had not been swept up in the initial crush fled from the ruin, running as fast as his legs could carry him. They couldn't bother with trying to catch him, having to take their time with securing the ones they had taken care of.

Besides the items taken from the trio, the supplies of the three groups offered up a supply of water and some rations that did not need to be thrown out for being made with the bizarre and disgusting ingredients the Northmen scum pushed on their collaborators.

“Load up, amigos! One roach means hundreds are coming,” the jack cried, tossing two consolidated packs worth of things over his shoulders.

The pegasus took an extra pack along with the one that had been taken from him, after making sure he had all of his things inside. “Now that we shamed them, they'll send far more force than is necessary. They'll probably even add caribou commanders. We might even have a blood-rune mage on our flanks.”

“Knowing where their blood comes from, I hope not. I don't think I'll be able to hold back violent reprisal. And I'd guess there's a rebel adage about that too,” the old stallion said, taking three of the packs, with some effort. The donkey took one of them with a silent nod.

“If you mean a sensible military idea that applies to real-life situations, then yes. We all feel rage, justified rage. But we can't give in. We have to keep an eye on effect and understand that there are objectives to meet.”

“¡Silencio! If we're going to fight, do it in safety. Now is not the time,” the donkey snorted, hefting the packs and rushing for the door.

“Right behind you!” The pegasus cried, hot on the donkey's heels.

“Mind my age! I can only run so far and so fast,” the older unicorn shouted, moving as fast as he could.

The three burst out of the ruin and aimed themselves in the opposite direction of where the tracks for the escapee led, using the drops of blood to orient themselves away.

They didn't think, they didn't hesitate, they just ran. They left that tiny, ruined pocket of civilization and made their escape. They ran away and let the waste swallow them.