The next day the quartet of figures ate early, fed Flores, and made their way in the vague direction of Gaskinwich as they had been the other day. They started off in the relative cool of the early morning, to get as much mileages as they could out of a comfortable period. Pedro carried Flores as well as the bulk of the supplies, with Vital and Old Timer carrying their personal packs and a portion of the essential items.

No conversation passed between them for a long while, the only sounds being the cries or coos that Flores gave when she was hungry, in need of a change or delighted by the close presence of Pedro. They didn't run any longer, letting their bodies properly recover from the furious actions of the prior day. The easier pace still took a toll, just far less of one.

“When we get to Gaskinwich, the first thing I'm doing is getting to a rebel contact area and delivering my information about the ambush and how the decoy setup works,” Vital said.

“Really? That's your first priority? I'm going to get myself a glass of water with ice in it, in a glass that doesn't taste like metal or plastic. Then something leafy, or maybe baked and fluffy, anything but a rock-hard ration bar,” Old Timer said.

“I'm going to a doctor, to see if our princesa is truly healthy. She must be well, nos prometíamos. After that, I can worry about rebel reports and my own belly,” Pedro huffed.

“I know she's precious, and she's the source of hope. But the report needs to be done, to protect other rebels, to spare lives. You told me about hard choices, about being willing to make them. The information must pass in a timely manner, and they can also have a rebel doctor see to her,” Vital said.

“I'll admit to some selfishness. But that's because I'm going to spend the rest of the war and beyond in an asylum, probably sedated out of my mind until there's a therapist for me. After coming through... all of this... I think I deserve a little good treatment. You do, too, Pedro. They'll take her to a doctor; they're true Equestrians after all. We can have a cool drink and a proper meal together and still keep our promise to her. It's possible to do both. We don't have artificial pressure to choose between the two.”

Pedro considered the statement, while looking down at Flores. “But if you had to..?”

“I was a studious stallion but I was never interested in high-minded philosophy. I left that to more esoteric unicorns in other places. I had a technical job with technical matters to think about,” Old Timer said with a snort. A short while later he added, “But... I would... see to her safety first.” He huffed. “I always assumed that donkeys were mostly immune to high-minded sophistry.”

“Hardy practicality does not leave out the possibility of being un filósofo,” Pedro said, tapping the side of his head. “Being the spare foal left me much time to think.”

“So I can see,” Old Timer said. “I have nothing against the idea of thought experiments, there are some very important ones, but matters of practicality take precedence in dire and emergency situations, which, you will agree, this certainly is.”

“I actually fall slightly on Pedro's side in this. He has a point about needing to make choices like this as though you absolutely had to pick, if I'm reading him correctly,” Vital said.

“Sí, exacto, Niño. Choose as if you must and you will make smarter choices, that are better for your goals. Práctico. Just as los burros always think.”

“Goals can conflict, and in that... now you've got me doing it. I swear I'm not a philosopher. But still, yes, we made a promise to her, made a very sacred promise to keep her safe. And in a way we're already putting our bodies on the line and suffering through things. A little more once we get into town couldn't possibly hurt, since we're going to get what we want anyhow. Instant gratification as a lifestyle rather than consequence is a fairly foul way to get by.”

Vital snorted sharply and shook his head. “Childish instant gratification is how the caribou and their minions live and breathe. Wanting some cold water and pastry after this mess is natural. Wanting mares thrown at you for the accident of being born a stallion is nonsensical. And might be insane, I'm still not sure.”

“I've been insane, I might still be. It's not my kind of insanity but I can tell you, a perspective that shattered and skewed is as insane as you could want. Leave the fine details to the doctors, but they're plenty crazy as far as this crazy stallion is concerned,” Old Timer said.

“Estamos locos, camaradas. They are evil,” Pedro flatly stated. “There's no shame in being crazy, not when the world has pushed you there. They do what they do by will, and that makes them wicked.”

They continued on, mostly silent, commenting only when Flores happened to make a sound or moved too much in the sling Pedro carried. All of them seemed transported in thought as they trudged through the desolation. The anti-magic expanse stretched farther than they had really contemplated.

By all they could tell, given the map, they were moving through what had once been a fairly expansive lea, though near some hardy scrubland, both of them probably fed by magic and maintained by ponies. The caribou had clearly done something cataclysmic, as standard nullification, even the potent dust of the Mountains of Madness, couldn't have had such wide-ranging effects with such seeming permanence. They had stripped the land of magic and taken away its tenders, to leave only desolation behind. That seemed the caribou way.

The ground was lined with long cracks, the ground dried hard after the grass died and split from the blazing sun unmitigated by the work of pegasi moving covering clouds. Hardy tufts of grass split the earth in a different way, forcing their way up, struggling to live, to survive in defiance of caribou will. They must have been drawing from a deep water source, drawing what it could from where it could. The blades stretched long and thin, capturing the sun without drying out, achieving a balance after all the other variants had died. Cruel. Harsh. Ultimately effective.

The distance wavered, from the heat, the horizon stretching seemingly forever. The quiver from the heat distortion made that far touch of ground and sky look almost unreal, an illusion teasing them. As the flat scenery never changed it was easy to imagine an infinite expanse, a cruel hoax played on them to keep them walking until they died.

Even though all of them silently arrived at that feeling at once, they walked on, having only that and nothing else.

That night they made a smaller fire, having less material from scrounging, huddling closer as the temperature dropped sharply when the sun sank behind the eternal horizon. Flores was held tight to Pedro's chest, softly drinking down partially warmed formula.

“Discúlpeme, princessa... 'ta frio... como el mundo, el mundo de los caribú,” Pedro whispered, leaning down to softly kiss her head.
“She's going to have a good head start on languages. C'est vrai, princesse?”

“Three languages for a start, yes. That sounds like a very decent beginning. Caballito and Percheron, with Central Equestrian, maybe build on that with Cavalino, Capal and Equusian. That sounds like an excellent path to make a proper polyglot.”

“She will speak all the languages, va a estar muy bonita, muy inteligente. The smartest, prettiest mare in the reborn world. She'll know everything,” Pedro cooed.

“That should anger the caribou... if we leave any,” Vital said, ending with a dark mutter.

“I should complain, but I won't. I know what they think and force others to think. I certainly won't raise a fuss if they leave under an endless rain of arrows and fire,” Old Timer said with a curt nod.

“Send them away, and take Master Bliss. Todos los monstruos, out with the caribou.”

“Prince Blueblood is not at all shy about embracing his grim duty, due to his personal pain. I've heard that when someone asked him how many caribou he would kill if they kept coming after him without end, he asked them back, 'How many are there?' Now that's what makes him a respectable fellow. I hope I can meet him when I get back, join him in his endeavors.”

“Yo también. To be part of el Príncipe Azul's venganza, that would be beautiful. No matter what I must do to join him, I will. How many are there? We will find out.”

They passed the rest of the night in silence, huddled close around the tiny fire, trying to share all their warmth with Flores.

The next day, they were still silent, not as well rested as they would have liked but still set on the trudging march toward the endless horizon. Their sacred duty drew them on, unhesitating, bound by their word and genuine honor. However much it hurt, they moved along, desperate for Gaskinwich, and desperate to keep ahead of the killers behind them.

The dwindling hope of keeping ahead of the murderous pursuers ended when Vital took a look back, as he often did, and saw a rising plume of dust in the distance. “We had some hope, the journey wasn't that long, but now it's over. They're coming.”

“¡Mierda! Disculpame, princessa, but...” Pedro hugged Flores tighter. “Nunca más... she is days old, she must live! No more foals dead because of those pinche pendejos!”

“How far do you think?” Old Timer asked.

Vital carefully gauged the width of the plume and eyeballed how much he could see. “I'm a little lost at the edge. They might be inside a dust plume and thus invisible to me but best guess, just at or past the horizon line. About three miles back, which means they did send a heavy force.”

“We're going to lose more or less ground but won't ever escape them,” Old Timer said. “Average speed of walking would put them at that distance in an hour, but they're probably marching and have forced paces. We could run but you're the only one with stamina. They're going to close the distance sooner rather than later.”

“Running would only make us tired when they caught us,” Vital sighed. “You're right, I could run or fly but we made a promise. Protect her together. We know they're back there, we have to press on. If the map is right and if we're still going the right way we could make it. Let's just run, we have the stamina right now.”

The three broke into as much of a run as they could muster, limbs only just responding to their demand for speed and stamina. They gave their all, charging ahead for their lives. For the life of Flores who began to cry, attempts at comforting and coddling doing no good as they ran. It made the dash more desperate, but also more tragic. It frightened her, upset her, maybe pained her. But they had to persist. For her.

The rigors of keeping ahead of the pursuers took their toll on them all, but Old Timer was the first one to falter. He staggered a bit and his pace slowed, prompting the other two to come to his aid.

“No... no, you keep running. We have to, we have to go on,” he insisted.

“Juntos, Viejo, siempre,” Pedro insisted, offering a helping hand.

“We can't split up. If we want to have a chance at dodging that mess we need to stay ahead of their pace. Keep the distance the same and they can't catch us. We just have to beat a marching speed long enough to make walking viable.”

Old Timer started walking again, but looked contemplative. “What if they stopped?”

“We'd gain a lot of ground but I know those bastards, they won't stop,” Vital replied.

“I was one of those bastards, I can remember how it was when I was one of their pawns. They'll do anything to recover their fake honor, soothe their childish minds,” Old Timer said, stopping and turning.

“Viejo?”

“Keep going. Take her, take my pack and keep going...” He dug around in his pack, until he pulled out something he hadn't shown before. A stun-stick. “I only need to take this.”

“What? No! You can't do this! You need weapons, you need help...” Vital insisted.

“No. I kept this in my fugue, had it on me in the waste. Those bastards gave it to me. It's only right I give it back,” Old Timer said, touching one of the tips. A little spot of blood appeared at the end of his finger. “I made a few changes. They said this thing can't kill. But it certainly can now. I ground the tips sharp as needles. Stab near the heart and hit the juice. That should stop at least a few.”

“No, please...” Pedro pleaded.

“They wanted all stallions to become monsters,” Old Timer snorted. “I just hope they like the one that I became.”

Vital grabbed Old Timer's arm and shook him sharply. “No! We all stand together. Or I'll stand with you. I have weapons, I can fight, I've been trained!”

Old Timer shrugged off the grab and shook his head. “Remember your commander, remember how they all died for you. I have to do this. Young ponies died in wars, so they say, and died against natural monsters. But they shouldn't here. Here, the right thing is for the young to live and thrive, and make a grand new world. Bad, old ponies atone by making sure that world comes to be.” He started walking in the direction of the dust cloud. “So go! Go make it! Make it for me! For all of us!” He turned his head to look at Flores, who had gone oddly silent. “...for her...” He turned again and started to run, in the opposite direction of the others.

“Old Timer...” Vital whispered, tears at the corners of his eyes.

“Lloras luego, corremos ahora,” Pedro insisted, tugging Vital until he turned and started running. “We honor his sacrifice by doing what he wanted, taking her far away from them. If they stop, he has given us a gift.”

“An expensive gift,” Vital lamented. “She's worth it but.. seeing the price paid...”

While the others ran to the promise of Gaskinwich, Old Timer ran to the those charged with getting them. His legs screamed and his chest burned with effort, but he kept on. “Hold together you insane, old wreck! You promised her! Keep at least one promise in your accursed life! Keep this one because it means the most!”

The line of marching troops were large but not professionals in the main. Cloth-armored and unarmed slavecatchers marched at the front, backed by earth pony and unicorn soldiers with thicker cloth armor with mail or plates of metal, both Caribou iron and pony or Dog steel. Behind them were a few iron-armored caribou, and behind them all an actual caribou Blood-Rune Mage. He was clad only in a loincloth, body deeply dyed with his accursed runes, his belt hung with the dried gourd bottles containing the blood he used in his magic. Old Timer knew that that blood came from mares, the ones that failed to please and could be quietly snuck away.

They lied to their own minions. They made sure the full extent of the ugliness was unknown. That just made him more angry.

They saw him as he rushed up, stun-stick held high, letting them know he had it. One of the caribou behind the slavecatchers and soldiers called out, “Surrender! You bear one of the pitiless majesty's weapons, you were once one of us! Surrender and submit and take your punishment!”

He had no intention of surrender. He had no desire to pay a debt he didn't owe. His deeds were terrible, but his conscience was clean. He killed those around him for the crimes they had committed, for what they had forced him to commit. He would give them the Tartarus they deserved. He would give them all they had earned.

Author's Note

The short next chapter was assembled from what amounted to scribbling. It's not my best but if you want to see Old Timer's sacrifice, then go ahead and read it.