The pegasus inched forward, crouched low to hide in the underbrush. Nearing the road, she raised a cyan hoof as she stopped and settled even lower onto her hooves. Looking around, she surveyed the scene. All was as she had planned. She shrugged her right shoulder, adjusting the hooded sheepskin cloak she wore buckled around her neck. Shuffling the bulk of it a little further down her back toward her wings, she felt more freedom of movement. Freedom of movement that she would be needing. The anticipation of the hunt was too much, and she enjoyed it more than a normal pony should. Her wings began to stiffen with blood, a sign of excitement - but also of fear.
The forest at this early hour was quiet, save the shuffling of a dozen sets of hooves and the creaking of the wagon she watched. The ponies surrounding it were foreign to her herd. Alien. Invaders. She watched them, her rage simmering at the sight of their wagon filled with silks and spices and steel. The steel armour the cowardly ponies wore. Steel armour. Pah! A true warrior’s best defence is speed and skill. A shell only makes you like a turtle. Something that cowers and hides behind a tough material, rather than simply being a tough pony and fighting like a real warrior.
She spat quietly and angrily at the thought. The pegasus raised herself somewhat to see over the long grass ahead of her. The road was flanked by thick forest on either side; The Everfree. Long grass grew between the trees, concealing anything lurking nearby. The sounds of the early morning were in her ears, settling her; assuring her that she would not disappoint the legacy of her ancestors this morning. Birds chirped tiredly, the wind rustled through the trees. It was promising to be a clear day, but it might yet rain, based on the clouds. The weather had never been engineered in the Everfree, and her herd ensured that it remained that way. These aliens, these outlanders may engineer the weather in their own lands, but they must not be allowed to mess with her homeland. It was sacrilege; and these ponies institutionalised this sacrilege! This sickening blasphemy! It was enough to make her want to rage, but she needed her head figuratively on her shoulders or it may not literally be there once the move was made.
She stodd halfway up slowly, puffing a gust of air up across her face to knock some of her black-flecked white mane from her eyes as she set down her spear to take up her javelin. Ponies rarely used javelins in Equestria. Bows and crossbows were newer, easier to use with hooves. The use of the javelin was a proud tradition for her herd. It took skill, precision, training.... the coward outlanders cared nothing for skill. They wanted more armed ponies, not better ones. Their numbers counted for little against her warriors. Raising her front right hoof, she balanced the javelin on it and stood slowly and silently, cocking her leg back.
Bellowing a blood-curdling war cry, she released, reveling in that magical moment when the spear is in the air and time almost stops. The world consisted only of her, her missile, and her target who had just begun to turn his head to face the scream. She loved the glint of terror in his eye as he saw her, saw the spear, knew what was happening. His eyes grew wide beneath his helmet but he was too slow. Weighed down, sluggish from the monotony of the march.... A lesser warrior, but a worthy first kill that hunt. The spear slammed into his face below the right eye and his head snapped back with a crunch as the spear drove through his cheekbone and he dropped with a thud. His comrades began bellowing the alarm, but they were too few and outmanoeuvred.
She screamed again, grabbing up her spear and jumped off the slight hill on her side of the road and took flight, barrelling straight at the caravan as the three dozen warriors under her command followed her lead, screaming bloody murder before diving in to enact it. She began to wonder in mid-air whether it was their war cries, their war paint, or merely the sight of her warriors that so terrified the outlanders. Ha! The things warriors think of in battle.
Snapping back to the task at hand, she clutched her spear to her chest with her front hooves, angling herself with her back legs, ensuring a good two feet of spear stuck out further than her head. Having formed herself into such a missile, she slammed into the beefy unicorn at the head of the column, next to the earth pony she’d killed with her javelin. His horn had started to spark, and she did not want to give him the advantage of his sorcery. So she took it away, along with his life. She tumbled over him, as his body stubbornly kept her spear.
Rolling over to get to her hooves, she was kicked bodily in the ribs and her head struck a rock in the road. She turned her aching, ringing head to face the pony above her. He screamed, the noise reverberating oddly within his steel helmet and even more oddly in her ringing and noncompliant ears. His spear was raised, ready to punch through her throat and end her life. He hesitated, and she realised her hood had slipped off when she tumbled. Couldn’t he kill a mare? She would never know the answer for sure. One of her warriors dropped the head of his iron axe through the pony’s helmet, pulping his brains. Her warrior dashed off to find another target as she stood, picking up the spear of her would-be killer, as hers was still hopelessly trapped in the caravan driver.
She looked around to see her ponies finishing the job. With her ears ringing from her collision, she watched with pride as the youngest scout in her warband drove his spear through the neck of the last wounded Equestrian guardsman. With that kill, he was now a warrior in his own right. She would have to commend him in front of the assembled herd when they returned home. Her captain trotted over to her, blood-spattered and smiling. He bowed and spoke to her, but her ears still rang from her blow to the head. Shaking her head, she tried to make sense of his words.
The ringing began to subside, and she stared at his outstretched hoof, following the line of it to his grinning face.
“Excuse me?”
His grin never faltered. “You heard me. I win, pony up.”
She stared blankly. She was vaguely aware of blood dripping from her forehead wound beneath her salt and pepper mane into her eye, and she blinked it away as she tried to remember what he was referring to.
He still grinned stupidly. She wanted to smack that look off of his face until he reminded her of his meaning.
“You said you’d have this one raided in ten seconds flat. It took two whole minutes! You really shouldn’t be so literal.”
She scowled. He was right. Her trademark phrase had gotten her in up to her withers again. Her scowl deepened as she reached into her sheepskin, to a pocket sewn into the lining. Drawing forth the small satchel of precious stones, she passed it to him and the look of glee on his face made her want to vomit.
But she was getting faster, and better. Her warriors had done well. This was three caravans just this week. Seven this month. And next time, she would be even faster, even better. Hers was a war that had been fought with her family’s blood, her herd’s blood as long as the bards had told stories. And what stories they would tell of her, quickly becoming the best of the herd. Soon, the best warrior in any lands where the pony language was spoken. The outlanders would learn fear. They would learn respect, and they would go home.
The dark green unicorn stood on the marble balcony overlooking the richer districts of Las Pegasus. Ponies scuttled across the cobblestones set into the sand, moving from doorway to doorway and from alley to alley. At this time of night, it was doubtless the less savoury elements of society that were prowling about. The moonlight glinted off the terra cotta roof tiles, glazed to a sheen that reflected the heat of the day’s desert sun, and caused the city’s rooftops to glitter like the sea in the moonlight. He smiled to himself. The city was beautiful. He frowned, correcting himself. My city is beautiful. However he could not stare at the rooftops forever, as matters required his attention. Very important matters.
Turning, he left the balcony and returned to his personal chambers, the wooden doors to the balcony gliding closed behind him as he worked his magic. He levitated a pile of parchment in front of him and skimmed them as he paced the floor.
“Arrest warrant, bill, royal proclamation, bill, death threat, bill...” he muttered to himself, tossing each item back onto his large rosewood desk until he’d recreated the stack in reverse on the surface. Scowling, he trotted over to the balcony doors once again, throwing them wide and glancing at Luna’s moon to gauge the time. They were late. They were always late!
He slammed the doors shut again as he paced his chamber, occasionally stopping to obsessively adjust or reorder some book or scroll. He spotted the heavy tapestry that hung on the far wall, a depiction of his ancestors being granted the city (then just a walled town) of Las Pegasus and the surrounding area as a fief from Celestia herself. While he magically levitated dust and hair away from the surface of the fabric intent on picking it clean, a servant mare cautiously opened the doors and poked her head inside.
“My... my lord? Can I fetch you anything?”
Startled by the interruption, he stiffened, his head slowly turning to face the doorway. He hoped his eyes did not betray the fear that this mare might know too much. He had gotten oh so good at concealing it, but it was late at night and he was nervous and antsy...
“Yes. Yes, Miss Sweet Tea there is indeed something you can bring me. Bring me a cup of your namesake please. Not too hot, but don’t let it be cold. I am expecting guests, and you are not to disturb me if you find me speaking to anypony upon your return, understood?”
The earth pony mare stepped inside to curtsy deeply, mumbling a subdued “yes my lord, of course my lord” before skittering off down the hallway to comply with her master’s instruction.
Shaking his head and calming his heart, he sat quietly at his desk, levitating a quill, his seal of office, and a tub of wax. The latter he melted over a candle. Signing some parchments and stamping others, he tried to bury his worry and fury at being made to wait in work. A lord of the realm, being made to wait on the likes of them! It was outrageous is what it was.
Before too long, Sweet Tea returned empty-hoofed with a unicorn beside her, also wearing the black uniform that the manor’s servants wore. “Lord Swift, may we assist you?”
He looked down his nose past his reading glasses at the mares, giving a disgusted snort.
“How long have you been living in Equestria? Commoners address the nobility with their title and familial name. Not Lord Swift, Lord Stroke. And the servant you’re pretending to be just came by you idiots.” Lapsing into his most condescending and disappointed tone of voice, he continued. “I do hope I’m not wasting my money. Remember that I am the only reason you have a paycheque. Do you want to go back to where I found you? Unemployed... in Vanhoover?”
The mares giggled to each other before shifting to their natural forms. Shapely furred flanks became black exoskeletal carapaces. Adorable doe-eyes became many-faceted orbs, and hooves and legs became crooked and twisted. The two changelings bowed mockingly before their employer. “Lord Swift Stroke, Protector of the West... our lord and tutor.”
Stroke rolled his eyes, levitating his glasses off his face and back to the surface of his desk. If they weren’t so useful, he would probably have done away with them himself.
Trotting urgently around to the front of the desk, he magically handed each changeling an envelope containing their orders. They were unsealed, of course. In the event the changelings failed (or worse, were captured), he did not want his seal to be on anything of theirs. That wax seal of the very same stiletto dagger that graced his flank and belt would undo decades of hard work.
Opening their envelopes and skimming their orders, the changelings’ annoyingly casual demeanour melted away instantly. The one to his left stood up very straight.
“....You’re joking? Or are these our actual assignments?”
“I do not joke about matters so.... delicate.”
The other changeling piped up. “I take it the pay for this job will be—”
Stroke cut him off. “Tremendous, yes. More wealth than your wretched homeland has ever seen, right in your own hooves. All you have to do...” he leaned in very close, “Is your jobs, and do them properly. I hired assassins, not back-alley thugs. Grace, professionalism, and above all, stealth and secrecy. Keep in mind that if you fail, it’s not just you who will die horrifying deaths at the hands of the state torturers.” Letting the implication of those last few words sink in, he inwardly giggled and clopped his hooves together at the changelings’ obvious discomfort at the thought of the imaginary torturers that somepony like Celestia most certainly did NOT employ.
Leaning back and out of the changelings’ faces, he spoke once more.
“Now go. If there is anything further you need, inform me or my... attaché and either he or I will acquire it for you. Money is no issue.” The changelings saluted awkwardly, clearly unnerved at the mention of first the state torturers and secondly Stroke’s own spymaster. Taking the forms of pegasi clad in the emerald-accented black armour of Stroke’s household guard, they pushed open his balcony doors and shot off into the night.
The aging green unicorn sat back on his haunches. And so the die was cast at last. He ran a hoof through his quickly greying black mane and contemplated what he was doing. He even briefly considered sending his guards to hunt down and murder the changelings before scolding himself and remind himself just how much work had been put into all this. The shame from backing down now would be unbearable. Private and secret, but unbearable all the same.
His door pushed itself open to reveal a pale Sweet Tea balancing a tray with the beverage he’d asked for on her head. Levitating the tray away from her and onto a side table, he trotted over to her and caringly asked what had her so spooked.
She glanced left and right before finally whispering to him the cause of her trouble. Oh how she trusted him.
“Lord, I heard you mention the word.... assassins.... why would you want to kill anypony?”
He smiled sweetly, like a caring father reassuring his worried foal and brought the servant into a neck-hug. “Politics is a dirty business, my dear. Sometimes you have to play a little roughly, that’s all.”
She seemed to buy that as she trotted with him as he led her to his balcony to further reassure her that there was nothing amiss and that she should leave. He miscalculated. He watched, groaning as her eyes scanned the floor as she walked with him, settling on the letter one of the changelings had left behind. She stiffened in horror, eyes widening and looking to him for denial of the information contained therein. Instead, his reaction he knew broke the girl. Not that it mattered in the grand scheme of things.
His horn glowed green as his magic wrapped itself around her muzzle, forming a magical seal. She tried to whinny in terror, but it only came out as a muffled, pathetic mewling. He stared passively as she fought the restraint that was cutting off her air. The candles and the soft green light emitted from her lord’s face cast an eerie soft light on her struggles, her half fighting and half gazing at him desperately begging him to spare her, to release her, to let her live and breathe. Her struggling slowed, her eyelids drooped, and tears began to well up in the corners of her eyes as her hooves slowly stopped flailing and her body lay limp.
He held her muzzle sealed for a good few minutes after that to ensure his faithful servant was dead. Releasing her at last, he sighed in disappointment. Why hadn’t he just sent her away when she’d first come to him that evening? Why hadn’t he lied and told her he wasn’t thirsty? Now he needed to find somepony else capable of mixing his favourite beverage. And he now had a mess to clean up and a death to explain. Seating himself in his desk chair and propping his rear hooves up on the desk with his forehooves crossed over his chest in thought, he levitated the sweet tea from the table he’d placed it on to begin sipping it. He could deal with the dead fool later, he was going to enjoy his tea, damn it. And, of course, analyse how this unfortunate development might affect the grand plan.
