A Time of Song and Sword

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.