Aramaspa

by MerchantofMisrata

Rating: teen
Tags: Adventure, Death, Drama, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Equestria at War
Length: 4936

In an age before Equestria, a young hunter finds her prey.

A thousand years before Nightmare Moon, the first equine kingdoms were founded in the Riverlands.

A thousand years before that, the first ponies wandered south.

For these scattered nomads there was no such thing as war, for there were yet no kings nor armies to wage it. There were no guns, no swords, no states, no nations to conquer, and no ideologies to die for.

In Tarkā's world, there is only the herd - and what lies beyond it.

First place winner of the Seventh Annual EaW Writing Contest.

Published 2024-09-01 03:50:00 UTC
Last updated 2024-09-01 03:50:00 UTC

Epilogue

She heard the movement before she saw it. Her ears flicked upwards as the sound of footfalls on mud echoed through the trees, and she crouched low in her blind.

The arrow was already nocked. Her new bow was stiffer, stronger, and as she pulled the string taut it fought her efforts to make it bend. She forced it to anyway and held her breath, her attention fixed on the point she knew her quarry would come from - it was following the path, just as planned. An easy kill.

The griffon came into view, tromping through the puddles left by the summer rains with a spear held close to its chest. Heading towards the rising sun, it had to keep its head low and squint to see the trail of hoofprints before it. There was still some down in its feathers, still some awkwardness in its gait, but not much. A late bloomer, she reckoned.

All the same, it had left the nest like its brethren. It had lived until now by stalking hare and pheasant, and now wandered further afield in search of larger prey.

She would make sure it never found any.

She’d arrived there before dawn, smeared mud on her coat, and dug herself in between two roots to wait. The trail she’d left was obvious, the hoofprints broad and deep and laid with a slight limp to entice a pursuit, the culmination of many moons' practice. A few phases ago she would have prayed as she worked, but now her preparations were made in silence: of all the ponies who needed the Gods' favor, she was no longer one of them.

Strange, then, that as her target approached a small prayer for protection left her lips.

She drew the bow a little further, lined up her aim, and paused. The griffon was still a good distance out, far enough that it wouldn’t be able to spot her and far enough that she wasn’t confident in her ability to hit it. Even having prepared, she couldn’t afford to be sloppy: she had to be sure her shot found its mark, had to be sure it would die quickly, and so she decided to wait.

There was a small puddle further along the path, close enough to the blind that she wouldn’t miss. She resolved that when it reached that puddle, she would shoot it.

The griffon drew nearer, stopping every now and then to sniff the air and look around. It was downwind of her and had to know she was here somewhere, but by the time it found her it would be too late. For a moment she almost might have pitied it, but there wasn’t much room for that. Not as it drew close enough for her to see the twitching of its wings, the claw marks on its spear. Now was the time for purpose, for strength.

She pulled the bowstring back until the arrowhead struck the limb and held it there. She watched the griffon get closer, watched it step over the puddle and keep going. It didn't suspect a thing.

Tarkā exhaled, took aim at its throat, and loosed.

The Hunted

The snow crunched beneath Tarkā’s hooves with every step. It crept up to her hocks, sticking to her coat and chilling her to the bone. She had to stomp every so often to clear it away.

Up ahead, her mother was making much better time. She moved more like a cat than a pony, gliding effortlessly over the drifts with her body low to the ground, her gray coat blending in with the bleak landscape.

Tarkā had been watching her for a while. She tried to imitate her by shifting her weight, spreading it out across her legs as best she could. She sank in anyway and had to scramble to keep her longbow from slipping off her back. Further attempts yielded some improvement: once or twice the snow held firm beneath her, but the moment she tried to take a step the surface would give way and her cannons would get wet.

A little more practice would get her there, she was sure, but by now her mother was many paces ahead. She was getting that tingling itch on the back of her neck, the one that made her want to look over her shoulder, the one that signified she was too far out. Giving up on snow-walking for the time being, she settled for a series of quick bounds to catch up and by the time she reached her mother’s side she was panting from the effort.

Her mother didn’t seem to notice at first. When she did, she paused only a moment to give her daughter a glance out the corner of her eye.

“You’ll learn in time,” she said. Her voice carried the barest hint of warmth, but she kept walking without any further delay.

Tarkā’s fifteenth winter had been the coldest one yet. The sky was cloudy today, as it had been for the last several moons, but for once the wind had died down and so the hills were quiet save the sound of their hoofsteps. The scattered groves of conifers were still and silent too, the small mammals that patrolled their branches in the summer having disappeared without a trace. The world felt almost empty without a protective circle of adults around her, but she'd found she didn't mind. It was nice to not have foals tripping her up or old mares nagging at her for dawdling, even if she still had to keep pace with her mother.

She spotted a tree some ways off their path, its branches laden heavy with snow. On a whim, she turned and headed for it. A swift, sideways kick brought the snow crashing down, and her heart beat faster as she scurried to avoid it. A smile spread across her muzzle.

She did the same for the next couple they passed, knocking the loads from their branches and then ducking away. Experimentally she went a little further afield to get at a taller fir, striking the trunk and giggling as the loose powder rained down on her saddle-blanket.

She was eyeing up a copse of similar trees over the next hill when her ears flicked, picking up the sound of her name. After giving the grove a long, mournful look, she turned and hurried back to her mother’s side.

“Keep up,” said the dam. “We return to herd by nightfall. No falling behind.”

Tarkā nodded and kept trudging. All the same, when they passed near a tree she made sure to kick it.

It was hard to tell how much time was passing with the sun hidden in the clouds. After a while her ears grew numb from the cold, and her legs ached from plowing through drifts. Wondering how much longer she’d have to march she turned to her mother and found her still as focused on the path as ever.

“Where are we going?” she said.

“Forest. Not far.”

Tarkā shifted the bow on her withers, her tail flicking a little. The herd had always avoided forests.

“What are we doing there?” she asked.

Her mother did not answer.

Before long, treetops came into view over the hills ahead. They were small at first, but as the pair drew nearer they grew in size until they towered overhead. The forest stretched off into the distance in either direction, an endless sea of timber too deep for Tarkā to fathom. Marveling at the sight, she hesitated a brief moment before following her mother to the edge of it.

Right at the base of the first tree, where the snow started to thin beneath its branches, her mother stopped and turned to her. She watched as her mother took her own bow from her withers and began to string it. A purposeful glance told her she should do the same.

She wasted no time fitting the string into the notches and pulling it taut, delighting in the springiness of the yew as it was forced into a subtle curve. The bow had been made with her own hooves only a couple cycles ago, and though the wood was weak and the shape was off compared to her mother’s she treated it with all the care and reverence of a masterwork.

When it was ready she looped it around her withers, brushed a few locks of brown mane from her face, and held her head high. Her mother then rose to face her. She looked down at the mark on Tarkā’s flank, the little picture of a bow that had come in a few weeks ago.

Tarkā noticed how she didn’t smile.

“You’ve grown,” said her mother, gesturing to the mark. “Time you learn hunting.”

She stood a little straighter at that, her hooves shuffling in the snow. “I’ve never killed anything before.”

“You will learn,” her mother replied, pulling her own bow over her head. “You will have to. You know what we are after?”

Tarkā hesitated and then nodded once, slowly. She did know what they were hunting, even if she’d never caught more than a glimpse of one. She didn’t need her mother to talk about them again.

“Nesting grounds are close,” said her mother as her tail gave a single flick. “Young will be on their own by now. Not very deadly, not yet. We cull them now, before they grow up.”

Shifting in place, Tarkā looked down at her own hooves and then back up at her mother. She opened her mouth to say something, but thought better and held her tongue.

“Speak,” her mother commanded.

She swallowed, working up the courage to meet her mother’s cold gaze. Even once she did, she struggled to hold eye contact.

“It sounds cruel.” She forced the words out. “Hunting the young. I… I know why we do it. I know they’ll grow up if we don’t. But it doesn’t seem fair.”

Her mother’s eyes narrowed slightly before she spoke. “When they took your father, he was ill. When they took your sister, it was only her third winter. Was that fair?”

Tarkā shook her head, unable to look her mother in the eyes any longer. She didn't remember her father, had never known her sister, and hearing her mother speak of them made her chest feel tight.

“There is nothing fair beyond our herd,” her mother growled. “You will learn this.” Turning to face the trees, she then raised her head in challenge. “You will go into the forest. You will find one of the fledgelings, bring it down, and return with its tail as proof. You will do your part for the herd.” The final words were loud and sharp, heavy with the weight of years, and her mother trembled as she spoke them.

Tarkā took a deep breath, focusing on the feel of the bowstring against her chest. It was taut, a little uncomfortable, but already familiar as breathing. It was part of her mark, after all.

She stiffened her legs, stood up straight, and stepped forward. “I will.”

Her mother flinched, and turned to her. She leaned over, reaching for the quiver at her side, and pulled something from beneath it with her teeth. The knife glinted in the light as she tossed it through the air. It landed at Tarkā’s hooves.

“You will need it,” said her mother. “Pick it up.”

Tarkā did as she was told, tucking the blade beneath her own quiver as her mother had done. The flint was cold enough that the chill went right through her saddle-blanket to her coat, prickling like ice against her fur.

Her mother looked her up and down and moved in to adjust her quiver. After tightening the strap and ensuring the knife was secure, she stopped and ran a hoof down her daughter’s shoulder. She blinked something out of her eyes.

“Go now,” she said, refusing to look at Tarkā’s face. “Remember what I taught you.”

Tarkā's ears sank low as she looked at her mother. “You’re not coming with?”

“This is something you must do yourself,” said her mother, her voice wavering. “It would not be right to go with you. I will wait here.”

Tarkā swallowed at her mother’s words, but she forced her ears to stay upright and her tail to fall still. She would not falter, would not fail. This was what she had been born to do.

“I will. I promise.”

Her mother bowed her head and stood back. “Go,” she said. “Please.”

The forest still loomed before them, but as Tarkā stared it down she was able to pick out a path through the trees. She started walking before she could have any second thoughts, keeping her eyes forward and her head high.

A dozen paces in she stopped. In spite of herself, she turned and glanced back the way she’d come.

Her mother was still sitting there in silence as a light snow began to fall. She was watching the snowflakes.

Tarkā tore herself away and marched onwards.

At first she moved quickly, her muscles taut and jaw clenched, eyes flicking between the trees. Her hackles rose and stayed up, every instinct she had warning her to go no further. She ignored them, swallowed the feeling down and forged onwards.

She found herself checking her tools often. Every now and then she’d stop to make sure her bow was still taut, to make sure the arrows were still in her quiver and the knife was still tucked beneath it. It became a ritual after a little while, something to keep her mind off the feeling in the pit of her stomach. If nothing else, it was good to know they were at hoof.

The forest around her wasn’t as dense as it had looked from the outside. The trees were as big as any she’d ever seen, but there was enough space between their branches for light to filter to the floor and the brush was low enough that it didn’t hinder her movement. The snow was lighter here thanks to the shelter of the canopy, and the going was easy. Occasionally one of the boughs overhead would creak and her gaze would shoot upwards, but she never once saw anything, never heard the telltale rustling of wings she'd been taught to listen for. She kept one ear to the sky anyway.

Reaching a hoof for her bow again, she thought back to her mother's lessons. Tracking had been hard to learn - too many little details to keep track of - but she still remembered what prints to look for. A quick survey of the surrounding snow revealed nothing, so she moved on, scouring the ground for anything that might hint at a passing animal. Her fur had stopped standing on end, and though her ears were still twitchy she did her best to get them under control. You are the hunter, she reminded herself. Why would you be nervous?

Her mother’s words echoed in her mind: Not very dangerous, not yet. The fledgelings wouldn’t be the same as the vicious beasts that stalked the herd by night. They would be small, weak, vulnerable; easy pickings for a pony with her talent. All she had to do was find one. But as the day dragged on, as grove after grove turned up pristine and she started doubling back on her own tracks, she got the sense her search was futile.

This wasn’t so bad, she mused. It meant she was alone out here.

The thought put a spring in her step as she trotted back the way she’d come. Alone. She’d been by herself long enough that the prickling urge to return to herd had faded to almost nothing, the only remnants a slight itch in her ears and an occasional twitch in her tail. A light laugh slipped free as she was hit by a realization: there’d been nothing to fear in the first place.

She could have gone right back to her mother then, but where would be the fun in that? Instead she meandered on the return trip, weaving between the trees and stopping to look up in wonder at their heights. The forest wasn’t as foreboding now that she knew it was empty. It was kind of interesting, even. She thought about coming back sometime on her own, just to sit beneath one of the trees and enjoy how the wind rustled the branches overhead. Her bow would be more than enough protection.

She was in a clearing she’d passed a while back when it started. The hair on the back of her neck was bristling again, as though a cold wind was blowing from behind her. It was the same irritating feeling she always got, back again for no apparent reason. She pranced a bit in an attempt to loosen her muscles, hoping that would make it go away. No such luck.

Letting out a loud huff, she tossed her mane and kept going. She was a grown mare, not some jumpy foal, and she'd be damned if she let some silly instinct get to her. Even if it was getting kind of hard to ignore.

An idea popped into her head. Picking out one of the sturdier trees and smirking as she approached it, she lined herself up with the trunk and turned about. Lifting her hindquarters she bucked it hard, with both hooves, grinning as a loud crack resounded through the forest.

Moments later, it was followed by a squawk.

No sooner had Tarkā dropped back to all fours than her head shot upright. She looked up at the canopy, and saw it.

On a branch high above her crouched a mass of white fur and ash-gray feathers. It was camouflaged against the dry wood, sharp talons clinging to the bough as it recovered from the shock.

Tarkā froze where she was. The griffon remained.

It was bigger than she’d expected. The wings splayed out awkwardly at its sides were as long as her body at the least. The vicious hooked beak between its eyes looked like it could bite her leg clean off. A long, straight scar cut across its chest and ran up over its shoulder.

The down clinging to its feathers did nothing to help Tarkā breathe.

But breathe she did, easing a hoof up towards her bow. Her limbs shook as she drew it from her back. Reaching for her quiver, she mouthed a broken prayer to the gods.

It seemed content to watch for now, its leonine tail swishing side to side.

Protect your throat, her mother had once told her. It hadn’t made sense at the time, but as the beast tapped its claws on the branch Tarkā lowered her head to do just that. She swallowed, her jugular still feeling exposed.

The shaking was getting worse. She drew an arrow with her teeth, placed it on the bow. The griffon shifted towards her. The arrow slipped as she tried to nock it and she tried again, her movements now jittery and rushed.

As the arrow found purchase she looked up at the creature and locked eyes with it. She saw it coil its body to pounce.

In a single motion she drew and loosed the arrow only for it to waver in its course and strike the branch beneath its target. The griffon let out a screech as its paws slipped from the bough, awkward wings beating out of turn for a moment before it plummeted and crashed into the snow.

It fell still where it lay.

Tarkā hardly noticed. Her chest heaved as she snatched another arrow from her quiver, but she stopped short of drawing. Staring at the motionless creature, she clenched her teeth around the nock and waited for it to get up.

Time seemed to crawl as she caught her breath. Her muscles were still taut, ready to shoot again at a moment’s notice, but the moment never came. The griffon didn’t move.

After watching it lay there for a while, she took a tentative step closer. When it remained still, she kicked a bit of snow at it. No reaction.

Careful not to make any sudden moves she set down her bow and reached for the knife. Once she had a firm grip on the handle she advanced, putting one hoof forward at a time until she was standing over her quarry.

It was what she’d been looking for, that much was clear: a sleek, feline lower half paired with the head, wings, and claws of a falcon. She’d heard plenty of stories about them - and about ponies who fell prey to them - but she’d never seen one in person. Not like this.

She examined the fallen predator from just beyond the reach of its talons, her eyes drawn to the point of its beak. It was lying on its side with its eyes closed, half buried in snow. Even now just looking at it made her breath quicken: this was something she should not be close to, ever, and she needed to leave.

She swallowed and turned her attention to its tail. Just some quick work with the knife and she could return home. She wouldn’t have to stay here any longer. She got a bit closer, still watching it in case it should wake, and noticed something poking out of the snow beside it.

It was a sort of bent stick with a string attached. Tarkā looked closer, following the string across the monster’s chest to where it disappeared.

It took her a moment to realize that the creature didn’t have a scar. It had a hide strap tied around its body, like a belt. It took her a moment longer to realize what the stick was.

She saw where the quiver had fallen - its quiver - saw the strange symbols carved into the arm of its hunting bow. Her breath caught in her throat and she recoiled, her grip on the knife wavering.

No. No no no no no…

The creature stirred. Tarkā stopped, standing still as stone as it rolled over onto its back. It wheezed and clutched at its side, then opened its eyes to meet her gaze.

A loud whinny rang in Tarkā’s ears, and as she stumbled backwards she realized it was her own. The knife landed in the snow with a dull thud. Glancing down at it, ice shot through her veins. She needed to pick it up again, needed to defend herself, but that would mean getting closer to the claws and beak of the thing that was staring at her. Her bow was still behind her somewhere, but she couldn’t look away and she didn’t remember how to use it and she couldn’t move because every one of her muscles had locked into place and she knew it would kill her.

It took its time sitting upright, taking the longbow from its back only to set it down in the snow. It kept one eye on Tarkā the whole time; one thin, yellow, catlike eye that burned with animal intensity and glinted with something far more terrifying, something that left her speechless.

Her hooves went numb as if she were staring down a cockatrice. Her mother had said they couldn’t wield magic but Tarkā didn’t know anymore and didn’t care: the threat of razor-edged talons at her neck was the only thing she could think of, the only thing that mattered.

She didn’t want to die.

The griffon looked at where the knife had fallen and reached out to pluck it from the snow. Its claw was a bit too large for the handle but it grasped it anyway, lifting the polished flint blade up to its face.

It looked long and hard at that blade, turning it back and forth so that the light reflected off it. It picked at the point where the flint slotted into the carved wood, at the twine holding the two halves together.

Its eyes grew wide, and it moved a claw to its bow. It raised its head and looked at Tarkā.

Its pupils narrowed.

Something in her snapped. She bolted.

She didn’t want to die she didn’t want to die she didn’t want-

Her hooves kicked up snow as she sprinted into the trees. By the time she remembered her bow she was in full gallop and didn’t look back: getting away was more important. She needed to get away.

That thing back there was one of them, the hunters in the night, the ones that had taken her father. It had the sharp edges and broad wings and sleek form and cold, predatory eyes, but she hadn’t realized - hadn’t known - and gods above it wanted to kill her and the thought made her sick to her stomach. She remembered the way it had held her knife, remembered the hide belt and sinew bowstring and-

She couldn’t think anymore after that. It made her legs weak, and she couldn’t afford to stumble.

Sprinting through the trees as fast as she could, she didn’t feel like a hunter. A hunter would have stood their ground. What she was doing - this show of harried, wild-eyed mortality - it made her prey. It made her an animal but she couldn’t stop to worry about that, not when there was the slightest possibility she was being pursued and she needed to escape, needed to gain more distance.

The strap holding her quiver felt tight around her barrel and she tore at it with her teeth, cast it aside and bucked the woven saddle-blanket from her back and kept running without even thinking about them. She couldn't look back, couldn't spare a moment's hesitation; neither mind nor body would let her.

Soon she could see the edge of the trees but she didn't slow down, not while the branches were still overhead. She couldn't hear through the wind rushing in her ears - or was that wings? The thought drove her faster, pushed her forwards past the trees and past her startled mother and on into the moors where the snow piled up in front of her and she pushed through that too. She’d have run all the way back to the herd if she could, but her burning muscles soon refused to cooperate and she collapsed in the snow, panting and heaving and shaking from exertion. Her heart hammered so hard it hurt, and she tried in vain to catch her breath.

The next thing she remembered was somepony kneeling beside her, calmly setting their bow next to her and taking her hoof in theirs.

“Your gear is lost," her mother said. There was no disappointment in it, no dismay, simply a statement of fact. "Are you wounded?” she added.

Tarkā didn’t answer. She curled in on herself and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to forget what she’d seen. It didn’t work: the images came unbidden, and the thoughts followed them. She wondered if this was what her father had felt before he died.

Her mother closed her eyes and sighed. “You found one,” she said.

Even now, the fur on Tarkā’s back refused to lie flat. Maybe it never would again. How could she ever feel safe, knowing what she knew? How could she sleep at night? Tears welled in her eyes, and she blinked them away before they could be seen.

“Did you succeed?” her mother asked, lifting her daughter’s muzzle to look at her.

Tarkā moved her mouth, but no words came out. She felt the blood drain from her face as she struggled to say something. “It… it could have killed me. It wanted to kill me.”

Her mother sighed again. “You lived.”

The words didn't reach her. “It had a bow,” she said, her body shaking. “It had a bow. It could have shot me. It was going to-” She couldn’t finish. The tears finally fell and she broke down in sobs, throwing her hooves around her mother and clinging to her like a foal as she begged forgiveness.

She expected her mother to scold her. She expected to be told to get up, to go back in and find the bow she'd so foolishly tossed aside. She expected to walk home in silence.

Instead, her mother hugged her back. "Shh." She began stroking her mane. "Let it out. Let it out."

A fresh wave rose up, and Tarkā failed to hold it back. She cried openly, with tears and sniffling and trembling and shivering and she was cold, cold without her saddle-blanket and-

"I didn't want to die," she bawled. "I didn't- I didn't want it to kill me. I don't..."

Her mother soothed her again, squeezing her tight until her outburst died down. When she had stopped shaking, her mother pulled back to look her in the eyes. "Be calm," she said. "You were in no danger. If it had tried to kill you it would have succeeded; but the young ones always hold back.” She ran a gentle hoof through her daughter's mane. “This is why you must learn before they do.”

The words made Tarkā’s throat close up. “I can’t,” she sobbed, the tears welling up again. “I can’t, please, I can’t…”

“You will,” her mother said softly. “Other chances will come. You have seen one now, faced it. It does not matter that you faltered. Next time, when the moment comes, you will not hesitate.”