A Game of Bits
~Prologue~
“Cor blimey, it ain’t ‘alf cold up ‘ere tonight, innit?”
The chill wind blowing up on the Longforts that night certainly attested to that. For days, the weather in the South had been slowly worsening, the occasional storm of ice and hail turning into full-blown blizzard after blizzard, each raging interminably at the peaks of the mountain ranges that spanned the southern border of the nation of Equestria. For days, an endless downpour of rain had confined various creatures to their homes and turned the hard, cracked soil into a slurry of mud and muck that cut the routes through the passes off and left the children of the mountain stranded and defenseless. For days, at the peaks of the tallest spires that dotted the Longforts, ponies had stood and watched, waiting for the air to still, the cold to relent, and the sun to shine, if only for a few moments.
Every day looked to be getting worse, and unfortunately, not a one of the Longforts’ order of scholars could explain a damn thing.
“Cripes, you’d think we hadn’t been patrolling all night from the way that bloke on the outpost is givin’ me the stinkeye,” a pronouncedly nasal voice whined, through another whistling blast of wind.
“Bleedin’ bugger won’t cop the bloomin’ lights so we can head off to the barracks,” the other grumbled back, taking a drag on an unlit pipe. The crushed tobacco in the chamber fizzled for a moment, illuminated by sparks of flame, but they quickly petered out, and the pony frowned, glaring at the oaken pipe as he chewed on the bit in his mouth.
“Makes you wonder why we bother, don’t it, boss?”
“Nah,” the gruff pony sighed, shaking his head. “See, I got this theory, right, and it’s a bloody good one, if you ask me. Which you didn’t, an’ I respect that, see, but a bloke’s got to speak his piece when he’s got a piece to speak, you follow?”
“I follow, boss,” came the retort, as the younger pony moved over to the walls on the side of the battlements. Below them, gargoyles and buttresses sat awaiting something from beyond the mountains, eyes warily focused on the horizon; in the darkness and snow you couldn’t see a thing in any direction further than your hoof from your face, but years of service had burned the image into the guardspony’s mind. A picture scored on his mind with hot charcoal. Figuratively, so to speak, or think, in the pony’s case.
To the north, a blissful, idyllic landscape, grasslands, forests and clear blue skies as far as the eye could see. Downright quaint, if you asked him, which you didn’t.
To the east and to the west, the Longforts.
And, all the way to the south, wherever you looked, a frozen wasteland, cold enough to freeze the hairs off a colt’s skin and leave him starkers where he stood.
“Now, I figure, that daft old Princess has an ace in ‘er hole, if you catch my meaning,” the elder pony continued, closing his eyes in an expression of serene wisdom as his horn flared again. The tobacco in the pipe refused to light, but the shank of the thing itself caught fire, and the stallion dropped it, shaking his hooves wildly in dismay.
“Cripes!” the two ponies yelled in unison, backing off from the dancing flames on the floor. They spat pathetically for a moment, before dying out, and the ponies shared a glance, suddenly regretting not taking advantage of a good spot of warmth.
“Anyway, as I was sayin’,” the elder sighed, drawing another pipe from somewhere within his armour, “she’s a smart lass, bit of a brain, so to speak, so she must have us wandering around out here for a reason.”
“Yeah.”
“So it stands to reason, right, that that reason’s a pretty well-reasoned reason, a reasonable old geezer might say. Right?”
“Yeah, boss, makes sense.”
“So obviously we stand to gain. I mean, clearly if a goddess or whatever those two royal arses are, gods bless me,” he cut off, making a quick gesture of contrition with his hooves at the black skies above, “thinks we’re supposed to be up here, in the bloody cold, freezin’ our nethers off, then surely that’s the way things should be and there ain’t no arguin’ it. Destiny, or somethin’ like that. Right?”
The younger pony stopped to ponder that for a moment. Was it right? Did his boss’ harsh drawl and thick Trottingham accent give him better insight into the way of the world? Was he deluded?
“You look a bit troubled, sonny jim,” the elder pony said, still eyeing him carefully.
“Bit much to take in, all in a moment and all that,” he replied, still slightly confused. Shrugging, he continued. “I mean, you just spelled out my whole life, guv. ‘S a lot for a pony to consider, on an empty stomach, out in the cold.”
“Ah, someday, my lad,” was the only answer he got, that and a short, sharp laugh. Like a knock on a door, except less with the rapping and more with the laughter. Metaphor (that was the one, he was pretty certain) felt a bit tortuous, but surely that was okay in exchange for some prim and proper poshness, right? Sophisticated, like a proper toff. They were the bread and butter, after all. The heart of the place. “When you’re all good and grown up, Bob’s your uncle, you’ll get it.”
“It’s a mission, boss,” he sighed back, hanging his head and continuing down the pathways. A hundred yards or so away, the next outpost sat, a small shelter with a torch firmly glued on its head. Given the weather it wasn’t going to be lit any time soon, but he was fairly certain nothing would be so mad as to attack the fortress in a nigh-unprecedented storm.
But then, under cover of darkness...
Cautiously he stretched his neck out over the crenels set on the south-facing side of the walkway. Beneath them, there was a short stop, then a long drop, maybe a thousand feet on a good day, with a lot of snow piled up. Otherwise it’d be a fall enough to kill even the hardiest flier, and if that didn’t get them, the rockfalls the region was notorious for surely would.
A gale of wind blew snow right into his face, so he pulled back, resting behind cover as he primed his crossbow with a deft tongue. Years of experience had taught him everything he needed to know about keeping his weapons in tip-top shape. Not exactly a master archer by any stretch of the word, but good enough, in a pinch.
A few yards away, standing under the archway that led into the shelter, his boss was puffing happily on yet another pipe, this time blowing small, furtive smoke rings out into the harsh winds, where they were almost immediately caught and torn apart. His eyes seemed to glint under the moonlight, and as the mists began to clear, the younger pony was able to get a good bead on what he was looking at.
He lifted his head skyward and looked, straining to see what the pegasus saw.
Not too far above their heads - almost close enough for him to reach out and touch it - the moon peeked out between the clouds, beaming down on the open valley their section of the Longforts overlooked. For the first time in days, the young pony was able to catch a glimpse of the scene that had made his first vision of the morning for most of his life, and it comforted him, like being reunited with an old, dear friend.
And deep within the chasms, lurking in the inky depths, he could instinctively tell they were gathering for another attack on the Kithkin Pass.
“Great. Can’t catch a bloody break around here, can you,” he muttered, edging closer to the merlons to get a better look, and, hopefully, avoid anything worse than a bloody nose if some mad creature decided to scale the walls and attack him head on.
If there was one thing he had going for him, it was his sight, sharper and lengthier than anyone else on their platform, and now he put it to use, eyes narrowing as he focused on a small crevasse in the mountainside a ways down. They were usually where the blasted creatures decided to surface when they attacked, and offered some serious advantages when it came to striking at the Longforts’ weak spots; a dangerous gambit, to be sure, but one the suicidal creatures rarely ever left alone.
He was sure they connected to the vast underground tunnels they’d discovered hundreds of years back, but no one cared to test his theories, not when nearly every inch of the subterranean system was creeper territory. Just one was enough to make most wet themselves, and he was certainly no better.
“Look sharp, lad,” his boss’ voice supplied as he settled in behind him, quietly setting the beacon on top of the platform aflame. It’d signal others to be on their guard, and they’d be grateful, if it turned out not to be a false alarm. “Keep good company, we do, don’t we?”
“Should have ‘em back for a tea party,” he chuckled back, scanning the network of holes and tunnels for any signs of movement. “Still got some crumpets and scrumpy left over from our last little gathering, a real midday social, like them proper folks have back home.”
“And maybe we’ll get a spot of slap an’ tickle while we’re at it, eh?” The elder pony sniggered, nudging him lecherously in the side. “One of them beauts has got to have a soft spot in ‘er for a couple ‘a old cockneys like us, wouldn’t you say?”
The younger pony simply turned red in response, too embarrassed to think of some witty repartée.
“There’s a good lad,” said the elder, staring off into the distance where points of bright light began to burst into being, dancing and glittering in the moonlight. “Stars are out tonight. Real pretty, like a bloomin’ picture on the ol’ postcards they make back home. Reminds me of my first Dear John.”
“Least you got one of them,” the younger mumbled. “I ain’t even had a chance to let my little soldier do some bloody soldierin’. Too busy defendin’ my country and nonsense.”
“Ain’t we all, chap,” and with that, silence fell over the two for a few moments. “You told the rest of the encampment? Give ‘em a minute’s warning, why don’t you.”
“They’ll have seen the fires,” he jibed back, searching ever more urgently for the attack. They always struck with the clear skies, no matter what the time of day. The two had been strolling up and down the fort above the Pass for weeks now, with nary a disturbance aside from the occasional local drunken pissant. Apparently it’d been clear all the way up and down the Longforts, and the damn thing stretched on for more than a thousand miles. Where were they? What were they planning?
The earth around them seemed to be standing still, as though waiting for something to happen.
“Oi, kiddo,” the elder whispered, trembling with slight anxiety. That was new. And worrying. “You don’t think they already took the forts somewhere down the line, do you?”
“You know what they say,” he answered, vigilant. “It’s a chain. The weakest link breaks, the entire thing falls. And that means we’re royally buggered, mate.”
“Well, buck it all, why don’t you, you sorry numpty. I do believe my egg’s been scrambled for the last time.”
When he felt a strong pair of hooves wrap themselves around his withers and pull him back, away from the crenels and into broad, open vulnerability, the younger pony struggled, desperately kicking out with all his limbs as he tried to escape the elder’s grasp. But it wasn’t enough, and after a few more seconds of frenzied fighting, he relaxed, loosening in the other’s grip.
It was comfortable. Almost a bit too comfortable. Like a lover’s embrace...
When he was spun round and pulled into a deep, unexpected kiss, he knew the world had been turned up on its head, and from there, it was turtles all the way down. He pulled away, gasping for breath, but the fiery desire in the other’s eyes, that had literally come out of nowhere, threatened to pull him back in.
“What in the name of all the-”
Interrupted by another sweet, drawn out kiss (he noted the other tasted lightly of mint and honeysuckle, something he hadn’t expected at all of his rough, uncultured friend), he couldn’t help but melt ever so slightly into the embrace.
And that was when he recognised the trap.
A swift punch to the other’s windpipe knocked him out cleanly, and the younger pony staggered backwards, slowly piecing together what was going on.
Magic was at play. Foul magic. And the chill slowly spreading through his bones, that sapped all his strength and slowly began to freeze him from the core outwards, was all the evidence he needed to know.
The sounds of ringing steel and clashing armies all around him were almost maddening, and the scent of mint and honeysuckle was growing even stronger. He couldn’t quite tell where it was coming from, or what was giving it off, or even if it was real, but he gasped for breath all the same, falling flat on his rump as he tried to crawl away from his friend’s rising body.
He could hear them all around him. Had they finally made it up?
His friend began to stir, body jerking unnaturally this way and that as he rose to his hooves. The sight was grotesque, yet mesmerising. The younger pony couldn’t look away, at all, and he sat there, watching, as his friend’s eyes opened, glassed over, and gazed at him with soulless intensity.
They glowed an eerie, bright blue.
Around him, rising flames began to carve out strange patterns in the wall, but he didn’t notice, barely even cared. All he could do was watch as his friend lurched towards him, groaning something indistinct under his breath, horn slowly blackening with char.
The tightening pain in his chest was barely enough to stem the flow of tears from his blurry, exhausted eyes, and he just sat there and waited for fate, listening to the screams around him, carried on a bitterly cold wind.
