//------------------------------// // 5 - The Forest Will Eat You Alive // Story: Death Valley // by Rambling Writer //------------------------------// Earth pony magic being mostly focused on strength didn’t seem that impressive until you had to do what they did without magic. Code was borderline shrimpy compared to Bitterroot, yet Bitterroot was struggling with just one crate where Code had easily pulled two. Flight was nice and all, but sometimes, she really wanted to be an earth pony. “Ye ken fer certain y’ain’t needin’ my help?” asked Whippletree. “I’m sure,” wheezed Bitterroot as she pumped her wings and pounded snow into water until she was digging at the ground below and panted until her breath made her resemble a locomotive and the sledge budged forward another single inch. “Right,’ said Whippletree. He glanced south, towards the station. “Then I’d best be off. Got some…” Bitterroot stopped listening after that and continued with what she somehow managed to convince herself was pulling. After she didn’t know how long, she was able to hook her hooves around the doorframe to the Watering Cave and pull on something that wasn’t incredibly slippery. She could actually when she was inside because the air was something resembling warm. Yeah, she was going to have to work to get the crates to whatever room they were staying in. “How do.” Once the exertion stars left her eyes, Bitterroot took a look around the Cave’s common room. Nothing special, although the room stretched back for longer than she’d expected. Packed dirt floor, tables and chairs, she’d seen it before. A few of those chairs were occupied by ponies who were occupied with either their drinks or staring at Bitterroot. There was a stove in the center, with a roaring fire that kept the room relatively toasty and a chimney funneling smoke up and out. Across one wall, right near the door, was a bar, with oodles of barrels and a surprising amount of vegetables and a thoroughly grumpy unicorn mare who was no longer crunching numbers. “Fine,” said Bitterroot. She gave the sledge another tug, managing to get it slightly into the room. “You?” The unicorn glanced at Bitterroot’s crates. “Dunno. Need ’elp?” “Only if you’re the innkeep and I wouldn’t be intruding.” It took several moments for the unicorn to admit, “Aye.” “Then yes.” Bitterroot didn’t hear anything, but the unicorn’s chest moved in a way that indicated a sigh. Still, she came out from behind the bar and walked up to Bitterroot. “Cabin Still,” she grunted. “Innkeep.” “Bitterroot,” Bitterroot replied. “Bounty hunter.” Cabin eyed her suspiciously for a moment, then poked her head out of the door. “Ritual doodads?” she asked when she saw the sledge. “Fer the ley line?” “Yep,” said Bitterroot. “I need help getting it up to our rooms.” Cabin grunted again. “Log crib’d be gooder.” With a few deep breaths of exertion, she took a hold of the first crate in her magic and, with Bitterroot’s help, finegaled it into the Cave. Cabin slowly led the two of them to a door in the far corner. “You, uh, doing alright?” Bitterroot asked. It seemed the right thing to ask. Grunt. “…So you are?” Grunt. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes’.” Grunt. The door led to a small storage area, dark and cold and low-ceilinged but with plenty of space for the crates. Once they moved the crates in, Bitterroot started slinging their bags around her flanks. When Cabin sullenly followed suit, Bitterroot said, “Oh, no, I got this, you don’t need-” “Showin’ which room’s yers,” grunted Cabin. (She didn’t seem to breathe normally, only grunt.) “Goin’ up aryway.” “Alright, thanks.” Grunt. Only one step creaked as they went up. Bitterroot ignored it just as she ignored Cabin’s attitude. She was an outsider, it was to be expected in a town this… closed. Best to just go with the flow and act like she didn’t care. (Which she didn’t. Experience.) The second floor didn’t have a lot of doors for rooms, but more than Bitterroot would have expected. As Cabin led her down a narrow hall, Bitterroot asked, “How come you have… these rooms? Ponies never come here, right?” “Buildin’s old,” Cabin said, digging in a pocket for the key. “Cheaper tae keep it’n tear it all down.” A notion hardly exclusive to Tratonmane, or even Equestria, or probably even Equus. Bitterroot nodded. “And it comes in handy in the once-in-a-lifetime moments when ponies come to visit, right?” “Aye.” Not even the slightest quirk of a grin. The room Cabin gave them was incredibly bare-bones, to the point that Bitterroot had stayed in more luxurious hostels — four beds with thick blankets, something that might’ve been a desk, a few chairs — but it was accommodation and it was decently warm and it had a window with an acceptable view of the Great Ash. There wasn’t even any howling from the wind. Bitterroot let her bags drop to the floor and rolled her shoulders. Maybe she’d go for a quick flight, just to stretch her wings out a little. She didn’t use them as much as some pegasi, but they could still ache. “Key an’ spare,” Cabin suddenly said. She tossed a ring with two keys at Bitterroot. “Privy’s at the end o’ the hall.” She left without any more ceremony. Privy, up here? Maybe it was just a garderobe. Bitterroot glanced through the door and did a double-take when she saw a full bathroom. A cramped, somewhat rundown bathroom that was about a hundred years out of date, but an actual bathroom, with a sink and mirror and flush toilet and shower. Bitterroot tried the last; the shower took a while to get warm, but they had hot water. Naturally, the first thing she did when she was back downstairs was ask Cabin, “You have plumbing?” “Aye,” said Cabin. She didn’t look up as she continued working through her finances. “Inventor works in town.” “Huh.” Bitterroot had known a few inventor-ish ponies, once upon a time. Interesting people, although they weren’t the mad science types. Maybe she’d find out who and talk with them a little. Maybe she’d become the hero of the town before she left. Ah, well. She turned to step away from the desk, only to quickly step back. “Say, uh, don’t I owe you anything? Money, I mean, to pay for the room.” “Nay. Crown Housin’ Act o’ 529,” said Cabin gruffly. Now, even her ears were angled back. “Ah, right,” said Bitterroot, pretending that meant something rather than being one of a stupidly huge number of old laws she’d never needed to learn. She’d ask Code about it later. “Thanks.” An even surlier grunt than usual. Somehow. The other ponies were giving her looks bordering on dirty and it made her coat crawl, so Bitterroot headed outside. At least she’d get less dirty looks out there. Yeah, she definitely wouldn’t want to visit here. It was gloomy, sure, but that just made it interesting. It was the ponies that killed the vibe. In these sorts of towns, everything settled into a sort of comfortable status quo, and foreigners like herself disrupted that status quo. A status so quo, in fact, that ponies in other foreigner-disliking towns thought them weird, if Waypoint was anything to go by. Even absent any other factors, it wasn’t that surprising that Tratonmane’s dislike of them was nearly palpable. At the moment, Bitterroot wanted nothing more than to wing it southeast. Which, of course, meant that everyone else probably wanted to leave, too. Amanita included. And what sort of moral support would Bitterroot be if she left the moment the going got tough? The sort that would be remembered forever, the same way crystal ponies remembered Sombra or Celestia remembered Nightmare Moon. No, she’d be staying. Maybe she could get friendly with the locals, or at least to a level less hostile than “please die in a fire”. She knew a few methods for that. Deep breath in, deep breath out, and Bitterroot looked up at the eastern wall of Midwich. She’d never seen anything quite like it, something that bright while everything around it was so dim. The shadow of the western peaks had visibly crept upwards a little since their arrival, enough so that Bitterroot wondered if she could see it move if she sat and watched. A light on the tip of a unicorn’s horn bobbed towards her across the street. Unicorns seemed to have an advantage when it came to visibility in a place like this, which made it surprising that there were so few. (Although the prevalence of chiropteri wasn’t surprising.) As the unicorn approached, he resolved into Tallbush. “Hidy,” he said, nodding at her. “Hidy,” said Bitterroot. The word rolled off the tongue nicely. “Arypony else in yer herd around?” “Not at the moment. They headed down towards the forest.” Bitterroot pointed. It was a bit strange, thinking of north as “down”, but she’d adjust. Tallbush’s ear twitched. “Right, right,” he muttered. He glanced towards the forest for a moment. “So, eh, y’ain’t with ’em? A-workin’ fer the Crown, I mean,” he added quickly. “Not officially, no. Like I said, just with a friend.” “Mmhmm. What, what dae ye ken about ’em?” Bitterroot blinked. Some interest in the people working to fix the ley line was expected, but Tallbush was sounding inquisitive even for that. Almost… nervous, like he needed to know the answer. She wasn’t sure he noticed his tone himself, so she kept her frown on the inside. “Mostly, I just know Amanita. The unicorn,” she said. “She’s a… junior ritualist. She-” “I recomember o’ that frae the knock-down- The introduction.” Tallbush’s voice was fast and he didn’t seem to realize he was pawing at the ground. “What manner o’ rituals?” “Er-” Bitterroot flinched backward and her tail twitched. “Just- kinda- in general, I guess. She needs to be able to do… a lot of different things. She’s here to learn.” “And the others? Restricted Code an’… Charcoal.” “Nothing you wouldn’t know from what Code told you earlier. I barely know them. You’d be better off asking them.” “Eh… Dinnae wish tae go near the forest. ’Tis right savagerous.” Bitterroot didn’t know the exact meaning of the word, but she got the gist. How could she not, when it sounded like that? “When they come back up, then.” “If’n I got the time. It’s… We’ll see.” Bitterroot just shrugged. Schedules were more rigid in Canterlot than out in the country, but they were often more full out in the country. It was entirely possible that he wouldn’t be free for Celestia knew how long. She’d see. She looked south, up the hills Tratonmane seemed to spill down. Even in the lamplight, you could sort of make out where space began to get tighter in the town’s history based on the orientation of the buildings. There were places where the outlines of the buildings were more naturalistically placed, probably following the contours of the land, but as you went out from them, buildings and roads seemed to snap into place along a grid to make more efficient use of the space they had. If the buildings were lucky, they had some extra space around them (maybe fenced off) to keep the snapping from looking too abrupt or out-of-place. How many of those older buildings, once placed for beauty and now taking up space, were ones that wouldn’t be rebuilt along more modern lines because Tratonmane liked them too much to knock them down? How many such buildings had been knocked down anyway? There was a history of the town sitting there for all to see in its street layout alone. Which… Hmm. “You wouldn’t happen to have any sort of… history of the town, would you?” Bitterroot said casually. “Specifically of the ley lines. That’d be nice.” “Aye, got ’em in the town hall,” Tallbush said. “Farmers’ records.” “Really?” Bitterroot quickly stood up straight and Tallbush twitched. “That’d be great! Can you show me?” Tallbush blinked, chewed his lip for a moment. A surprisingly long moment. Three seconds before Bitterroot was about to speak, he said, “Sure. Town library.” He clicked his tongue, nodded in another direction, and crunched off through the dark snow, Bitterroot following him. Their destination was right across the square from the Watering Cave, on the other side of the Ash. It was an unadorned building with a tall roof and a crosshaired window right above the door. Many of the other windows, though, were tightly boarded up from top to bottom. It was also clearly one of the older buildings in Tratonmane, maybe the oldest. That might explain the extra space on each side compared to other buildings, including a snow-covered graveyard; it’d been built when space wasn’t quite at such a premium. The building was topped off by a bell tower, four or five stories tall. “As declared, Tratonmane’s town hall,” Tallbush said, throwing open the door. “Dinnae mind the damage; powerful bad storm recently. Broke all the glass in the place, if’n ye can believe that!” Bitterroot stepped inside, stomping grime and snow off from her coat in the mudroom; the air was warmish, at least. The peaked, high-ceilinged room before her stretched for a surprisingly long ways, filled with row after row of benches and leading to an open space for an off-center lectern at the back. Still-glowing oil lamps hung on the walls, casting shadows every which way but providing enough light to see by. The windows on either side had been boarded up on the inside as well as the outside, apparently victims of the storm. “Lotta space,” Bitterroot commented. “You could probably fit the whole town in here.” “Well-” Tallbush coughed. “We’d hardly be a-holdin’ our assemblies out in the snow, aye? Built more’n we really had need of.” Better too much space than not enough space. Bitterroot nodded. Tallbush pointed towards a door in one of the back corners. “Got a library back thataways,” he said as he led her up the center aisle. “Prolly ain’t what yer used tae, but got a lavish o’ hist’ry on ley lines in-” He froze, head high, ears pricking up, one of his rear legs nervously twitching at the ground. Bitterroot held her breath and listened. She could barely make out the fading echoes of a wolf’s distant howl. But it was so far away, it couldn’t possibly be- Another howl, slightly closer, still far. Bitterroot was ready to ignore it when Tallbush turned right around and walked up to her. “Gotta hike ’em,” he said quickly. He didn’t sound particularly worried, but he did sound anxious. Whatever this situation was, he’d been through it plenty of times before, but he hadn’t stopped taking it seriously. “Why?” asked Bitterroot. “The wolves?” “Lissen, it ain’t-” BONG. The sudden ringing of the bell, so loud and so close, sent Bitterroot’s teeth rattling, all the way down to their roots. The entire building shook with the force of the bell’s clangs, to the point that dust was swirling down from the ceiling. Before she could say anything, Tallbush had grabbed her tail in his magic and was awkwardly dragging her along. Most of what he said next was cut off by another BONG, but Bitterroot picked up, “-ain’t safe tae be out-” BONG. She still didn’t know what was up, but it was probably best to follow somepony who knew what they were talking about. She pulled her tail from his magic and trotted after him. “What’s going on? Are the wolves dangerous?” Tallbush snorted. “Worser’n that. ’Tis like they hate us.” In Tratonmane, Bitterroot heard yelling, the rumble of hooves, and the high-pitched chirps of echolocation. Ponies were flowing in from all over, heading towards a slope behind the Watering Cave. Unicorns had their horns lit and non-unicorns were holding lanterns high, waving others on. It was quick, but it was surprisingly orderly, with little panic. Like they’d drilled for it. “Happens e’ery moon ’r so,” continued Tallbush, falling into line at the tail end. “Them wolves, they try tae get intae Tratonmane an’ take our ponies away. Cannae say why. Jes’ went meaner’n striped snakes afore I’s born. Got tae be ready.” Before he was born. In Bitterroot’s inexperienced mind, this was the sort of thing that would be easily explained by the ley line, but that option was already shut. Probably. She’d keep it in mind, even though the people whose job it actually was to manage this almost certainly already knew. With the crowd still moving, they rounded a corner of the Cave. Before them, Bitterroot saw a yawning hole in the hill, thick doors standing open. It looked like nothing more than a bunker. Ponies were quickly filing in, and soon Bitterroot was stumbling down the staircase. It wasn’t long, maybe half a story, but she had to do some awkward wing-flails to keep from tumbling onto the ponies below. The room beyond was as basic as could be: walls, floor, ceiling, support columns, benches, dim lamps, two or three doorways. It wasn’t large, either, maybe half the size of the room at the town hall, and enough ponies were in it that it felt packed. Each and every hard stone surface reflected sound around, mixing it all into a sonic slurry of hoofsteps, under-the-breath mutters, and echolocation. But just like the entry had been painless, the slurry was unworried. Behind her, a last few stragglers came in and the bunker door was slammed shut. Bitterroot looked back up the stairs and saw a locking mechanism that banks would envy. “Is this overkill?” she risked asking Tallbush. “Me pa didnae believe so,” Tallbush said flatly. “Neither did the crowd that built it. Mebbe is now. Prolly weren’t back then. Ain’t never lost a pony so long as they make it in ’ere.” Bitterroot didn’t miss the implications of that last phrase. Tallbush seemed to notice, because he quickly said, “Why dinnae ye sit yerself down. Got things that need sayin’.” Without another word, he moved to a more central part of the room and stomped several times. “Alright, everpony, lissen up!” he said in the sudden silence. Bitterroot listened for a few moments, but it was just a speech on assurances and “don’t worry”s. A good speech, to be fair, but she’d heard it before. She picked her way around the ponies, towards a dark corner where there wasn’t anypony. If she was going to be in here with a crowd of strangers, she could at least stay out of their way. The second she sat down, Bitterroot was thinking. How long would the wolves be around? If it was too long, Tallbush would say something, right? Unless he had more pressing matters on his mind, like his speech. …The one that was already concluded and hadn’t sent him back over to Bitterroot. Still, Bitterroot could sit. It was like a stakeout, something she knew well as a bounty hunter, except she didn’t even need to keep her attention focused on anything, which was a plus. She’d give it what she thought was half an hour, then she’d find Tallbush and see what questions he could answer. Surely he could tell her something as simple as- “Well. Fresh blood.” Bitterroot twitched and spun around. A chiropterus nearly old enough to be Bitterroot’s mother was standing next to her, just there, like she’d materialized from the darkness. Her coloration — night-black mane, late-late-evening-purple coat — didn’t help. And then there were her furs (thinner than usual): black, seemingly from coal dust. She was even slightly smaller than most other ponies, her eye level about an inch below Bitterroot’s. She practically looked made to skulk. She wasn’t quite smirking at Bitterroot, her piercing eyes half-lidded. “Hmm?” Bitterroot asked. She pretended to be not surprised, even though she’d convince nopony. “Oh, you know,” the chiropterus replied, waving a hoof casually. “I’ve lived here for some time and we don’t get visitors much.” Her voice flowed, almost teasing. “Carnelian Orchard.” “Bitterroot. You know the ley line? I’m with the ponies here to-” “Of course you are,” said Orchard. “That’s the sole reason the Crown has sent ponies up in all the time I’ve been here. I’m merely curious as to why this is worthy of intervention.” “Dunno,” Bitterroot said with a shrug. “Technically, I don’t work with them.” How many times was she going to have to say something along those lines? A lot. “You don’t?” Orchard raised her head, which still meant she was slightly shorter than Bitterroot. “You don’t work for the Crown?” “I guess I do if you consider bounty hunting working for it. I don’t. They’d need to salary me.” “Huh.” Orchard smiled again. “I suppose in that case, I shouldn’t be asking you about their reasoning.” She threw a mock salute. “Take care of yourself. The princess isn’t looking after you.” She turned away and walked into the bunker. Of course Bitterroot knew the princess wasn’t looking after her. That wasn’t even a bad thing. The last time the princess wasn’t looking after her, she’d snagged the largest bounty of her entire life and made a friend. Tratonmane didn’t seem quite so lucky, though. Bitterroot glanced at the door. No one was moving toward it. Well, it’d open when it opened. She settled in to wait. The last time Amanita had faced down animals in the North, she’d been chased by a rabid bear and only saved by a passing ranger who’d died in the process. (She’d brought the ranger back, but still.) She still remembered it well; the deep roars that rattled your bones and curdled your blood, the heavy thud of the bear’s weight, the dull sheen of claws that seemed far too long for their own good. Tartarus, she could still remember the rancid, sickly flat stench of the bear’s breath. She wanted to bolt back to Tratonmane and lock herself in her room until the danger was past. (Which room was her room? The one with the thickest walls, the biggest door, and the strongest lock, obviously.) But she had a job to do. She had to look strong. She had to look professional. It was why she was here. And of all the positive and negative qualities alike she could ascribe to professionals, “runs to the hills at the first sign of trouble” wasn’t one of them. So the skilled Canterlot necromancer shied away, on the verge of bolting, as the backwoods lumberjacks formed up into something like a defensive line. It seemed strong; Amanita didn’t know enough to say. Code had taken up a position on one of the flanks. Charcoal was rocking back and forth on her hooves, unsure of whether to be scared or interested in whatever was coming their way. Crosscut was in the center of the line, glancing up and down it and barking out warnings. The deep boom of a bell rang out across the valley, once, twice, thrice. Its echoes were heard countless times more. It was clearly a warning, but Amanita wasn’t sure whether it was to the town or the forest. Maybe both. Yet another howl, even closer than before. This one was joined by several others. Then, behind her, Amanita heard the whisk of wings and a rumble of hooves. Before she could turn around, five ponies, all wearing the battered armor of a militia, galloped around or flew over her. Armed with a spear, Whippletree was leading the charge; as the other guards ran around the lumberjacks formed up between them and the forest, Whippletree landed next to Crosscut and somehow gave her a peck on the cheek without looking away from Midwich. “Hidy, dona,” he said. “Hidy, jusem,” she said back, not looking at him. “Where’s Wythe?” “In the southern shelter. Got ’er in meself.” “Thankee.” Whippletree flap-hopped over the line and strode in front of even the other militiaponies. They were a motley crew, ranging from the stereotypical strong pegasus of Whippletree to a scrawny young earth pony who probably wouldn’t have been old enough to drink in Canterlot to an old unicorn who held himself like a veteran. Their armor was all battered, but they all held themselves strong. In the gloom, just outside the edge of the lights, twigs started snapping and leaves started rustling. The black rippled in that strange way where you can’t make out any shape in the dark but you can still see it moving. Whippletree’s ears pivoted this way and that; he kept jinking in different directions with his wings, keeping himself between the woods and everyone else, as the noise moved about. “Excuse me.” Code had moved down the line and was talking to Crosscut. “Is this normal? For Tratonmane, I mean.” “Wish it weren’t,” Crosscut said around her ax. “But they keep comin’ up ’ere, an’ we keep prickin’ ’em. Mebbe one day, they’ll get the hint. Animals o’ this sort only ken pain.” “How often do they come?” “Once ’r twice a-” “Varnish!” Whippletree yelled, pointing with his spear. “Dinnae stray tae far afield! Yer leavin’ yer charges bare!” Amanita glanced to look. On one of the flanks, the old unicorn was slowly inching towards Midwich, the glow of his levitated sword sending light cascading across the ground. “I’m watching!” he growled in a voice of boulders. “You don’t need to tell me-” Two wolves burst from the darkened brush. Eyes glowing, jaws slavering, breath following them like fog, they were big, bigger than any wolf Amanita had seen before. They charged for Varnish, eerily silent, crossing the space between him and the forest in a second. Everypony reeled towards them, weapons up if they were armed. Yet even distracted, Varnish outpaced them. As the wolves leapt, his sword whipped through the air, so fast the air crackled, and he almost casually stepped aside. One wolf hit the ground with blood already staining its pelt from a gash running the length of its entire body. The other landed on its paws but barely had time to turn before Varnish ran it through. And as everypony was watching him, the next two wolves descended on the other flank. They were smaller than the first two, but faster, and bowled over the nearest guard before he knew what hit him. Then they ignored him, pouncing on a vulnerable earth pony, each biting into one of his front legs. By the time Varnish had pulled his sword out, the victim was already being dragged towards the edges of Midwich Forest. At the first sound of his screams, the guards pivoted. As the stallion began to disappear towards the river, Whippletree’s wings snapped open and he rocketed down the line. A cloud of snow was kicked up as Code in his wake. Just before the view of the earth pony was blocked by trees, Whippletree slammed spear-first into one of the wolves. The force of the impact ripped its jaws off the pony. Whippletree flared his wings to come to a near-instant stop, letting the impaled wolf tumble away into the river. Almost immediately after, Code impacted the other wolf, wrapping her legs around it and yanking it away with pure inertia. They rolled tail over teakettle across tree roots, but somehow Code ended up on top as she pinned the wolf to the ground by a hoof on its throat. In the space of a second, she hooked her other hoof around her sword hilt, drew it, and forced it so deep into the wolf’s chest that only the tip of the pommel was sticking out. The instant Code’s wolf had let go, Whippletree bit down on the wounded pony’s mane and dragged him away from the forest. Several lumberjacks surged forward to help him. In the thicket, Amanita could make out several dark shapes rustling around, the occasional glinting eye. But with a few angry growls, the shapes dispersed. “Ha!” bellowed Whippletree. “Y’ain’t gettin’ one today, mongrels!” Where once the treeline had been a line demarcating danger, now he ambled over it and into the river to rip his spear from the dead wolf. He took a few deep but quick swigs from the river, then said, “Midwich Militia, on me! We’re goin’ in an’ houndin’ ’em about in case they’re a-stickin’ ’round!” As the militia galloped off into the forest, Amanita’s legs suddenly started shaking as her adrenaline bled out. It was all so fast, less than half a minute; she hadn’t even fully psyched herself up yet. And, of course, it wouldn’t surprise her if she had to go out and encounter more of them in the forest. Thoughts immediately started racing through her head of being separated from her group, getting lost in the woods, and winding up food for wolves or worse. Because, existence of Tratonmane aside, the North was like that; it was where animals that didn’t like pony tutelage went. The nastier ones, the more vicious ones, the ones that would probably be on wanted posters if they were ponies. Creatures up here were bloodthirsty. But at the same time: Heh. The great necromancer and protégé of the High Ritualist, scared of a few animals. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. “Did you see that?” Charcoal muttered to Amanita. Without waiting for an answer, she gestured towards the forest. “The wolves. They flanned that. Planned that.” “Mmhmm.” It had certainly seemed that way, but Amanita couldn’t muster the focus to think about it. “I mean, that was really…” Charcoal made some vague whooshing sounds as she pointed at each exit location. “…timed. No more wolves than necessary. And quick, they didn’t go after that one guard… Did that guard have greaves? Maybe he did… It’d be harder for wolves to get a hold on those…” Charcoal went on rambling. Still in the dark of Midwich, Amanita could see Code hacking at a tree root with her sword, and when she turned her ears in that direction, she could just barely make out Code’s growled invectives. She raised a hoof to walk over, but that was when Code stood up, resheathed her sword, and strode out, panting. She adjusted her glasses and said, a touch too calmly, “If we ever go into Midwich, watch the trees. They will try to catch you.” “See? Night trees,” said Charcoal, grinning. “I was out there just a few seconds,” Code said, “and I already felt one of the roots moving beneath me. I could make out enough of its intent in my magic that a preemptive thwacking seemed… expedient. I might’ve let my spite get the better of me, though.” She pulled out her sword again and examined the blade in Amanita’s hornlight. It was still in decent shape, although it was clearly chipped here and there. “Hmm… I wonder if they have enough silver for me to re-plate it…” “How… worried should we be about… ambulatory trees?” Amanita asked. Part of her couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth; the rest of her reminded the first part that she’d brought back the dead multiple times, so what was so weird about trees moving? “That depends on a lot of things,” said Charcoal. “Ley line, water, light, nutrients in the dirt, magic, how old they are…” “Get us a list later, we could need it,” said Code. She stowed her sword with a twirl. “How’s the other pony holding up?” Right. The almost-foalnapped stallion. The lumberjacks were gathered around him, but they didn’t sound panicked. Amanita wiggled her way into the ring to get a better look. The wolves had bitten clean through the sleeves on his front legs and torn them open, almost ripping them off entirely. Gashes ran down his legs, thin but long, ragged. The blood they were leaking was dark in the horn- and lamplight. Crosscut and another pony were already over halfway done bandaging him up. He’d also picked up smaller, much less severe wounds on his face and his chest from being dragged like a toy across the rough ground. His teeth were gritted and his breathing labored, but his eyes were bright and clear. He’d more than live. Pretty soon, Crosscut was tying off the end of the last bandage. “There… we… go.” She waved the lumberjack away and they all pulled back to give the stallion space. “ ’Bout as good as we can get it right now. Can ye walk?” The stallion gathered his legs under him and slowly, slowly pushed up, groaning all the while. One of his front legs twitched painfully as the knees of his rear legs shook and banged together. His head heaved with the force of his breaths. Through clenched teeth, he said, “Aye.” Crosscut gave him a long, long Look. “Aye,” the stallion repeated. “I dinnae- need- nae help.” He turned towards Tratonmane, took a step, and let out a pained gasp, nearly collapsing forward. Amanita blinked, then lurched forward. What was she thinking, letting this happen in front of her? “Wait!” she yelped. “Wait, I, I can help you. It’ll only-” “Didnae- ye hear me?” grunted the stallion. “I-” “Stop trying to be tough, you’re only hurting yourself.” Amanita scrambled in front of him and raised her head to look him in the eye. “Do you really think you can make it to Tratonmane by yourself?” The stallion opened his mouth to answer, then shook his head, as if not saying it aloud would keep it from being true. “Alright. So just lie down.” The stallion winced, moaning softly, as he lowered himself back down to the ground. Amanita swallowed and began weaving her magic. It was ages since she’d cast this particular spell, but she still knew it even better than necromancy. Delicately, she prodded with her magic at the body that wanted to be, that it would heal into, and then nudged the wounds closer towards that body. At the same time, she telekinetically pulled the gashes together, like she was going to suture them. Gently, not too fast, to avoid too much scarring, she carefully knit the worst of the cuts back together. Over several minutes, the stallion’s whimpers died down to occasional gasps of pain petered out to long, deep breaths. He watched Amanita intently, like he was surprised she was doing this. When she finished, Amanita unwound his bandages to reveal that all of the stallion’s wounds were closed. He had some scars, but those would fade in the next few days. Probably. “Do you feel okay?” she asked, stepping away. “Eh…” The stallion flexed his legs, rolled onto his belly, stood up. He quizzically pawed at the ground. “I reckon so.” “Good. Then you should be all set.” “If he works, he ain’t gonna reopen ’is wounds, is he?” Crosscut asked. “I dinnae want ’im all stove up.” “That shouldn’t happen,” said Amanita. “…I think. I’ve… never done it with this sort of physical work before, but I don’t see why that would affect anything.” As she eyed one of the downed trees, Crosscut chewed her lip, then said to the stallion, “Ach, jes’ get yerself home. We got this.” “Positive?” he asked. “I can-” “Deed an’ double,” Crosscut said resolutely. “Stay safe an’ heal up. I ain’t gonna risk it.” “Thankee,” said the stallion. He bowed to Crosscut and slow-trotted back to Tratonmane, moseying from lamplight to lamplight. Crosscut watched him go, apparently to make sure he was moving fine, then said to the crowd, “We’re down a skidder. Arypony comin’ back an’ takin’ up ’is gear? Or are we leavin’ the tree fer the morrow?” “All you need to do is drag the tree to Tratonmane, correct?” asked Code. “I could probably do it.” Crosscut looked Code up and down, kneading the ground beneath her. Then she nodded. “I reckon so. Yer magic’s stout. Somepony help ’er intae some gears!” The “gears” were a harness, hooked up to the tree to drag it down the road. It was a bit oversized on Code’s small frame and the tree it was hooked up to was just plain huge, but once she dug her hooves in and Amanita felt the ground beneath her buzzing, Code was pulling the tree up the road with the best of them. And from the way she was humming, she was enjoying herself. All of the earth ponies were dragging their own trees, with the five non-earth ponies all harnessed to a single tree and using large staves to help dig themselves in and pull the tree along. Amanita actually felt a little guilty, just plain walking. The bell rang again, but it seemed less urgent now and it took longer to ring again. Amanita started to make out equine silhouettes in Tratonmane’s shadows, filtering out from whatever shelter they’d moved into. Just how often did the wolves attack? Crosscut angled her path so she could get closer to Amanita as they walked. “So yer a blood doctor?” “A what?” Amanita asked. “A blood doctor.” “What, like a hematologist? No.” Crosscut stared at Amanita like she’d suddenly switched to Draconic. “I’m- not a- doctor doctor,” Amanita said. “I just- I know some healing magic. It’s my special talent.” One she probably should’ve fostered instead of turning to necromancy. “Ye stopped his bleedin’,” Crosscut said, nodding up the path. “That makes you’un a blood doctor. And thankee.” “Okay, then,” said Amanita. “I just- I wasn’t sure what- that phrase meant, and- you​know​what​I’ll​shut​up​now.” Crosscut snorted. “Are you’un always like this? Performin’ great magic an’ a-bein’ all shy ’bout it?” Amanita blinked twice and one of her rear hooves twitched. How remarkably vague and remarkably specific at the same time. “I- suppose. Kinda. Maybe.” “I wonder if we could capture a wolf,” Charcoal suddenly said. She was walking backwards, still watching Midwich. Several trees, Crosscut’s among them, came to a halt as the ponies turned to stare at her. “I… beg yer pardon?” Crosscut nearly gasped. “Wolf. Capture.” Charcoal raised her front hooves, paused, and smashed them together. “Like a clap. Trap.” She looked around and seemed shocked to be confronted with shock. “We need to study them!” she protested. “They’re animals! They’re more affected by the ley line than ponies! Or kirins!” “The-” Crosscut grunted and started dragging her log again, her frustrations redirected from her mouth down to her legs. It was quite effective. “The wolves bein’ tetched in the head,” she grunted, “ain’t got nothin’ tae do wi’ the line.” “Do we know that?” asked Charcoal. “Maybe the line’s been going bad for a lot longer and we just saw it right-” “It ain’t,” Crosscut grunted. “Tratonmane’s been eatin’ food frae it since afore I’s born and nopony’s gone bad yet. The line ain’t the problem.” “Oh,” Charcoal said. Her ears drooped as she turned forwards. “I… I was just…” Her voice and her head dropped with every word. “I was just thinking…” “It’s not a bad idea,” Code said loudly. “Just not one that applies in this circumstance. Keep thinking. Not every idea’s going to be a good one.” Charcoal made some affirmative sound, but she didn’t lift her head all the way back up. Almost without thinking, Amanita got close to her. “Don’t worry about it,” she whispered. “Seriously.” “But it was a stupid idea!” Charcoal whispered back. “I should’ve remembered-” “Hey, hey.” Amanita lightly elbowed her. “We all forget things. Just ignore it and move on.” “Okay, but…” Charcoal sucked a breath in through her nose and raised her head up. “Okay,” she mumbled. “Okay. But, but what if I keep thinking like that? What if I can’t stop coming up with- those sorts of bad ideas?” “I hope you don’t,” said Amanita. She looked back at Midwich. At the black branches clawing for the sky. At the forest that apparently wasn’t affected by the ley line, but was seemingly one of the most dangerous places in Equestria. At the place that held normal animals who nonetheless hated ponies. At the land that was deadly despite supposedly feeding on a clean ley line. “Because you might be right about not detecting any changes in the ley line until now. If this mission isn’t as easy as Code thinks it is, we’ll need all the ideas we can get.”