There was a storm coming. Invictus could feel it on the wind, taste it in the air. The tides of the sky were awash with the threat of violence, and it would be coming soon. Far into the distance, nearly hidden by the very curve of the horizon itself, a thin band of slate gray could be seen against the pale blue of the boundless sky. It flashed, rolling flashes like the scales of a great beast breaching the boundary of the maelstrom.
Invictus was a mighty flier, but there was a limit to even his prowess. The storm would batter him with the cold mercilessness he had come to expect from the northern skies, toss him up and dash him towards the ground at a whim. He might survive and clear the other side relatively unmolested, but he would be taxed, his reserves of energy sorely depleted by the effort, and he would need to rest soon after as it was.
His gaze turned to the ground, windswept plains broken only occasionally by a stand of trees in the far reaches or the occasional rolling group of hills, rising and falling away at apparent random. Much of the ground was covered in snow, and it only got more white with every passing day. Still, there were the occasional patches of green and brown to break the monotony. Ideally, he’d be able to find one of those in the shelter of a hill, in which he could pitch a tent.
His eyes discerned something unusual in the open wilds of the north. Geometric shapes, specifically a set of low rectangles, were arranged around a single small hole in the ground. Partially swallowed by a grove of trees, and also protected by a ridge from most of the northerly winds, it would make an excellent spot for camping.
Invictus angled his wings towards the ground, checking the storm in the distance as he did so. It was moving swiftly, and would like as not be on him within a half hour. He counted himself lucky to have been up in the air to see it. Most beings tethered to the ground would have had far less warning than he.
Stopping so soon? a voice from his bag asked. We’ve been flying for perhaps a day. Surely you could do better.
“A storm approaches,” Invictus said patiently.”A large one. It would be prudent to take shelter. I have found such a place for us below.”
There was no reply. Invictus could feel the temperature in the air dropping even as he descended towards the warmer ground. He chose a spot near the edge of the small copse of scraggly trees, and, still in midair, from within his pack drew the small cloth square that would unfold into a sturdy and large lean-to, provided he could find support to fix it to.
The irregularities in the ground, he realized as he approached and landed, were the ruins of walls. They were old walls, beyond ancient, but despite this they were still sturdy enough to take the intrusion of his fastening spikes. He unpacked the rest of his things, laying them out, as he had for the past two weeks, in a single row. He would take stock while the storm raged.
He gathered firewood next. This took the longest, mostly because he wished for a large fire. It wouldn’t do to suffer frostbite overnight. It would slow him down, and even at his top speed he was intolerably slow. He stacked most of it in an orderly pile near the inside of the tent, taking the rest and arranging it in a small depression he scratched into the ground with his hoof, near his sleeping area. A small amount of tinder from the box, a spark, a coil of smoke. He began to heap wood onto the fire, which was growing strong and healthy. Smoke began to fill the inside of the lean-to, and Invictus, already feeling warmer, drew in one of the walls, which was all that was necessary to begin trapping most of the heat.
Hob emerged from the pack, blinking slowly. An unusual campsite, he said with his characteristic dryness. Are you so sure it was needed?
Invictus said nothing, merely gesturing to the outside of the tent. Sure enough, there were already fat flakes of snow falling to the ground outside. “It will only get worse,” he said. “The storm took up the entire horizon. Only fools or those with a death wish will be out tonight.”
Or the desperate, Hob said. Speaking of which, you seem awfully cavalier about waiting. Surely our Mistress would be better served by arriving to her side quickly?
Invictus shook his head as he tugged at the collar of his oiled coat. It would help him keep the circulation going. “We do her no good dead or lost in a blizzard. It is best to simply wait for it to pass, and leave when it is gone or diminished.”
You seem to think that this storm will pass. I happen to remember a time when this was not so.
Invictus was silent, and peered from his tent into the ruins, quickly being hid by swirling snow. “You speak of a time before Equestria. The three Tribes?”
Very good, Hob said with a stretch, sounding both pleased and surprised. He kneaded his paws into the ground, their claws extending just a little. I had thought that the Fae might have taken that from you. It is good to know your heritage.
“So it’s true?” Invictus rumbled, settling in by the fire. “These ruins should be dust by now.”
These ruins were built by earth ponies and unicorns, Hob drawled. They’d hardly disappear due to a little thing like time or weather.
Invictus frowned. “I suppose,” he said. He reached for the pack, drawing from inside of it two packets. He deftly opened the first, taking in the scent of salted venison, before giving it to Hob. His was the second pack, one of thirty. The air here was taking a toll on him. He had needed to eat once every three days since he left, fighting wind and weather with every beat of his wings.
The leathery roll that fell into his hooves was almost comforting. He took a bite out of it, tasting the bitterness of the dried and compressed fruit, at this point more of a jerky than anything else. It was strange, the way it made him feel. Something about it roused within him a sense of camaraderie, nostalgia for bygone days. If he closed his eyes, he could almost see others like him, white of coat and gold of eye and clad in armor the color of the sun and nearly as bright.
The roll also burned at his throat a little, a product of the alchemical compounds it was laced with. He seemed to remember that they were meant to make him bigger, stronger, and faster. He’d need them if he was to make it to Cobblestone’s side in a timely manner. His gaze caught the medallion, normally stowed safely in the pack. An uneasy shiver passed over him, and he took it up, stowing it in one of the deep pockets of his jacket.
Penny for your thoughts.
“I was thinking of the past,” he said. “Long-dead ponies. My brothers and sisters.”
Oddly enough, my thoughts ran to a similar place, Hob replied. These ruins bring back memories for me as well. I remember when these lands were full of ponies like yourself.
Invictus blinked. “You are that old?”
Older still. I roamed these lands when ponies were first hewn from the muck, before the gryphons can even remember. There was a time when all there were here were the gods. And me. And the ley, of course, but that hardly counts.
This unnerved Invictus. Until now, he had thought of Hob as a creature of the Forest. Now, he wasn’t so sure. “And what of this do you remember?” he asked.
Hob’s eyes gleamed unpleasantly as he took a pellet of the deer meat into his mouth, swallowing it without chewing. I remember much.
I remember the wolves that preyed upon the first ponies, and the first ponies that killed the wolves in kind. The gryphons and buffalo I remember well, mighty enemies eternal. I remember the dark nights in which I hunted a thousand creatures and the calls of my prey filled the air.
I remember when this city was built. First by Earth ponies, then burned by things long dead, then built by earth ponies and unicorns together. They plowed over the fields where once I had hunted, drove away the wolves and the other predators. They built fine houses here, of stone and mud and magic. They built walls, too.
Hob straightened up, his ears pricked forward in the strange manner of cats who may have heard something, but then he settled down. I remember when the first snows came, he continued.
The winters grew longer, and the ponies, uneasy when things were well, fell to fighting. And the snow piled up in their plowed, barren fields, and against their fine stone walls, and staved in the roofs of their cozy houses. Near here once lay the ruins of a pegasus town. The clouds froze in the night and fell from the sky. Many died. They were lucky, for they died near the beginning. Others starved, still others stole and begged and killed for the meagre leavings of the last harvests.
Hob’s tail twitched lazily. I ate well. In their houses I gnawed their bones and rended their bellies. In the clouds I stalked and struck pegasi from the sky. In the towers of unicorns I waited to take children in the night and their parents the next morning. In the hovels of earth ponies I waited in the guttering flames and drove ponies to murder and madness.
“Enough,” Invictus said. “Your boasting doesn’t impress me.”
Then perhaps this will, Hob replied. There are wolves in those trees. They’re about to eat you.
Invictus sprang from his hooves, the bladeband around his forehoof flowing golden into life, a burning brand in his teeth just as the first wolf stalked from the forest.
It was easily twice the size of a normal pony, and though Invictus was well-built, he was still dwarfed by its size. It was covered in fur the color of dirty snow, yellow eyes glowing in the firelight above a gleaming maw of pointed fangs, strings of spittle dripping from its slavering jaws. A long scar ran from the corner of its ear back to the scruff of its neck, probably the result of more aggressive prey fighting back. It was flanked on either side by six more wolves, each almost as big as the first.
There was no preamble, no warmup. They charged as a pack. Invictus kept his wings close to his sides. They’d only provide something for the wolves to grab onto. He backpedaled, hooves settling into a solid stance without thought. The sword swung, biting into flesh as he quickly hewed into one wolf, then another. The alpha and the rest of the wolves scrambled back, but they had taken their toll on Invictus as well. He could feel blood running from a bite mark on his shoulder, where the sword hadn’t been to protect it.
He was surprised they knew about what a sword could do. Surely there weren’t many around here who used such tools to defend themselves, so there would be no reason for a wolf to be wary of the instrument. He swung out again, testing the wolves. They definitely stepped back. Odd.
Invictus could feel rather than see or hear the lead wolf’s command to attack once again. This time he was ready. His wings cracked once, he vaulted into the air. The wolves jumped, but not high enough. He could almost see surprise warring with the ravenous hunger in their eyes. The sword flashed again, a wolf yelped in pain. One of the smaller ones tumbled to the ground, limp and unresponsive, and the smell of blood filled the air.
Invictus landed heavily, facing the wolves, who now stood between him and the fire. He spat the brand from his teeth, clearly they had no fear of it. He charged, feeling the blood rush through his veins, and hit the alpha with all the force he could muster. The other wolves piled on top of him, and all he knew was the reek of sweat and matted fur and blood.
And pain. A half-dozen jaws sunk into him, claws rended at his flesh, able to turn aside blades. There was an almost-unbearable agony. Invictus felt strange, oddly warm. His vision went red, then gold. Time seemed to slow, and he noticed things, thing he wouldn’t have noticed. He noticed individual drops of blood staining the snow, and the tug of the wind at his coat. He noticed that three wolves lay dead now.
He blinked. Time had passed. He was standing over the dead alpha, and through his veins sang rage, white hot and righteous. There were only two wolves, both scrambling away, one dragging its intestines behind it. Without thinking, he flung his sword, the massive great-hander, at the other. It flew point first, unerring as an arrow from a bow, and took it in the shoulder blades. A moment later, and it was a simple metal bracelet once more.
The wind picked up as it began to snow in earnest. Invictus retrieved the bladeband silently, and settled back in by the fire. Clouds blotted out the sun, casting shadows across the ruins, and then the snow blocked out the rest. Invictus drew the other side of the tent in, sealing himself in with the fire. Smoke began to fill the shelter instantly, enough to choke a normal pony. It didn’t bother him much.
You are injured, Hob pointed out. Will this slow you down?
Invictus withdrew a roll of bandages, followed by a small bottle of ointment. “They didn’t go for my wings,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”
Hob was silent. His tail twitched. They did bite at your wings. You broke one of their necks for it using them. Do you not recall this?
“All I recall is being set upon by wolves while you did nothing, and then killing them.”
And the time in between? When you spitted two of them on your sword at once? Or crushed a skull with your hooves?
Invictus’ brows drew close. “I do not have memory of this.”
Hob sneezed. Battle madness. A hint of it, at least. You are full of surprises, it would seem. I’ll not complain. It likely saved you.
Invictus said nothing, merely dressed his wounds. There was nothing to be said. It was the first time he had fought. Not the first he had killed, but the Captain back in Dawndale hadn’t been a combatant. He could have smelled the sorcery on him if he cared to. Killing him had been like killing a sheep led to slaughter in more ways than one. He was troubled, though. What if Hob was correct, and he did lose control of himself during battle?
He’d be an unfit guardian for Cobblestone. More than that, he could be a danger to her. He could remember, through the dimly lit haze of his memories with the Fae, that those who were possessed in such a matter became little more than beasts in battle. He had fought and killed battle-maddened things before for the amusement of his keepers. They barely even seemed to notice when they died, and were heedless of who was in their way when they fought.
You’re no threat to her, Hob said tiredly. He finished the last of his venison pellets and idly batted at the bag. Sprawling in the dust, he looked at Invictus. I know what the Fae did to you. I know what you’re thinking. But this affliction, which you may or may not suffer from, is not one laid upon you by them. It was laid by another, brighter power.
“Celestia.”
Your kind were made once, long ago in cities now ruins, much like these. Hob said. Great guardians and protectors of ponies, at least those ponies who followed the Radiant Noon. I have drank from the necks of hundreds of your kin, Sunborn. Many of them were battle-mad. She wouldn’t have it any other way.
“I have memories of my own,” Invictus said. “I killed ponies quite happily. During the Rebellion.”
You killed enemies of Celestia, Hob replied. Celestia is no longer your mistress. That task falls to Cobblestone.
The wind shrieked over the tent. The fire popped. Invictus dabbed ointment onto his wounds and stretched bandages.
“She has been out of my care for a week,” he said. “And I know nothing of the other two. Perhaps they are dead.”
If they found shelter and a source of food, however scarce, they should be able to survive. The knight will be able to hunt for them all, if something has gone wrong. I have watched him practicing his woodscraft.
“There are more dangerous things than starvation this far north.”
Hob’s tail twitched in amusement. Have you finished dressing your wounds?
“I have. I could fly again, if the weather were clear.”
Hob rose from his position, stretched near the flames. I care for her too, in my way.
He padded to the front of the shelter. Open it. I will clear our path.
Invictus frowned, but did as he was bade. The snow was well and truly thick at this point, inches on the ground already. If the storm didn’t abate soon, he would need to don his gear and clear the tent roof. Hob walked calmly into the storm, snow to his chest, and sat down to wait.
There was a ferocious howl of wind, and the storm switched from snow to needles, some of them a half-inch long, made of purest blue ice. Invictus, huddled in the tent, felt the temperature dropping so low and so rapidly that the cold was beginning to affect even him. He could see the clouds begin to swirl and bubble unpleasantly overhead, like melted flesh, and then it happened.
Eight misty shapes, the blue of ice and resembling gaunt, starved ponies, descended from the clouds. Their eyes, purest white, burned with a hatred so absolute and unyielding that they pierced even through the blizzard. One of them opened their mouths and let out a cry, part howling wind, part crumbling ice, and part scream of a damned pony.
They circled the camp, their eerie howls billowing through the air, and Invictus felt the fire gutter and die, pluging him into shadow, tinged icy blue from the glow of these wraiths. They rushed inwards, and Invictus tensed, but they ignored him, and instead settled on the ground before Hob, who remained erect and unmoved. Then, one by one, they bowed to him.
The thing that others called a cat simply opened his mouth, exposing his teeth, shining white and bony. The Windigos reared, either in fury or fear, but before they could do more than this, Hob sprang from his sitting position, growing in stature as he did so. The spirits dissolved, and it was too late. Misty forms vanished into his mouth, and as the light dimmed and Invictus, normally unbothered by the dark, lost his sight, he caught a glimpse of the thing Hob had become.
For the first time he could remember, he felt the cold tendrils of fear sinking into his heart.
And then it was over. The fire, once out, was back, blazing cheerily as if nothing had happened. The snowfall lessened, the wind slowed. Invictus looked to a sky once more blue and, while not cheerful, at least open to flying. He blinked snow out of his eyes, looked out over the camp, and noticed that there was nothing left of the wolves he had killed save bones.
Among them sat Hob, looking sleek and fat. His eyes, normally amber, met those of Invictus, and flashed a bright and cold bluish-white before returning to normal. Well? He asked. Shall we break camp? There are many miles to go before we reach our mistress.
Invictus said nothing, merely turned and began to break down camp. The snow crunched under his hooves as he undid the knots that had held the lean-to, and he tossed the bladeband aside while he worked. He knew now that there was very little in the vast wastes that would care to tangle with him, or, rather more accurately, his traveling partner.
They were gone twenty minutes later, leaving behind only the bones of wolves long picked clean, the bones of a civilization long since crumbled, and the howling, mournful and low, of a distant wind.