I hear that grim pony approaching,
That cruel and remorseless spirit of things to come,
Dreams and wishes burned in a moment,
Because of us, the future is a cold nightmare.
Unathi knew that somewhere far to the west of them was a range of mountains, including several new volcanoes, and beyond that the ruins of what had been a fine city that he had once called home. Called Kisiwani, it was near the left bank of the Zebra River and had been home to almost a million zebras. Intercontinental balefire missile bases near it had sealed its fate, the ponies had used their own megaspell to wipe the city. He had heard the propaganda before about how it was a “clean” spell that left no contamination, but he also had seen the slaughter that came from the sky like a thousand suns shinning all at once. Even to this day, if one walked into the city, they would still see the charred shadows of zebras impressed on the concrete walls. Slowly the city was being devoured by the inclement and cold weather that had settled after the skies were covered, soon it would be nothing but a vague memory in the mind of old zebras. Unathi had been there three times, once when he was only fourteen and it was still a beautiful and exuberant city, the perfect place for a young zebra to find love and fun. He would come back in his twenties, an adult with his glyphmark and the rank of officer in the zebra’s legions. The last time he had walked into the city had been just after the end, when the city still burned.
He had seen how the land had changed after the war. Lakes had become cesspools of corruption and plague. Entire valleys had been covered by poisonous snow. And everywhere the searing light touched, new smoldering volcanoes sprouted. And everywhere the searing light of the pony's megaspell touched, new smoldering volcanoes sprouted.
Angrily he tugged his thick scarf over his mouth and pulled down his fur cap so that only his amber eyes faced the gusting snow. Sitting on his haunches, waiting while the stragglers in the Centuria crossed the trackless terrain, he took out a hoof-rolled cigarette and pressed it against the amber stones of his rifle to light it up. His rifle was an old and well-maintained Dragunov-571, the weapon of choice of the Special Forces and infiltrators, Unathi’s version of the rifle had lost its suppressor a long time ago, but the legionnaire had replaced it with a muzzle break for better accuracy. Built into the factories of Kinsagani, the weapon was the pinnacle of zebra’s ingenuity and technology, capable of imbuing its bullets with magical fire and capable of a staggering rate of fire in full auto or three rounds bursts.
The veteran legionnaire closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the mix of herbs calming his nerves even as the memories of the plump pony with the strange blue suit reemerged.
The strange pony had been too well feed, too clean, and so happy. He seemed almost like a relic from a distant past, something too beautiful and pure for the world they now lived.
Unathi caused him pain, he cut and prodded with the precision of a surgeon, until finally the pony revealed the secret of his wealth in a stammering rush of tears.
“Much farther, Unathi?” asked Tariro, walking closer to Unathi. Tariro was the oldest zebra in the Centuria and a graduated doctor from what once had been the prestigious academy of Assuan, but that now had been reduced to a community of deranged cannibals. She could have chosen some glorious assignment in any of the capitals, could have lived a life of luxury, but instead she had joined the Legions as a medical auxilia.
“No,” Unathi replied, offering her the cigarette. The fat little pony had told him of shelters built deep underground, stocked with the resources and magical medallions to survive for centuries.
Though the day was bleak, with flurries of snow reducing visibility, they had seen much worse. Occasionally a cursed tornado came screaming from the north, the spirits of cold and wind strong enough to drive a zebra crazy or peel the flesh from their bones. Biggers creatures had been seen rounding the poisoned forests even as the trees died, demons and abominations that devoured whole zebras in a single bite. The ragged Centuria had seen the remains of dozens of villages and outposts, zebras that had been devoured by the inclement weather or the deadly Winter Wolves.
Unathi’s ragged Centuria had managed to survive so far by scavenging old military bases and outposts, but even though they carried enough provisions for a couple of weeks and enough ammo and weapons to fight a small war, there was no doubt that eventually they would all perish in the cold like so many others. The veteran knew that this fabled Stable was the only chance of survival in this bleak world.
And so, they trotted trough old trails and forgotten roads, challenging the foul winds and radioactive snow to cross into Equestria via the north, a place where millennia ago had existed a bridge of ice connecting both continents and, Unathi hoped, the cold weather had remade it once more.
They kept walking for weeks, travelling the maddening white plains with only an old compass to guide them and their fiery determination to keep them moving. Unathi knew that they never would survive the trip once more, once in Equestria they would have to succeed at any cost or they, and probably the entire zebra race, would be doomed to a slow, agonizing death.
Unathi peered through the gap between his hood and the scarf around his nose and mouth. Night wasn’t far off and without shelter to protect them from the lethal drop in temperature they would have to start digging emergency shelters. Already he could feel the extra bite in the wind. He lowered the scarf from his nose and mouth, his breath pluming out around him like a ghostly trail, the weather had been constantly deteriorating. Three times Unathi had ordered emergency shelters to be dug in the packed snow in the last week.
Imani, the youngest zebra in the Centuria, saw the first of the blocky little houses, which were so covered in snow that they were almost invisible. “There,” he said, pointing ahead of them to what had once been called Stalliongrad. Now it had no name at all.
To Unathi and his Centuria, the country that lay hidden in the acrid fog was the promised land, their last chance to survive the harsh winter.
“That’s our path, legionnaires,” shouted Unathi, waving his Dragunov above his head.
There was a bellow of support from the stallions and mares at his heels. Their prize was withing reach.