An Extended Holiday

by Commander_Pensword

145 - Dude! We’re Getting the Band Back Together!

Extended Holiday
Ch 145: Dude! We’re Getting the Band Back Together!
Act 23

The squad was new. They’d barely begun their training two weeks prior, so when the assault hit, they’d been placed on behind-the-scenes roles. No one had foreseen the attack being so successful for the Minotaurs. Now they found themselves backed by the far wall of the settlement, their commanding officer dead not twenty feet away from them, with a broken neck shattered by a blow from a Minotaur’s club. They stood with their hide shields up, stabbing spears ready, but the fact that they were nervous was plain to see as the four large bulls strode towards the five much smaller warriors. They knew their chances were low. They had no training and no experience, while their opponents were well seasoned, decorated by scars from many battles. The rookies attempted to steel themselves for what was to come. Death was staring them in the face. The question was, could they accept it?

Then, as the first bull raised his hammer to attack, a sound filtered through the air, not unlike a stone that had been flung from a sling. It whistled low and strong. Then, suddenly, it stopped with a sickening thock, and then one of the bulls dropped dead. Then another fell, and then a third. Each crashed forward, revealing a single thin blade sticking out from between their shoulder blades. It was the strangest knife the Zebras had ever seen. They were used to the overly ornate weapons the Equestrians liked to show off. This one was simple, all one piece of polished steel, and shaped like a feather at its blade.

The remaining two Minotaurs turned to see where the blades had come from, and at that moment a long growl echoed through the air. Had a lion been disturbed by the noise of the battle and found its way in?

Looking above them, they were greeted by the sight of a large beast. It had the body of the lion, but its wings, face, and talons were that of a bird. Its body was black as death, save for the very tips of it’s crest feathers, which were a vibrant green. The beast had its wings splayed outwards, and its claws where dug into the wood of the wall from a nearby structure, holding it on the vertical platform as though it were standing on the ground. It took a moment for any of them to realize the beast wore armor, and not just any armor, but finely crafted metal that glinted in the light from a fresh polish. And to top it all off, this creature had weapons.

Further queries were cut off as the Minotaurs turned back, and their eyes widened in surprise. No, not just surprise, one recruit realized, but fear. The Minotaurs were actually afraid of the beast. There was a blast of wind as the creature gave a threatening roar. It pounced on one of the surviving Minotaurs, leaping nearly ten feet in a single shot, landing on the surprised bull’s shoulders. The beast produced two knives and jammed them into its foe’s neck, before giving a savage twist that yielded an ugly cracking noise.

Before the second bull could shake his surprise, the beast produced an axe and threw it, even as its first victim continued to fall. The axe sank deep into the bull’s shoulder, and he bellowed in pain as the beast flung itself into the air. In an instant, it was behind the once proud bovine. It stretched out its hand. The axe glowed and pulled itself free, returning to its master's familiar grip with enough time for it to send the blade into the back of the bull’s chest. The last Minotaur’s eyes glazed over as he collapsed, and the strange beast retrieved its knives and the weird feather-shaped blades, before turning to them.

“Do any of you speak Equestrian?” Grif asked the squad of clearly surprised rookies. “Est-ce que tu parles Phrançais?”

The colts gaped, uncomprehending, at the creature that had just saved their lives.

“Great. That’s great.” Grif did his best to draw a picture in the ground in front of them. Given he was no great artist it looked like a few oddly-shaped stick men, but he hoped the general message of ‘Run. I’ll cover you. Find safety,’ came through.

The colts pretty much just scratched their heads, once again completely lost in translation.

A soft sigh was heard. “He is suggesting you flee. He will protect you.”

The colts jumped in the air with startled yelps as they quickly searched for the source of the mysterious voice. With no sign of it in sight, they scrambled for their shields and spears, then ran as quickly as their hooves would carry them.

“Newbies,” Grif sighed in Draconic, before the breeze shifted and he was treated to the scent of still more Zebras, fear, and Minotaurs. Without a second thought, he headed for the next group.

Pensword flew as swiftly as his wings would allow him. An aerial view of the conflict could only give him so much to work with, however, so he dove from time to time to get a closer look at the situation. Fortunately, each compound was identical in its construction, so it was a simple matter to check in the key population areas, once first fly-by was complete. After narrowly escaping a Minotaur’s club, however, he made sure to adjust his altitude to avoid detection. So long as he could fly on silent wings, the Minotaurs would be more than occupied with their foes on the ground.

The Zebras seemed to be congregating around a series of towers located toward the end of the compound farthest from the wall. Fires blazed from giant braziers located at the tops, and as Pensword turned his head, he perceived the hints of pale columns of smoke far in the distance. “Signal fires,” he mused, “but what for? Are they trying to call reinforcements?” He shook his head. “Time enough for that later. Vital Spark first,” he said. “Focus, Pensword.”

The sounds of pitched battle rang through his ears, while blood watered the earth, staining it crimson as the parched ground drank eagerly. Skilled though the Zebras were with their weapons, it was clear that the Minotaurs’ tough hides made direct combat an ill-advised strategy. At most, the warriors could only hope to take the brutes by surprise and strike a tendon or other weak point to cripple their opponent. This wasn’t a battle. This was a slaughter, and Vital Spark was somewhere, right in the middle of it.

He was about to move on to the next village when a shrill cry rose up from the battlefield. This wasn’t the rugged roar of a stallion, nor was it the defiant timbre of a mare standing her ground. No, Pensword knew this scream only too well as the ghosts of his past reared their ugly heads. Before he even knew what he was doing, the warrior darted like an arrow, hardly even feeling the wind-shear as an angry roar tore through his lips.

Pensword didn’t remember exactly what followed after. All he knew as he came to himself was a terrible throbbing in his left wing joints and the curious spurting of blood dropping into a trickle as a choking gurgle passed from the titan at his hooves. One final shuddering breath burbled its way out the creature’s muzzle, and then it was still. Pensword reached down to yank at his wing, tearing off chunks of fur and flesh from the body. He winced at the sudden burning sensation near his shoulder and promptly dropped the wing to rest against the ground. Just a few minutes, and already he’d gotten himself into trouble.

The sniffling sobs soon pulled him out of his self-chastisement, however, as he jerked his head to the source of the sound. A young foal trembled in a set of leather armor that was clearly two sizes too large for him. He held his spear shakily as he pointed the head at the intruder. Pensword immediately backed off, leaving a clear opening to the door. He motioned with his good wing and his forehooves. “Go.”

The foal sniffled one last time, then stuck the spear on his back next to a shield that looked more like a shell on his tiny frame. He took one more look at Pensword, then darted out into the battle.

Pensword sighed. “Guess I’ll have to hoof it from here,” he muttered to himself, leaning down to check his shortsword was still sheathed in place. Then he braced himself, turning back to the hut’s entrance.

Three things followed in short order. First, a loud bellow sounded from outside. Secondly, the stone wall at the hybrid’s side burst apart. Lastly, a rather large chunk of stone struck Pensword’s skull with incredible force. And with that impact, Pensword knew no more.

Hammer Strike frowned to himself as he flicked the katana in his hoof, clearing the blood off the blade. It was easier to get around with shadow walking, but it wasn’t the same style of combat he was used to. Of course, his situation was made more interesting when he had cleared a room of Minotaurs and the individuals he’d saved were all there.

Looking at him.

“You are free to flee from the Minotaurs,” he calmly spoke out to the group.

“What manner of spirit are you?” their leader asked.

“Not quite right.” Hammer Strike shook his head. “I am Hammer Strike, here to help with your … infestation.”

“The famed Celestia’s Ghost?”

“That is a title I have not heard in a long time,” Hammer Strike chuckled, before nodding.

“Why are you here, when the fires of war rage in your homeland?”

“We can discuss this later. Just know that I can be in more than one place.” Hammer Strike shook his head, before directing them to the exit. “You need to help the others and flee.”

The Zebra shook his head. “We are bound to defend this outpost so long as we are able against the incursion, to give the other villages enough time to relay the beacons. We cannot leave, until the message has been passed.”

“I can assure you, it will be done, and should be done with as little.…” Hammer Strike rolled his eyes as he thought to himself. “Just know it will be done. We will see to the Minotaurs.”

“We?”

“I did not come alone.”

“If it is your command, far be it for me to go against the Doomhammer.” The Zebra chuckled. He barked a quick order to his fellows. “I wish you luck.” And with that final benediction, they departed into the chaos once more.

Hammer Strike chuckled to himself as he moved towards the shadows. “I don’t need luck.”

One hour. One hour had passed, and still the battle raged as Zebras who had regrouped through the heroes’ efforts were found and harried by Minotaur reinforcements. Hammer Strike flickered through shadow after shadow, but he was a practical tactician. If the Zebras continued to be found by fresh enemies, then their efforts to protect the warriors would be for nothing. As such, he turned his attentions to seeking out the source of the influx, and the best way to do that was to travel to the great wall itself.

It was a simple matter to emerge at the edifice. He could still make out the fires in the distance and the rumble of stampeding hooves. A great dust cloud rose up from the wall a few miles to his left. In a matter of seconds, he peered surreptitiously out from behind a boulder to eye the troops storming through the opening. They surged out in threes, meaning the opening was limited in its width, but uniform enough for the troops to surge through confidently, then spread to rush the nearest compounds with an almost mindless ferocity.

“Delightful,” he commented with a sigh.

Naturally, he needed a means to cut off the attackers. Otherwise, the remaining Zebras wouldn’t stand a chance of survival. And strong though he was, even he knew facing that many Minotaurs alone would be suicide. And with his thaumaturgy drained for the time being, that left him with only a few options. Then again, he had promised a beacon. A smirk pulled at the Earth Pony’s lips as a plan began to form.

Hammer Strike’s hooves were suddenly covered in a bright orange light. The hole in the escarpment soon followed suit as what started as a subtle stirring in the earth soon became molten slag, followed by a deadly ray as searing light rose in a curtain to gradually cover the opening. When he was satisfied with the height and radiance of the solar barrier, it was a simple matter to create a stable matrix that would replenish itself in the background, until he disabled it, thus making it easier for him to focus on other things.

Angry bellows soon turned to cries of pain as the backup in the charge thrust the bulls in the lead through the wall and into utter oblivion as their bodies were reduced to ash. The bellows of chagrin and rage blew out from the top of the ravine, like a yell through a sound amplifier. When the earth began to shake and the crevice to widen, the wall shifted to match the opening. The Minotaurs were well and truly cut off.

Off in the distance, the deep halloo of a trumpet echoed through the air as the Zebras’ cries became louder, more savage. A black blur flew among them, darting in and out almost faster than the eye could track. Grif clearly had his talons full. With this particular threat curbed for now, it was time to get back to pest control. His neck cracked ominously as he retreated into the shadows again.

Grif was certain they’d managed to get everyone that was left. He’d been unable to track down any more survivors for the last twenty minutes or so. He was about to see about tracking down Pensword and Hammer Strike, when Pensword’s scent passed him on the wind. Cautiously, Grif stalked through the settlement, doing his best to avoid the centers of death and fire that littered the area. The Minotaurs had done a number on this place.

Anger boiled beneath the surface every time Grif came upon yet another hut in flames. Several Zebras littered the area. Many were dead from debris or large rocks falling on their heads and bodies, or possibly thrown on them.

“Minotaurs are strong, boy; far stronger than any Gryphon. If you get in an arm’s length, they’ll lay you out easily,” Graf’s voice echoed in his memories. Graf had fought Minotaurs before. He’d been very careful about explaining the techniques best used for combating an opponent with such a vast physical advantage.

Grif supposed the Gryphon Empire was on campaign. It was the only explanation for why the Minotaurs would risk such an attack. The two races had fought since discovering the others’ existence. There was no way they’d risk weakening themselves on that front, unless something had the Gryphons occupied.

Grif took stock of the Minotaur corpses that dotted the area, though these were fewer and far between. He could see evidence where a tendon had been severed by a lucky hit, or what seemed more common, a Minotaur killed by a self-inflicted accident. Pensword’s scent became stronger as Grif finally found himself encroaching on what was left of a small hut. More than half of the wall had been taken out in the mayhem, and the thatching and thick sticks that formed the roof had collapsed and broken apart atop the piles of rock and dust. Amid the wreckage, a lone dark four-fingered hand jutted limply from a hefty pile of rocks. The scent of blood was strong, filling the Gryphon’s nose with its coppery tang as he stepped closer to the rock pile, easily batting the sticks aside with a few swipes of his talons. Pensword’s scent grew stronger, the closer he drew to the other end of the pile. A collapse along the side, paired with the familiar sight of drag marks set Grif’s heart to pounding. The occasional spatter of blood would dob the trail, not nearly enough to be from a serious wound, but enough to imply injury.

Grif tracked the drag marks out of the hut, only to find something that made his blood chill all the more. Lying on the path was a heap of scrap metal that Grif quickly recognized. As he examined the twisted and broken remains of the metal feathers and leather harness, it became only too clear these had once been a set of wingblades. And only one person would bear such a weapon in this country and this time period.

For a moment, Grif wanted to chase the kidnappers, but he knew from the scent that, while the trail wouldn’t necessarily have gone cold, by now, the Minotaurs were already regrouping. There’d be no way he could expect to catch up to them and still survive. He’d need help. He’d need an army.

Slowly, it dawned on Grif as he examined the mutilated compound that perhaps an army was want for the taking. Stowing the ruined blades for later, he made his way back into the hut. Pensword had killed the Minotaur. This much, he could tell. And as he removed the stones from the body, he confirmed the kill through the angle and depth of the cuts. When Grif located the Minotaur’s head, he examined the beast’s horns. Selecting the slightly longer of the two, he hefted Graf’s axe, lifted it above his head, and proceeded to lop the horn off. He picked up the horn as he sheathed the axe and retrieved one of his knives. Then, as he turned and left the hut, he began to bore into the inside of the horn to scoop out the bone and marrow within.

Vital Spark coughed and moaned as his eyes slowly came open. He felt something spew out his mouth and onto his barrel, which left him feeling rather disgusted, but at least he wasn’t dead. The warmth of the sun shone down on his coat and he smiled weakly. It felt so nice against his fur, even as the urge to cough forced him to flip over and heave his lungs again. He felt a pair of gentle hooves rubbing his back as his body forcefully ejected the contents of his chest and stomach both.

“That’s right. Get it out of your system,” a familiar voice said gently in Zwahili.

When Vital’s breathing finally returned to normal and he felt like his body wasn’t about to betray him again, he turned his head wearily towards a smiling Zebra. Her eyes flickered with a hint of mischief behind the cloud of concern that her furrowed brow cast over her face. “Zecora?” he huffed unsteadily.

“Yes. Are you all right?”

Vital nodded. “I … think so. At least, I’m pretty sure I will be.”

“Good.” Her hoof promptly slammed him into the ground, leaving him with a throbbing lump on his skull. “What were you thinking? You could have drowned!” Then she sobbed as she wrapped her forelegs around him in an iron-bound hug. “Don’t you ever do something like that again, you idiot!”

“Worth it,” Vital half gasped, half chuckled. “You’re a spoiled, bossy brat of a sister, but you’re my spoiled bossy brat of a sister.”

“Care for another to round out the set?” Zecora asked lightly.

“How about we just call it even?” Vital slowly pulled himself out of her embrace, and then his eyes locked onto the Zebra’s flanks. “Zecora, your stripes.”

“Is now really the time to jump into whether I’m white on black or black on white, Vital Spark?”

“No, Zecora, I mean look at your stripes. Your flanks!” he jabbed a hoof at her side.

Zecora turned her gaze back over to her flanks and her eyes widened in surprise. Her stripes had readjusted, leaving a patch of white accented by a spiral in black surrounded by a series of black triangles. “I’ve … I’ve been marked?” She gaped at the new symbol, flabbergasted. Then that slowly shifted into a toothy grin. “I’ve been marked!”

And suddenly, Vital Spark found himself once again in the mare’s vice-like grip as she laughed her delight. “Lungs … crushing. Can’t … breathe,” he gasped.

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Zecora said, though she did loosen her grip somewhat.

Vital chuckled and smiled. “You think this is bad, you should see how I am with Grif.”

“Who?”

“Grif. Tall Gryphon, muscular, mostly black, with green feathers on his breast and crest?”

Zecora withdrew her forelegs in favor of looking appraisingly over the Unicorn. “Vital Spark, you never mentioned a Gryphon before, much less befriending one. They never journey this far south. Are you certain you didn’t hit your head in that spring?”

Now it was Vital’s turn to gape. “Sweet Celestia, they actually did it.”

“They who?”

“The waters, the spring, whatever you want to call it,” Vital said as he shook his head. “The waters are supposed to have healing powers, right?”

Zecora nodded.

“Well, I think they healed more than just our bodies.” Vital Spark grinned at his adopted sister. “I remember, Zecora. I actually remember! It’s spotty, but the holes are starting to fill in.” He laughed. “Wow. And I just had to face a whole herd of windigo to do it. Go figure.”

“Windi … what?” Zecora asked, confused.

“Windigo. They’re a type of storm spirit made of frost and cold. They feed on negative emotions, like anger, hate, sorrow, mistrust, that sort of thing. It makes them stronger. Then they use that energy to spread their frost and cold, choking the land, until it’s nothing but a frozen waste. That’s probably why they were drawn here, in the first place. You could cut the tension between a Zebra and a Minotaur with a knife, and Minotaurs thrive on tapping that kind of emotion. You said so, yourself. It’s the perfect feeding ground to flee to, after what happened to them in Equestria.” He rose and clopped along the surface of the room. “This is incredible!” Then he noticed the bodies lying on the stone and the smile immediately dropped off his face. “Oh.”

Zecora looked sadly at the prone forms. “Yes. Oh, indeed.” Unshed tears rose in her eyes. “Did … did those … windigo, you called them, right?”

Vital Spark nodded.

“Did they…?”

“Yeah,” Vital said sadly. “We should bury them, before their bodies decay too much. Once they thaw enough, it’s not going to be pleasant.”

Zecora nodded gently. “I’ll take care of it,” she said quietly.

“You sure you’re up for it? You just recovered from a broken back.”

“And you just escaped death by drowning. I’d say we’re about even.”

Vital sighed as he dropped his head. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Zecora sighed as well, then closed her eyes. When she opened them again, they glowed a vibrant green. “Come along now, children,” she said wistfully in a dual tone that echoed in the open cavern. “It’s time to return home.” She tapped her hoof gently on the stone and a crystalline chime sounded as the pictograms on the wall glowed an emerald green, pulsing gently with the waters of the spring. Slowly, the ground cracked open as thick root-like tendrils forced their way out of the earth and wrapped around each of the bodies. When all of them had been properly enfolded, the tendrils withdrew gently into the earth again, followed by the closing of the rock, leaving nary a seam behind. The glowing light faded from the walls, then from the spring, and finally from Zecora’s eyes. Her legs wobbled, and she nearly collapsed against Vital Spark’s frame.

Vital Spark wrapped a foreleg around the Zebra and smiled sadly. “Come on, Sis. Mwalimu’s waiting for us.”

The wind blew hot along the savanna, but for the first time in a very long time, the scent of moisture carried along the wind, and thick dark clouds hovered threateningly overhead. The very ground seemed to rasp imploringly with each step the harried Zebras took along the trail to the holy mountain. A series of litters and stretchers carried the wounded and the crippled as they drew nearer to their goal. The fact that they had survived had been nothing short of a miracle. The fact that troops from the other compounds had managed to escape unharmed bolstered their ranks, making the journey easier on their fellows. By the time they reached the foot of the mountain, they stood at a mere eight hundred, a fraction of their original numbers.

They made camp for the night on the higher grounds the mountain provided and waited out the storm that seemed to spread on as far as the eye could see. Mild flooding filtered across the plains as the parched earth struggled to absorb all the moisture at once. The next morning, the warriors made sure to serve their fellows a hearty breakfast of dew-studded long grass, before striking camp and proceeding through the last leg of their journey.

The sight that greeted them left the troops on edge as they approached. Minotaurs and Zebras were busy working together to rebuild the huts with a mixture of tree limbs and molded earth, while others worked to sculpt furrows in the ground under the tutelage of a familiar Unicorn levitating a bag of seeds in his magic. On noticing the approaching party, he quickly hoofed the bag over to one of the other Zebras, before racing into the heart of the village, where a great white cow sat on the wet ground with her legs folded, taking tea with an elderly Zebra and being attended by a young Zebra mare with the mark of a sun plastered on both sides of her flanks.

“Mwalimu, we may need to make plans to expand construction,” the Unicorn reported as he nodded his head respectfully to the cow. “We have guests.”

Mwalimu sighed wearily. “How many?”

“A lot more than we’ll be able to feed, that’s for sure,” Vital Spark said as the elderly Zebra took another sip from his cup. “I hope the spring’s waters are agreeing well with you,” he added.

Mwalimu smiled gratefully. “I should be well, soon enough. They may speed my healing, but I am still old.” He chuckled. “Thank you, Vital Spark.”

“And you, Miss Fjüra? Is everything to your liking?” Vital Spark asked.

“Thank you, young colt.” She turned to Mwalimu. “My people wish to express their horror, once again, at the actions of our late chieftain’s late son. The Long Horn tribe never wanted war.”

“That does beg the question, however. Who would have wanted to arrange for us to enter into such a conflict in the first place and have the resources necessary to make it appear as though we were trying to kill you?”

“My people made assumptions, due to the hoof marks found near the sight. They were too shallow to be Minotaurs, so the most logical explanation was that Zebras must have been involved,” the cow said. “Our bulls are fierce, but not always the brightest,” she smirked.

“Can anyone describe these imprints in greater detail?” Vital asked.

“They were hoof prints” the cow shrugged. “Not split like ours, but rounded, like yours.”

“No distinctive markings or unusual shapes?”

“I suppose, from the way they mentioned some of the indentations, it’s possible they were wearing shoes.”

“Do you still have the arrow that killed your chief?”

“All I was given was this,” she said, producing the small stone arrowhead.

“It should be enough for a start, at least,” Vital said as he peered over it carefully. Assuming it didn’t get stolen from an armory, which I’m fairly certain it wasn’t, it should be able to lead us to the shooter. As for any potential collaborators, that will rely on whether we can get the killer to talk.”

“Much though I would like to have the killer found as well, shouldn’t we be focusing on the greater threat of the invasion?” Zecora asked. “The land is deeply disturbed, even after the spring was exorcised. Something is forcing it to stir.”

“I fear the head bull won’t stop, even with our assurances” the cow said. “They know the wall can be breached now, and it’s only a matter of time before it is. Young Steelsinger sent smoke signals to start the attack shortly after his father died.”

“A shame I have made that more ... difficult for them, then,” a voice called from the shadows. After a moment, a tall tan Earth Pony in a blue coat with golden stitch strode easily towards the group. “Bit more than I expected,” he commented in Equestrian as he scanned the individuals there, settling on Vital with a small smile and a nod of acknowledgement.

“Hammer Strike?” Vital replied, then smiled as he approached his friend and embraced him. “What took you so long?”

“I had to manually create a tunnel through time,” he replied in Draconic, while rolling his eyes. “It’s not exactly an easy process; nor have I had time to refine it.[/]”

“Did you come alone?”

Hammer Strike shook his head. “I brought Grif and Pensword, though we currently have an issue with Pensword, being that he is currently missing and/or kidnapped.”

There was a metallic clank as, from somewhere above them, a bunch of mangled metal fell to the ground nearby. One of the still-sharp tips dug into the ground, holding it upright. A moment later, Grif landed nearby. A leather strip was currently wrapped across his neck, connected to a larger ring that held the strip to a long curved hollow horn. The Gryphon’s eyes were hard, and Vital could feel a storm brewing behind them. Silently, he made his way over to the Unicorn and pulled him in for a hug. “Glad to see you’re okay,” he said in Draconic. “I need to speak to them. Can you translate?”

“Maybe after I call them off?” Vital suggested in Equish. The pair suddenly found themselves surrounded by a mixture of spears, battle axes, and war clubs. Grif eyed the weapons with a casual air he lifted a wing and flapped it once. In a instant, the wind picked up around them in a downdraft so powerful even the Minotaurs found their weapons clattering to the ground. Grif released Vital and stepped away.

Vital cleared his throat. “These two are my friends from Equestria. This is Grif Grafson, of the Northern Isles. He is independent from the Empire and has sworn his allegiance to Lord Hammer Strike, the Earth Pony you see before you. Many of you know him by the title of Celestia’s Ghost,” he said in Zwahili.

“The one you told me about up on the mountain?” Zecora asked.

Vital nodded. “The very same. Be careful. He’s a master of trolling, and he’s not afraid to pull any punches.”

Grif looked around to the various creatures around him. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out a flask and poured some liquid into the horn at his chest. “Something of mine,” he said in Equestrian, before moving over to the tea and filling the horn the rest of the way. “Something of yours.” He took a swig from the horn and offered it to Mwalimu. “Your enemy is my enemy. I can’t rescue my friend with just the two of us, and your soldiers need further training, before you can defend yourselves.”

Vital Spark translated dutifully.

“I can help you,” Grif continued. “They seek to take your lives, and they have taken my friend. I can show you how to beat them.” He gestured to Hammer Strike. “We can show you how to beat them, how to make them think twice, before returning to attack you again. Apart, we cannot do much, but together, we will win. This horn was taken from an enemy Minotaur slain by my abducted comrade. Those who share a drink before a war are brothers on the battlefield. Something of yours and something of mine. Will we be brothers?”

“Does this offer also stand for the Longhorns?” Mwalimu asked.

“Provided they are willing to provide assurance of their loyalty,” Grif responded. “I cannot ignore that they are of the species of our enemy, but neither can I condemn them on that alone.” Grif never took his eyes off the chieftain and cow as he spoke. “If my trustworthiness is still in doubt, call the survivors from the wall. Ask them, and they will tell you that I saved them. Go to the healer’s tent. There is a Zebra near the back. He’d have died from being gored, if not for us. Trust me, and I will save your people.”

“What assurance would you ask?” Fjüra asked.

“A hostage,” Grif said bluntly, “someone of reasonable importance. They will be treated well and returned unharmed, when our business is done, so long as you keep your honor.”

“There is only one who would fit such criteria, and she is the current leader. Without her guidance, it may be possible for the bulls to fall into a rampage again,” Mwalimu noted.

Grif looked to Hammer Strike. An unspoken request shot through the air between them. Scare them?

A gleam of gold appeared in Hammer Strike’s eyes as a dome of solar fire suddenly formed around them, perfectly dividing them from the others. There were no openings, no form of escape. Overall, it was a perfect cage.

“What is the meaning of this?” Mwalimu demanded angrily as Zebras and Minotaurs alike galloped and charged toward the barrier, before the unrelenting heat forced them to halt their advance.

“A demonstration,” Grif said. “Should the Minotaurs lose themselves again, we have ways to contain them. Do you truly believe your people will be able to hold out alone? There is only so far you can run, after all.”

“We will agree to the hostage,” Fjüra spoke up, before Mwalimu had a chance to rebut. “Our brethren also have the spirits of the earth allied with them.” She looked to the chieftain. “These two have the spirits of the sun and sky at their beck and call, we need them.” She grabbed the horn from Grif’s hand and took a drink, before shoving it to Mwalimu. “If my cooperation is required as collateral, then so be it.”

“Fjüra….”

Zecora laid her hoof gently on Mwalimu’s shoulder. “Father, it’s what she wants.”

Mwalimu sighed in defeat. “I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered, not for the first time, as he took the horn and drank, then passed it back to Grif.

“Then let us get this started,” Grif said as he drained the horn of the remainder. “Now, for starters, we need to break this camp and move farther inland. This village is an easy target. How fast can your people move?”

“With the aid of the spring’s healing waters, most of us have fully recovered. The remainder of us can be ready to leave in a day.”

“Good. I’ll also need volunteers, anyone that can fight and is willing to. Your forces are too depleted right now. As soon as I have those numbers, I can begin dividing them into groups and working out camp rosters. As soon as we find a safe place for your children and elderly, Hammer Strike will be able to help with getting your people ready. I’ll be rotating groups, so many squads will be training. The others will be for strikes.”

“I would need a group for excavating ore, if you want proper equipment. Beyond that, I will probably need to make a forge,” Hammer Strike noted.

“We already sent the others along to the rainforests. Zecora saw them off herself.” He looked reproachfully at the mare. “And then came back against my wishes.”

For the first time in Vital Spark’s memory, the mare actually looked sheepish. He let his jaw drop in surprise for a few seconds, before a quick slap across the face from Grif allowed him to regain his focus and resume translating.

“We’ll have none of that. My own species is gender biased enough for each of ours,” Grif said. “If mares wish to fight, then that's their choice.”

“Um, for the record, Grif, they’re not actually gender biased,” Vital clarified. “They choose their field, based on the guidance they receive from the spirits. It’s a lot like how Ponies are with their cutie marks. Each mark helps them to identify where their talents would be most useful.”

“Well, the Zecora I remember could wrestle us both into submission without much effort,” Grif said with a wink to the Unicorn. Then he turned to address Mwalimu again. “I realize your people are herbivores, but do you eat eggs?” he asked. “We may have to scavenge, if times get rough.”

“We generally stick to a strict diet of fruits and other greens,” Mwalimu clarified, “though we are capable of hunting. Bayek would be able to tell you who is left among the warriors with the training, assuming he survived.”

Vital Spark winced. He hadn’t considered that possibility. How many friends had he lost in this war? How many more would die, before they saw its end?

Grif nodded. “I’ll seek him out myself, later. For now, let's get prepared to move. People will probably need help, so let's see if we can speed things along.” With a nod from Grif, Hammer Strike dropped the barrier. “Vital, I’m going to need you for a bit longer.”

“I assume you want me to introduce you to Bayek?” the Unicorn asked.

“I also don’t speak Zebrican,” Grif pointed out. “Or Minos, for that matter.”

“The latter is actually a lot easier to learn than you’d think. I can teach you later, if you’d like.”

“Maybe, but for now, I need to know more about how this culture works, and you’ve had more time with them than any of us, so get talking.”

“Bayek!” Vital Spark practically tackled the older stallion in his rush to embrace him. “Thank goodness, you’re safe.”

Bayek laughed. “It is good to see you again, Vital Spark. By the spirits’ grace and the helping hoof of a certain magician, we were able to escape with our wounded.”

“You knew it was magic?”

“I am older, Vital Spark, not stupid,” Bayek chuckled. “That kind of power can only be unleashed by a Unicorn or someone capable of commanding the spirits of air and fire to work together. That is no simple task, I assure you, so it must be the former.”

“He’s an Earth Pony, actually,” Vital Spark said. “I can introduce you later, if you’d like. For now, another of my friends wishes to become acquainted. He’s asked that I translate, since he doesn’t speak the language.”

“Oh? And does this mean you have recovered your memories?”

“Yup,” Vital grinned. “Which means I remembered a few tricks, too. If you thought I had potential before, wait till you see what I can do now.”

Bayek laughed. “I’m looking forward to it. But tell me, who is this friend of yours that is so anxious to meet me?”

Grif stepped out from behind a tent and offered his talons to the Zebra. “Grif Bladefeather. I hear you’re the stallion too see about military issues.”

“I am but one,” Bayek clarified, “but until we are able to take full account of the others, I suppose that would leave me as the main leader. What do you seek?”

“As soon as you know, I need to know how many of your more experienced fighters, preferably officers, are around. I’m also going to need you to see who, if any, will fight. With your forces depleted, we’re going to need as many volunteers as possible, if we’re going to turn this war in our favor,” Grif told him.

“We don’t have officers, but I will look for any of our more experienced fighters that survived. If you are looking to find recruits, however, that may have to wait, until we reach the rainforest to join the rest of the elders and council. We will also find warriors and hunters who were stationed at the other villages across the savannah. That should help to bolster our forces and aid in any attempts to train volunteers.”

“We’ll need to split our available fighters up into smaller groups,” Grif said. “The Minotaurs will have a harder time moving through the jungle than we will. We can use that, cut them off, and kill them in groups, without being seen. How much do you train in guerrilla warfare?”

“How do you hunt a lion, Grif Bladefeather?” Bayek smirked. “You do not make a sound.”

“The difference, my friend is that the way your used to it. If the lion figures out you’re there, then the lion attacks.” Grif smirked. “When the lion figures out I’m there, the lion runs. We’ll engage in guerilla warfare, once all your non-combatants are safe. Small groups will be divided in different areas. Half will fight, half will prepare. There is no winning in a sustained war. We’ll take only as long as we need to get your people ready for open field combat.”

“And you intend to show the best means for us to counter our opponents,” Bayek reasoned. “Being a Gryphon, you would be inherently knowledgeable of such things.”

“You are well informed.” Grif nodded. “They have taken a friend of mine. I have reason to believe he’s still alive. Why, I’m not sure, but I intend to rescue him. If that means saving your people, then it would seem our interests align, don’t they?”

“For now, at least,” Bayek agreed. “But if you do happen to choose to turn against us, you know we will fight to the last.”

“If you know anything about Gryphons, you should know honor is paramount,” Grif said. “Now, what can you tell me about the last attacks that happened?”

“Simply put, the Minotaurs forced the escarpment apart using their combined wills to strike at the rock and keep it open, afterwards. It would have taken a great deal of effort and continual concentration. That divider has been there for centuries, created by the will of the land itself. It does not like being forced. Once they passed through, they charged us in the middle of our exercises. We had time enough to arm ourselves, but as you are aware, a battle with a Minotaur is generally a war of attrition. It was a war that could not be won, while reinforcements continued to flood us. That is often the Minotaur’s strategy, overwhelm by force. When they say strength of arms, they aren’t talking about their weapons.” Bayek shrugged. “You are aware of what came after.”

“Yes, but they tend to be weaker, when it comes to ranged combat.” Grif smiled. “That bow just for show, or can you use it?”

“We train in every weapon at our disposal, Grif Bladefeather,” Bayek said seriously.

“What's your effective range?” Grif asked.

“A goodly distance. Analyzing your Equestrian construction has allowed us to make several innovations in our own bow designs. I would guess the minium would be approximately two hundred of your yards, give or take.”

Grif nodded. “Yeah, ponies can make a decent bow; for ponies, anyway,” Grif chuckled. “Still, with Hammer Strike’s help, I think we’ll be able to do a little better than that, at least on a larger scale.”

“Is that so? I would be most interested to meet with this Hammer Strike.”

“You’ll have your chance, possibly on the road, or possibly when he needs to outfit you.” Grif shrugged. “Will you be ready to travel?”

“It isn’t me you should be worried about,” Bayek said. “The wounded will be our main priority.”

“Of course. Do everything you can for them, but keep in mind that we must leave as soon as we can. It could mean the difference between us setting a trap for the Minotaurs or them doing the opposite to us.”

“I recommend checking on the wounded, then. At worst, a means will need to be devised to carry them swiftly and safely. The makeshift stretchers we utilized before were shoddy work at best.”

“Use whatever you need.” Grif nodded. “I’ll see what I can do to get things moving for you.”

“Then I will leave you to your tour,” Bayek said. “I assume you and your friend have much catching up to do.”

“Until we meet again.” Grif nodded, and the two departed the Zebra’s company.

The first thing that Pensword felt was thirst, followed soon after by a splitting headache. A distinctive swaying rocked him gently back and forth, leaving him with a queasy stomach as the world spun around him. He scrunched his eyes closed to try to focus himself. It didn’t help much, but he grit his teeth anyways and opened his eyes again. White light seared his pupils as the cruel sun reflected off of cracked white earth and the occasional small mound of sand, where scorpions and other little creatures had made their nests. A series of grunts, snorts, and lowing soon alerted him he was not alone, even as the dark lines he thought to be after-images from the sun gradually solidified into solid stone bars. There could be only one logical explanation, and he had to bite back a low growl as it finally sunk in.

Pensword was a prisoner.

Ever the resourceful soldier that he was, he knew the best thing to do would be to get his bearings. Unfortunately, everything in the desert looked almost exactly the same. About the only noticeable landmark lay behind, getting steadily smaller the more his captors carried on. The massive escarpment practically blazed with light, almost like there were another sun. Hammer Strike’s handiwork, no doubt.

Pensword winced as a particularly nasty swing forced him to try to steady himself. His wings flared instinctively, and pain soon followed as the burning muscle and swollen flesh protested his actions. He would need to keep the offending joint imobile for now. Since the sun was so bright, he squinted, reducing his vision, but also giving at least a degree of relief to his aching eyes. His ears swiveled as he put his efforts into his other senses to detect his situation. Logic dictated that he had to be in a litter of some kind, considering the swaying. His ears soon picked up on the pole bearers’ snorts and heavy clops as their hooves struck against the dry earth. Further concentration revealed the familiar clink of leather bandoliers and nose rings, informing him of at least three others. A harsh bellow soon called them to a stop, and Pensword swiftly laid his head low against the floor of his cage as his captors gathered round.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Six others. The cage dropped carefully to the ground as the warriors changed positions. In a matter of seconds, they were moving again, and a few raucous laughs sounded as the bulls exchanged in their manner. Pensword tried to follow it, but it soon became apparent just how futile such an effort would be. If he wanted anything from them, he would need to use gestures. This … was not going to be pleasant.

A few more hours passed in the silence as the sun baked the salt and sweat from Pensword’s hide. His breathing became raspy and he gasped, warring with his pride and his survival instincts. Fortunately for him, he didn’t have to choose. The sound of stone grating against sand ground in his ears as he wavered in his consciousness.

Two burly arms reached into the cage and forced his mouth open. His vision was so blurred, he couldn’t make out his jailers, but he did recognize the taste of life-giving water readily. He choked at the first slosh into his mouth, and coughed weakly. The spasms triggered more pain in his wing, but he was too weak to do anything about it. The process repeated itself three more times, followed by a hard rock that was shoved into his mouth and pressed against his tongue, before his mouth was held shut.

The first thing he recognized was the strong, bitter flavor of pure rock salt. The second thing he realized was how fast his mouth salivated over it. The third thing he noticed was a sudden giddiness flooding through his body. The blurry face of one of the bulls snorted at him and its eyes slowly came into focus as they stared into his own. The rational side of the warrior knew he should play possum, try to look like they’d nearly killed him. It would delay them and potentially provide a means for him to escape. But … whatever they’d given him left him feeling inflamed. A flicker of defiance licked in his slitted eyes as he looked right back at his captor, unblinking. He bore his fangs and let loose a weak hiss.

He couldn’t be sure with the light and his swimming vision, but Pensword thought he saw a smile cross that creature’s face. A few seconds later, a great bucket-like bowl grew out from the base of his prison. The Minotaur dropped a few more of the crystals into the vessel, followed by the familiar splash of more water as the bowl began to fill and the mineral to dissolve. So fascinated was he by this magic that he didn’t even notice the bonds forming around his fore and back hooves, until it was too late.

Lastly, his captor tied a rope around the vessel and then looped it around the hybrid’s neck, before pulling it tight. Now the Pony’s movement would be hampered, but not to the point of being unable to take sustenance, when the need arose. He sighed as his stomach raised its own complaints. Unfortunately, while the water was forthcoming, the hands did not come again with food.

Pensword sighed as he craned his neck back toward the wall again. It would only be a matter of time, before the others came searching for him. He just had to hope he could find a way to leave some clues behind. With that need firmly in mind, he put himself to work formulating a plan.

It took the group eleven days to reach their destination. They moved as far as they could in the span of a single day, with groups switching off transporting the wounded to relieve the burden and avoid heat exhaustion. Even so, it was a slow trek. Grif and Hammer Strike took turns covering the rear and scouting ahead. During this time, they’d managed to encounter several groups of Bayek’s warriors, who had been waiting for orders to arrive about where to regroup. Foraging and hunting parties were sent ahead of them by noon every day. Still, food was relatively scarce, which forced them to ration what they had carefully. Water, fortunately, was much more available, thanks to Vital Spark’s ability to pull the moisture from the air in ice form.

“What's the name of this place again?” Grif asked Vital as they approached the village in the distance.

“There are multiple names for them, really. The Two Sisters is usually the most common title to refer to them,” the Unicorn explained.

“What's the layout? Is it defensible?”

“The one in the savannah probably isn’t. It’s a fairly large compound spread wide over the fields. There isn’t anything to obscure or protect it, no natural barriers. We’ll probably find everyone holed up in the other village deep in the jungle. I can show you the way. While there’s still life in the forest, it’ll act to protect our tribes.”

“You’re not going to like what I have to say,” Grif grimaced.

“If you’re going to suggest chopping down the trees, you can stop right there. None of the tribes will do it, and I won’t either. The weapons we use are gifts from the trees of the plains and the forest, willingly offered.”

“That would be stupid,” Grif scoffed. “We’re going to need as much cover as we can afford.” He glanced at his friend. “I was going to say you need to scavenge any leftover resources left on the fields, take as much seed as you can, and burn whatever's left. Stop up the wells, if you have any. We don’t need our enemies having access to food and water at your expense.”

“That would require destroying the baobab trees.” Vital shook his head. “That’s how we draw our water from the land. That being said, the Minotaurs may not know that. If we can obscure any signs of the way we harvest the water, it should accomplish the same end. As for the fields, that should be a simple thing to manage. The remainder of the fields will probably have already been harvested for whatever viable pieces are left, but I’ll check one more time.” Vital Spark sighed. “It’s a pity we’ll have to burn all of this, though, but I suppose it’s better this way. It’ll make for good soil for the next crop, and the drought has reduced most of the fields to little more than glorified tinder.”

“Every advantage, Vital. It will take a while, before the Zebras are ready for open combat. After that, we’ll be pushing into the Minotaurs’ territory. The longer we buy ourselves, the more time we have to make sure things go our way.”

“You won’t be getting arguments from me there. A lot of the Zebras already know how to fight to a certain extent, with their shamanistic training. You may have to cycle between instructors, so they can learn to incorporate those arts into other fighting styles and skills, like you did when you channeled your spiritual energy into that slicing attack. By the way, when did you start sneaking off to take those lessons with Zecora, anyway?”

“About the middle of last summer,” Grif shrugged. “I figured the ability to punch somebody in the face from thirty feet away without magic might just give me an advantage,” he winked.

“Ah, you got that far, did you? Of course, I suppose part of that has to do with your spiritual nature as well,” Vital mused. “Admittedly, with the spring back to normal, it’s only a matter of time, before the land rejuvenates enough for the Minotaurs to find food again. We’ll need to be able to act before that happens.”

“Fortunately, the advantage here is that these Zebras know the land better than the Minotaurs do. Once the non-combatants are safe, we’ll be splitting them up into small teams with rapid strikes all over the spectrum. Then they’ll vanish back into the jungle. With any luck, it will keep them on edge.” Grif smiled. “Speaking of edges, I see you’ve acquired a few yourself,” he said, holding up one of Vital’s hunga munga to examine. “Crude, but efficient.”

“And very good at catching multiple targets, if thrown properly,” Vital agreed. “Just don’t take my staff,” he warned. “It … was a parting gift from a friend.”

“Must have been someone important,” Grif noted. “It’s still alive, after all.”

“Yeah. He was an avatar, if you can believe it.” A tear rolled down the Unicorn’s cheek. “He helped me to adapt to being a part of the culture here.”

Grif retrieved Graf’s axe and smiled at his friend. “Would you believe I know exactly how you feel?”

“I think I can manage that, provided you don’t troll me for the next month or two,” Vital said with a hint of a smile.

“No can do. I’ve got at least a year of backlog to catch up on,” Grif chuckled as he handed the hunga munga back. “I hope you’re ready to use that.”

“Grif, they’re threatening my home and my sister, and from what Fjüra has said, their current head bull is a bloodthirsty monster. I’m going to have to kill, whether I want to or not. One advantage we have is the fact that I can conjure some interesting ways to get around the whole issue with their hides.”

“Well, their armpits and hamstrings are still tender areas. It’s just a matter of being quick and precise. Don’t give them a chance to hit back, unless you’re Hammer Strike, of course. Pretty sure they’d break their fists,” Grif chuckled.

“Accurate,” Hammer Strike commented.

“So, what are your thoughts on their warriors? Are we going to be able to make them soldiers?” Grif chuckled.

“I’ll have to figure out a proper training schedule to keep things moving, on top of equipping them.”

“Their style is different, but it is tailored for dealing with Minotaurs, so a few minor alterations and superior tools will go a long way in helping them to turn the tide,” Vital Spark noted.

“Their tactics need work, Vital,” Grif said.

“Some of theirs do. Others have it down already,” Vital disagreed. “I can direct you to the more qualified leaders, if you’d like.”

“Hammer Strike, you likely saw a few of them in combat. What’s your verdict here?” Grif asked.

“They’re using old tactics. We can modernize it somewhat and ensure a better standing. Until then, by my standard, their tactics are mediocre,” Hammer Strike replied simply.

“Even Bayek’s?”

“There is no law of averages here,Vital. One exception doesn’t change the rule,” Grif sighed.

“I wasn’t going against your assessment as a military expert, Grif. I just wanted to make sure Bayek was given the credit I felt he deserved. That’s all.”

“Besides, there aren't enough warriors here. We’ll need to open up the opportunity to fight to anyone of proper age,” Grif noted.

“I don’t know how many will want to join, but given our options, I don’t see we have much choice,” Vital agreed.

“Anything on the mythical spectrum we should look out for?” Grif asked. “My mythology for this part of the world is a bit rusty.”

“As far as I’m aware, in this part of the world, it’s just the spirits you have to watch out for. I have heard tell of things like giant snakes and a few other creatures that supposedly lived in the desert to the north, but we don’t exactly have a way to verify them, unless we talk with the Minotaurs about it.”

“Knowing how things typically go, I’ll prepare things accordingly,” Hammer Strike commented with a faint frown.

“Well then, let's get those who can broken up and start packing up supplies. Perhaps there are resources here to build a few wagons or something. The faster we get started, the sooner we get finished,” Grif said as they finally approached the edge of the village.

“They’d only last us so long, before the forest became too thick to journey through, but I think we can manage it for the first leg, at least,” Vital said. “Let me show you to the materials sheds.”

“Grif, allow me to introduce you to a couple of old friends of mine,” Vital Spark said as he led a bulky Zebra warrior and a taller, lean one with a dead eye into the hut that had become their base of operations. “This is Waangalifu and his commanding officer, Kisasi. They were part of my escort when I first arrived in these parts, so both are well acquainted with the terrain and the routes within the jungles.”

“Hello, gentlemen.” Grif nodded respectfully to each of them. “I hope you’re both raring for some payback.”

“They killed our friends. What do you think?” Waangalifu said hotly.

“Easy, colt. I told you to watch that temper,” Kisasi said.

“I want you to understand something. To my understanding, Zebrica has had a standing army, but no real threats to its sovereignty.” Grif didn’t yell or glare at Waangalifu as he talked, but his tone was icy. “I need to be sure there will be no hesitation on what’s asked, no matter how bad it may seem. I will have prisoners executed. I will have prisoners tortured.” Grif looked into the young Zebra’s eyes. “You think you’re angry? You have yet to see the apocalyptic amounts of fury I will be unloading on our enemies.”

“You really don’t know how bad he can get, Waangalifu,” Vital warned. “Trust me, he means what he says. His anger is like a gale; swift, targeted, and incredibly powerful.”

“In short, what a warrior’s wrath should be,” Kisasi said as he looked to Waangalifu. “You take it, you hone it, and you put it to good use, without letting it consume you.”

Waangalifu remained silent as he continued to hold his gaze with Grif.

“We’re going to be separating all warriors and volunteers into groups,” Grif said, turning to Kisasi. “Half will be staying here to learn about open field combat with Hammer Strike. The other half will be splitting into groups overseen by me, and then we’ll begin hunting. We're going to use the jungle as our weapon. We’ll need traps. I don’t care how they’re made, as long as they’re efficient. I’ll also need maps of the area and notes on local predators.”

“You’ll have them,” Kisasi promised. “The jungle has many natural dangers as it stands. You might consult with the herbalists on where might be the most advantageous places to lure any enemy forces. As for talk of the local predators, I’ll find the warriors assigned to hunt for the village here. They should be able to give you the details you require.”

“Thank you.” Grif turned to the other Zebra and laid his talons gently on his back. “We’ll have our revenge, my friend, but you need to trust me.” He looked into Waangalifu’s eyes. “Who did they take from you?”

“Grif,” Vital said in Draconic, “they’re trained like Marines. Every soldier is a brother, and they’re loved as brothers.”

“You want blood?” Grif asked the Zebra.

“I want justice.”

“Then be ready,” Grif told him as he placed a dagger in one of his hooves. “Because what is just will not always be what is kind.” He turned his head to Vital. “We’re done with this group. Where’s the next one?”

“Bayek is rounding them up as we speak. When were you planning to give the speech to recruit the other mares and colts?”

“You said that they were all brothers. Is that true for the whole tribe?” Grif asked as they walked away and the two Zebras took their leave with a kindly dismissal from Vital Spark.

“For the warriors and hunters, yes. As for the various tribes and villages, it varies from Zebra to Zebra. However, as a whole, we are a lot closer than most residents in Equestria. It is a unity born out of necessity to survive on the Savannah, but for many it leads to more.”

“Then I’ll speak to them as soon as you introduce me. Your support will probably mean more to them than a creature of a species many of them have never seen before, and I’m asking something of them that I only want those who believe they can act to offer me. The Minotaurs won’t take being pushed back. We’re going to have to knock on the doors of Labyrinthian itself for this to end.”

“We’ll need some serious power to aid us, then, especially if that’s where they took Pensword. The Minotaurs worship powerful entities, very strong, very ancient, and they reside in that city, or at least near it. If we don’t find a counter to that, then we might as well be walking into a slaughter.”

“We have the Winds’ support, and we have Shiva’s, from what I gathered from your story. Don’t the Zebras have their own gods?”

“Shiva was a one-time deal. She won’t let me call on her again without a formal contract, and you know I’m not versed in the means to establish such a bond. Clover would flay me alive, if I tried. As for the Zebras and any gods they worship, the closest thing I can think of is Gaia, and you know she has to remain neutral in these kinds of matters.”

“Then I suppose we’ll have to count on Hammer Strike having an answer to that,” Grif shrugged. “Anyway, can you take me to the elders? I noticed something earlier in their eyes that I wanted to discuss.”

“By all means. Vital the diplomat at your service,” the Unicorn said with a slight bow.

“Then let's go.”

Pensword slowly came to from his latest nap. A dull ache throbbed in the back of his head and he immediately went to the briny water in his bowl to quell it. When he had drank his fill, he lowered himself to the floor of his cage and let the fluid work its way through his system, filling him with that pleasant tingling buzz to massage the ache away. He smiled as the briny scent of his most recent makeshift meal danced over his nose to mingle with the wet scent of fresh mud. He hiccupped, despite himself, as his eyes were drawn to the sight of curling smoke in the distance. Soon the great lowing of his captors filled his ears as they sounded that almost monastic call to carry across the intervening space to the waiting ears of warriors in the distance. An answering cry soon followed. The day wore on, and Pensword continued to partake in the rations his hosts shoved his way. Occasionally, a piece of dried meat would be added with his dose of salt water, and he would relish in the flavor and sense of substance in his stomach, rather than the sloshing of liquid he’d been putting up with for so long.

The air was heavy with the scent of the ocean as day slowly gave way to night and the escort finally arrived at a towering stone gate with a broad arch and a series of clawing hands and glaring bull heads staring down disapprovingly at all who sought entry. It was the fourth settlement of its kind. Brutish berzerkers they may have been, but at least this herd of bovines knew the necessity of a proper outpost and supply chain. Unfortunately, that also served to unnerve the commander. These Bovines appeared to be a mixture of Scandinavian Vikings with the logistics of Colonial Portugal. That would prove troublesome to the others, should they seek to mount a rescue. Not impossible, but certainly troublesome.

Pensword sighed in relief as his cage was finally deposited inside a thick white building not unlike the pueblos of the western deserts back on Earth. Thanks to the white coloration of the stone and the thickness of the walls, the interior was surprisingly cool, making it the perfect place for him to rest. A cursory glance along the room revealed walls of cages filled with song birds and other animals that had apparently been captured before him, most likely through hunting trips and other means. That being said, the fact that he was being placed with these creatures meant that his captors viewed him as little more than an animal. Was this how they treated all of their prisoners, or were they actually hoping to sell him off as some sort of pet? His eyes widened as another thought struck him, and he shuddered. They wouldn’t really try to breed him, would they?

Then again, that didn’t really matter right now. What did matter was the fact he was more comfortable now. The sun wouldn’t bake him to death. He laid his head back down to rest, even as the songs and growls from the animals faded into the background, while the creatures acquired his scent. A funny little vision danced through his head as the salt really started to hit his system. Grif stood before him, positively swarmed by songbirds. With a sharp whistle, the birds turned their attentions to the guards and darted in for the attack, while others picked his lock. Was it outlandish? Certainly, but Pensword found himself warming up to the idea. Ah, outlandish, such a funny word. Almost before he was aware of it, a series of drunken giggles joined the cacophony of cries from the other birds and creatures. He was soon joined by a quintet of hyenas yelping and laughing in their mischievous way. As Pensword’s rationality began to fade again, he couldn’t help but wonder what he would be like, when the others found him again and the war was over.

But, of course, that didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was that beautiful leopard sitting across from him and up two shelves. He couldn’t help but smirk at the thought of taming it, while the shoulder guards on his armor morphed into gaudy epaulettes and the remainder of his garb transformed into the brilliant red coat of a ringmaster. Yes, what a wonderful addition it would make to his circus.

He giggled again as the darkness slowly took him and he surrendered to the pull of his dreams.

Vital Spark watched with an experienced eye as the new recruits raised their bows and looked down range.

“Archers, load your arrows!” he called

The Zebras fumbled slightly as they worked to nock the projectiles, and Vital Spark sighed.

“You’ll need to be faster than that, if you intend to succeed,” he said bluntly. The whole point of the arrow fire is to cover our troops as they attack from the ground. Speed and accuracy are key, especially if you intend to help fell enough enemies that you can reclaim your arrows later,” Vital noted. “Lower your bows and remove the arrows. We’re going to keep practicing those movements, until they become as natural to you as breathing.”

A series of light groans rose from the gathered equines.

“Hey, be grateful you’re not stuck with Grif right now. He wouldn’t be so nice about it,” Vital noted bluntly. “Now, let’s try again, with a little more effort this time. Archers, take your positions….”

A half hour later, the Zebra recruits stood before the Gryphon himself. The predator grinned unsettlingly at them as Vital Spark stood by his side to translate.

“Now, can any of you tell me why anything within arm’s reach of a Minotaur is a bad idea?” Grif asked.

A mare raised her hoof somewhat timidly. “Because most of their strength lies in their upper body?”

“Very good.” Grif nodded. “To an almost ridiculous degree, Minotaurs are physically stronger than all other known races. If they can hit you, then, most likely, they can kill you. Can any of you tell me where the best areas to aim on a minotaur would be?”

Nopony raised a hoof this time.

“Minotaurs walk on two hooves. As you know, this means they place a lot of weight on their calf and hamstring muscles. The skin is thinner there, and if you can pierce those muscles, … did someone say timber? They are also weak in the pits of both arms and especially on the throat. An equine or a Gryphon will bleed out in four seconds, if their throat’s slit. A Minotaur will be dead in just over two. Their hearts work harder than ours do, and their blood pumps at a much higher pressure,” the Gryphon explained. “Now, can someone tell me how we might hit these areas, without putting ourselves in danger?”

“Traps, Sir?” one of the colts asked.

“That's a great start. What kind of trap would you use?” Grif pressed

“Perhaps something to trip them?”

“That's a start, but can you think of ways to make it more efficient? It would be a big waste of time, if you weren't around when they tripped,” Grif pointed out.

“Would tranquilizers or poisons have any effect, if we can apply them safely?” a different colt asked.

“Yes, but you’d need either a very sharp dart or a very well aimed one. Minotaur skin is very thick, remember? Still, it’s best to keep towards poison, and not tranquilizers. Unfortunately, we cannot afford to bring back survivors. Can anyone tell me what we can do amongst the tree cover that Minotaurs cannot?” Grif asked.

“Um, … duck into the underbrush?”

“And?” Grif asked.

Nothing but the loud cry of the cicada answered.

“Minotaurs cannot move quickly in heavy brush, for one thing,” Grif started. “They can’t fit in or under cramped spaces. And one advantage my people have exploited for centuries is they have distinct trouble looking up more than a few degrees. Over the next few weeks, we’re going to be learning the best way to exploit weaknesses like these and the best types of traps to use to cut their numbers down.

Now, I understand most of you feel you need to be here, but I am making this offer to you. If anyone here feels they do not have the ability to be responsible for the death of another being, you may leave now and no one will judge you for it. War is not what songs or stories make it sound like. War is hell, and I can’t guarantee your safety. So now is the time, if you feel the need to back out.”

Nopony did.

“All right, pair up! Groups of five or less. When you do so, Vital Spark will hand each group a series of trap schematics. Each of you will have three hours to impress me.” Grif looked out at all of them. “Lethality is key here, people. Don’t hold back.”

Meanwhile, on the far edge of the village, Hammer Strike was hard at work. With the return of the balance to the land, the spirits had been only too happy to assist in what little ways their reduced power allowed as the earth worked to regenerate itself and its resources. The new kiln and forge both blazed hot as piles of ore, gems, and other materials were gradually harvested and sorted by the Zebra scavengers that had paired with shamans for guidance to the best deposits.

A bellow not unlike the halloo of a horn jostled Pensword out of his sleep. He groaned in frustration, having hoped to sleep most of the blazing day away and replenish his fluids that night. A great towering wall rose several stories into the air, its black basalt staring bleakly with its wind-torn surface. A few moments later, the leader of their party stepped forward and knocked against the wall three times. On the third knock, a pulsing red slit of light rose up from the base of the structure, then broke into two portions to form a great sphere, before meeting again and running back up the rest of the structure. Within the sphere, more lines stretched and etched into the form of a great bull superimposed atop a miniature labyrinth. Then the sphere spun with the sound of heavily grating stone and the portions of the wall swept ponderously open to reveal a broad path straight ahead.

Pensword glanced to either side of him, taking note of the many openings, twists, and turns that awaited, should his captors choose to take the paths. But why would anyone choose to take them, when the way into the city was so clear?

The entrance into the city proper led into a series of cracked and rundown structures that were in sore need of a mortar application. Smaller calves and gnarled elderly bulls and cows looked on with a mixture of curiosity and mournful suffering. One such child approached and held up a bowl, letting out a plaintive low as she averted her gaze, then motioned towards a particularly sickly-looking cow. A loud snort and a heavy clop of a hoof was all it took to send the poor heifer scampering away.

The streets grew wider as they passed farther into the city. The structures gradually became taller, their thick white plaster reflecting the sun’s harsh rays to protect their occupants. A veritable swath of broad wooden stalls with vibrant tarps and cloths overhead to shield their occupants overran the sides of the buildings, skirting alleyways and entrances to allow for optimum traffic. The majority of the owners sported either weapons, fabric, or jewelry. Somewhere in the distance, the loud bleats of goats drew Pensword’s attention. A passing glance down one alleyway revealed a pen filled to the brim with the creatures as a Minotaur fed each a handful of hay to chew on elsewhere. Prominent scarring along their flanks marked them for what they were, and Pensword shuddered at the sight as bile rose in his throat. These bovines had slavery.

As they continued farther, the great structures became taller, their walls thicker. Towers became more common and prominent, stretching up toward the heavens, doubtless to act as an early warning system for any unfriendly forces. A large square they passed was filled to the brim with a series of brutal looking chariots lined with spikes, metal plating, and other gildings designed for combat and competition. A pair of goats stared off into space as they waited patiently in their harnesses.

At the far end of the city, Pensword could just make out the beginnings of structures standing out from the edifice of a mighty mountain range. Its pinnacles were lost high in the clouds above as the occasional knoll of a bell striking rhythmically echoed to carry ghost-like along the wind. It seemed that the escort was taking him there, though for what purpose, Pensword couldn’t say. All he knew for certain was that he didn’t like it one bit.

Pensword saw another goat with a brand and he gave a snort. If his captors tried that anywhere on his body, especially near his cutie mark, so help him, he’d buck his handlers harder than Spirit did the blacksmith, back on Earth. He couldn’t help but smirk as a small nicker left his muzzle. Who thought he’d be taking lessons from a cartoon?

A husky chuckle was the only answer Pensword received as his handlers continued their monotonous trip. Penword narrowed his eyes to glare back. They would see who had the last laugh. For now, he could afford to wait.

“Thank you for meeting with me.” Grif gave a light bow before the older Zebras. It had taken time, but Vital had finally managed to get a few of the older ones to agree to meet with the warrior privately. “I hope you don’t take my request as impertinent.”

“Impertinence would be barging into our tents and demanding we meet with you immediately,” the first of the elders said. “Vital Spark has vouched for you, as has Mwalimu. That is enough to keep suspicion at least satisfied, if not completely at bay.”

“Suspicion is a wise instinct. It keeps us alive,” Grif said, smiling. “I come here, because I have a question I am hoping you will answer for me.”

“And that is?”

“Who was the Gryphon who visited these lands before?” Grif asked flatly. “When I first arrived here, I noticed many of the elders lacked the surprise the younger Zebras had at seeing my form. Most of you recognised my race head on. So, who was he?”

“He was known by many names: Toymaker, the Laughing One, the Weeping Whistle. We don’t know what happened to him, only that he fled from your empire a long time ago and never looked back. He was … surprisingly gentle, though his spirit was often in turmoil, hence why he gained so many names. Whether loss, fear, shame, or a combination thereof, it was clear he carried a great burden. It was one he did not wish to share with us. In the end, he flew out to sea, in search of his place.”

“Gandolfi the toymaker was here? But that … that's impossible. He died, when his workshop burnt down, him and his research.” Grif was in shock at hearing such news. “Did he leave anything behind?”

“Memories, a few small tokens. He was exceptionally clever in his own right. He could not voice our tongue, but he still devised a means for us to communicate, regardless.” The old stallion chuckled. “My grandchildren make use of them now, as I once did in my youth. His puzzle box was exceptional. Not a foal has managed to find the proper combination yet.”

“I don’t suppose you would allow me to see some of these items? The Gryphon was a genius in our culture as well. Unfortunately, we did not appreciate the simple joy toys can bring. My people forced him to make weapons, and I feel that may be why he fled. As you have said, he was a kind-hearted soul.”

“Perhaps, for a time.” A rueful smile crossed the stallion’s face. “Assuming we can get them away from the little ones.”

“I would appreciate that.” Grif nodded. “Soon, we’ll be ready to start getting aggressive with this war. Another month and we can begin actively hunting them. I will see your people reclaim their peace.”

“And what of your own people?” one of the elders with cloudy eyes asked. “Will you bring them peace as well?”

“I see. You have consulted your diviners about me? How much did they tell you?”

“Enough to know that our people will owe you much in the coming years. Your future is still your own to decide. And we know to avoid discussing the happenings of this war with your doppelganger. That … is the correct word in the Equish tongue, is it not?”

“I am Grif Bladefeather, the chosen Avatar of Winds. My destiny, should I live to see it, will be to return what my people have lost, and in doing so, hopefully allow them to see the folly of our ways.” Grif planted Vigilance and Vengeance before him. “I wield the sacred swords of vigilance and vengeance. If I were unworthy, they would not have me.”

“We do not judge your worthiness, newborn. Such is the place of the gods and spirits beyond. There is no need for assurances of loyalty. That has been granted by Vital Spark and the great defender. Take up your swords, child. There is still much to be done.”

Grif took the blades and sheathed them with a flourish. “Then I will take my leave. As you said, there is still much to be done, and the North Wind is hungry.” With that, Grif gave another short bow and left the room with Vital Spark in tow.

“How did I do?” he asked the Unicorn.

“A bit on the flashy side. They divined about your past self’s arrival, and they know about your burden, whatever that may be. They didn’t think they should tell me, so I figure it’s something you want to keep to yourself, and I can respect that. A word of advice, though. You don’t have to impress us, Taze. We judge your spirit, not your appearance. A well trained shaman or diviner can easily read you, though it’s probably more like they’re skimming through a dictionary, considering how complex your story is.”

“Even so, I want there to be no possible doubts. Pensword’s my main goal, but I will do everything in my power to help them.”

“I’d expect nothing less from you. After all, they’re my family now.” Vital sighed. “Speaking of which, I should probably check on Zecora. I don’t know exactly when it’s supposed to happen, but I know she’s going to make a powerful contract with a deity, and it’ll probably be soon.”

“Hopefully,” Grif chuckled. “We could definitely use help right now.”

Vital sighed as he looked sorrowfully at his staff. “Maybe, but I don’t know if I’d like her paying the cost.”

Hammer Strike sighed to himself as he tightened the last segment on the basic bellow for the forge. He couldn’t skip too far ahead of himself, or he would leave too big of a note that he did not want to deal with, plus it would be useful to them, after he left. He would teach them enough to expand upon the art themselves, but his own personal forgings would remain just that, his own.

Frowning, he tilted the bellow and began giving it a basic test, taking in air and pushing it out. He continued the process a few times as he checked every possible angle. “No unanticipated leaks,” he muttered to himself as he shrugged and placed it off to the side.

Resources were easy enough to gather. It was just the matter of finding those with the ability to forge that made things more complicated. It wasn’t just a matter of strength, it was also finesse and endurance to work the long hours on single projects. It wasn’t something that anyone could just pick up.

“I hope the tanning was to your liking,” an older Zebra with a rough hide shield said as he approached. The scent of the chemicals for the process radiated from his robe.

“They’re proving to be useful,” Hammer Strike replied as he tapped the bellow.

“Is there anything else you stand in need of?”

“A set of hooves that can handle my training and long hours of continuous labor without complaining,” Hammer Strike replied simply. “Though the task is not an easy one,” he finished as he grabbed the bellow and moved towards the opposite side of the room, where he had begun the construction of said forge. After a few minor tweaks, he secured the bellow to the position he had marked.

“There are many who wish to fight. It will be difficult to locate one of the young ones who would adhere to such standards.” The tanner stroked his chin, where a fleecy white goatee sprouted. “You would likely find your best candidates among either the healers or the warriors. The healers are trained to exercise patience in the administration of their arts, while the warriors have a greater focus on strength, agility, and endurance. If neither is suitable, I would recommend you seek out the hunters. I believe they would best embody both sets of skills that you require.”

“I require both in a single individual, as you cannot work metal properly without both. Once I am gone, you will have a new class of workers that can continue working towards bettering the craft.”

“Shall I notify Bayek for you, then? The hunters do fall under his jurisdiction.”

“If you wouldn’t mind.”

“And how many more skins will you require?”

:Just one more set will do.”

“We’ll start on the order immediately.” The wizened Zebra nodded respectfully to Hammer Strike, then took his leave.

Vital sighed as he looked over the stone he’d collected from the riverbed. The training and coordination of troops and raiding parties hadn’t left him with much free time, but he’d managed to polish the edges and chip away some of the excess. The stone was far from complete, but at least it had more of a circular appearance to it. He picked it up and placed it gently into its slot in his saddlebag, when a thought struck him. “It’s worth a shot, I suppose,” he muttered to himself as he made his way to the hut they’d constructed to house Fjüra during her stay.

The guards parted without question as Vital Spark passed into the structure. Its walls were higher and the opening above wider to allow a better view of the canopy above. As he had suspected, a rather penitent Zecora looked up awkwardly at the meditating cow, whether out of guilt or something else, Vital couldn’t tell.

Being careful not to disturb the pair, Vital pulled out the stone again and raised it to his eye. A bright green nimbus surrounded the Zebra in a gentle embrace as a spectral robe of vines, leaves, and branches stretched down her back and around either side. A woven circlet of green twigs and tiny buds adorned her head.

“Well, that answers that question,” Vital mumbled to himself.

“Such stones are rare, youngster. Where did you find something like that?” the Minotaur cow asked without turning to look at him.

Zecora did turn, however, and her eyes widened in surprise. “Vital Spark. What are you doing here?”

“To answer your questions in order, I found it in the river bed near the sacred mountain, before we restored the spring, and I came here looking for you, Zecora.”

“Did Father want me?”

Vital shook his head. “No, this was just a personal call.” He approached Fjüra. “In my homeland, people often called this an adder stone or seer stone, depending on the interpretation. Is it true that this stone is capable of seeing through to the unseen?”

“It is true.” She nodded. “So long as the hole was bored by nature, it can reveal anything that is hidden or invisible.”

“Anything at all?”

“She did say anything, Vital,” Zecora deadpanned.

“And what brings you here, Zecora?”

“Fjüra and I were simply discussing certain important details about the war. Apparently, the deities they worship are known as the hecatoncheires.”

“Woah, woah, woah. Hold up. The what now?”

“The hundred handed ones,” Fjüra clarified. “Those who cry with fifty voices.”

Vital Spark facehoofed, then groaned. “And how many are there, exactly?”

“There have always been three.”

“And should the campaign lead into the Stampede Grounds, how likely are your people to call upon them for aid?”

“Not very.” She shook her head. “It’s doubtful they would answer.”

“And do they exist on the physical plane here?”

“They do.” She nodded. “They sleep within the mountain behind Labarynthia.”

“Then it seems that my intended talk with Zecora may have to wait. If you ladies will excuse me, I need to go alert Grif and Hammer Strike to this new development.”

“Talk?” Zecora asked, surprised.

“Later, Zecora. I’ll find you,” Vital promised as he pocketed the stone and turned to leave the tent.

“So, that’s the gist of it,” Vital Spark said as he sat next to the big Gryphon. “Which means that if the head bull gets that desperate, he might try to wake them. We both know how dangerous even one god can be. Three titans, ….”

“Not Titans.” Grif shook his head. “Different bloodline. Still, that kind of potential is staggering,” Grif said. “But it sounds like they’d be as likely to turn on him.”

“Can we really take that chance?”

“No, but for now, we can accept the fact that we are safe from that problem and focus on the more present problems. How goes the archery lessons?”

“Your help with the new bow design has increased their potential a lot. The shafts should be able to go farther and pierce at closer range. It’s taking them a while to adjust to the stress on the bowstring.”

“That's normal. But do you think they’re ready?” Grif asked.

The warriors and hunters? Certainly. As for the others, I’m still not quite certain. They’re competent, but we won’t know if they’re really ready, until we put them through a proper simulation.”

“There won’t be a simulation. Unfortunately, we don’t have the resources for that,” Grif sighed.

“Then the only way to know for sure is to put them through a proper raid. They’re competent enough. It’s just a matter of how they’ll react in real combat.”

“Make sure they’re ready, then. Next week, we start our retaliation.”

“And will you be telling Hammer Strike about this as well?”

“He already knows,” Grif said. “We talked about it. It’s time to make a statement.”

“I meant the sleeping deities, but yeah, I suppose it’s time.” He sighed. “By the way, Haiwezekani was looking for you earlier. He absolutely demands the chance to test your skill. I tried to warn him off, but, well … the Equestrian translation for his name is literally Incorrigible.”

Grif sighed. “I suppose this was coming. What am I looking at here?” Grif asked.

“An experienced warrior. He’s seen his share of combat over the years, namely with other Zebras and in hunts, though he has also dealt with rogues before, helping to capture them to face judgement as well. He’s tough, gristly, and pretty much a lunatic when you’re in the ring with him. Then again, I think he does that just for the sake of helping us know what we’ll face, when we enter real combat. So, all in all, I think he’s wise, just … not wise enough to realize how foolish it is to insist on challenging you.”

“Thing about real combat is not every opponent is the same.” Grif chuckled as Vital led the way. “Some are crazy, some shout, others are quiet, others are cold. Tell him he can bring whatever he wants into the fight. For my part, I’ll do this one empty-handed.”

“In short, you intend to prove just how out of his league he is for challenging you?” Vital asked.

“He can’t be alone. I’m sure there are plenty of Zebras wondering why this foreigner should be calling the shots. I expected I’d have to prove myself at some point. Now’s as good as ever.”

“I’ll let him know. Was there a particular place you wanted to hold the spar?”

“What's traditional?”

A standard combat ring with a diameter of about ten yards or so. Of course, given your size and the skill involved on both sides, we may have to expand that arena slightly.”

“Make sure to set it up to his advantage.”

“Grif, there’s no advantage to either party. That’s the whole point of the ring match. It’s in a flat terrain with no space to use for cover or sneak attacks. It’s literally impossible to make it advantageous to either side.”

“Put a net over it.”

“You do realize that’s not going to be easy, right? It’ll take us a day or two to get the necessary vines woven. It can be done, but you’ll both need to wait, until it is.”

“I can wait, if he can.”

Vital shrugged. “I’ll ask him. He may not like the idea, though.”

“That's his choice. I want nothing left to question.”

“All right,” Vital sighed. “I’ll let him know. Though, for the record, he’s not doing this to try to prove he’s better.” He chuckled. “He just enjoys a good challenge.”

The jungle rang with the sound of drums and slamming polearms as the stallions of the village gathered around the arena. Vital Spark had made an extra point of lining the edge clearly with a barrier of ice to ensure there was no question of the boundary line. The mares and colts lined up in rows surrounding the ring to catch even a glimpse of the combat that was to follow. A great net hung overhead, tied to the many tree trunks surrounding the village, in accordance with Grif’s specifications.

Grif stood at the far end, doing light stretches as he waited. He’d removed his armor and all his weapons, leaving every bit of his scarred black-and-green fur and feathers out in the open. When this was over, he wanted there to be no doubts, no accusations or technical responses. He’d already decided he wouldn’t be using weapons or magic for this. Skill alone would be his instrument.

The ceremonial witnesses pulled aside as the crowd parted to reveal the gristly Zebra. His rawhide shield was strapped to his back, along with his spear. A rungu rested in a holster to his right, while a hunga munga laid in wait on his left. Its sharp edges glinted in the afternoon sun. The war paint etched across his face and sides were a mixture of clay red and a muddy brown, with a single shot of green portraying a shoot or sapling rising from the tip of his nose up to the top of his forehead.

“So, we meet at last.” Grif chuckled, nodding to his opponent as Vital translated.

“We do, indeed,” the warrior replied. Then he grinned. “I have been looking forward to the challenge. It is not often one gets the chance to spar with one of your kind.”

“Yes. Well, it’s not common for the antelope to challenge the lion, is it?” Grif smirked.

“Nor the lion to face the wise elephant,” Haiwezekani replied. “And yet, both have their reasons, when the time is right.”

“Well then, by all means, let's not stall this any longer,” Grif said, giving an elegant bow. “Begin when you are ready.”

“Begin when I’m out of the ring, Grif,” Vital clarified. Then he raised his voice. “This match is made at the request of Haiwezekani to test the extent of the warrior, Grif Grafson Bladefeather. The first to be either driven out of bounds, defeated in combat, or driven to yield, shall be the victor.” He looked sternly at Haiwezekani. “This is not to be a match to the death. We need the both of you to continue to train our warriors.” Then he looked back at Grif, quickly summarizing his previous words, before continuing in Equish. “That goes double for you, Grif, though I’m sure you had no intention of doing so.” He then resumed his speech in Zwahili as he looked over the eager crowd. “Know that this will not become a common practice. We are preparing for a war. This is to show you the extent of the combatants’ skill and nothing more. You are to watch, listen, and learn. As is the custom, none are allowed to interfere. Those who do will face the consequences.” Vital narrowed his gaze, then retreated to the edge of his barrier, passing through ice and warriors, before sealing the barrier up again.

He raised his hoof as he looked to both contenders one last time. “BEGIN!” he barked as he slammed his hoof down.

Haiwezekani moved in immediately. After closing the distance between them, he stabbed outwards with the spear.

Grif dodged to the left, and then to the right of a second spear thrust. On the third, he reached out and, to the crowd’s shock, dug his talons into the haft just below the spear head, halting the weapon’s movement. With a flick of his wrist, he beheaded the spear and tossed the spearhead behind him.

Haiwezekani reacted immediately, thrusting the splintered wood forward to try to catch Grif off guard.

The strike had come swiftly enough. Admittedly, It had caught Grif slightly off guard. For most fighters, this would be a costly mistake leading to injury. However, despite there being seemingly no time to dodge, the watchers murmured in confusion as Grif seemingly moved to the side instantaneously. Reaching out, Grif grasped the spear’s shaft, before it could be reclaimed, and yanked it out of his opponent’s grasp. He threw it towards the barrier, where it buried itself a solid foot into the ice.

Haiwezekani took one look at the spear and grinned. “I like this one.” Next, he pulled his rungu out from its pouch and changed his combat stance, crouching low to the ground in preparation for an assault.

He charged Grif with a flurry of blows, which the Gryphon ducked under or side-stepped. However, much to his opponent’s plan, he soon found the backstepping required to dodge had his back against the far barrier. Haiwezekani went to drive a single powerful blow. At that point, Grif reached out and caught the club, holding onto the head tightly as he and his opponent grappled for possession of the weapon.

Haiwezekani grit his teeth as he and the Gryphon locked strength and wills. However, despite the closeness of their contest, Grif inevitably began to take the upper hand. At that point, the Zebra used his opponent’s strength against him to flip up onto the Gryphon’s back, wrenching the rungu along for the ride and bending Grif’s arm back, until a loud pop sounded through the clearing and a few of the spectators winced.

Grif let out a growl of pain, but before his opponent could capitalize on his current position, the Gryphon reared back and crashed his weight against the ice barrier, sandwiching the Zebra in. He quickly grabbed the injured arm and yanked it down, then twisted it, setting the member and joint back in place. Unseen, the thaumic field took over from there, pulling the damaged muscle and tissue back together as another pop sounded to alert him and his competitor to the fact he now had full use of the member again. In an instant, Grif rolled forward, freeing the Zebra and separating himself by a few feet, before turning to face Haiwezekani again.

Haiwezekani grinned. “Not bad,” he breathed as he crouched once again. “Not bad at all.”

“Perhaps it’s time to remove the kiddie gloves,” Grif said as he opened his hands and extended his talons. He charged forward and grabbed the head of the club, pulling it towards him, before slashing downwards, severing the handle in two. A flurry of blows later, the rawhide shield fell to the ground in pieces. Before his opponent could reach his hunga munga, Grif clipped the holster straps and tossed the still-holstered weapons out of reach.

Three pricks in various places later, and the Zebra’s front legs went numb, falling prone to either side as small red wells began to seep where Grif’s talons had pierced so precisely, invisible to the naked eye. In the next instant, Haiwezekani found himself being held from behind with one talon millimeters away from his jugular. The slightest misstep, and he’d be left bleeding out on the ground. “Yield,” Grif demanded.

Haiwezekani laughed. “Well played, Gryphon. Well played.” He nodded gently in acquiescence, knowing only too well, by tone alone, what the warrior of The Winds had said. Then he called in a louder voice for all to hear. “I yield!”

The roar was thunderous as the Zebras cheered and crowed from the spectacle. Vital Spark was swift to enter on the scene, flanked by a group of healers. “He’ll recover quickly?” he asked curtly of the Gryphon.”

Grif’s talons rapidly poked the Zebra again. In a few moments, Haiwezekani’s front legs began to move again. “The rest will have to wait for nature, I imagine,” he told them.

“Did I see some shaman techniques in there, Grif?” Vital asked curiously.

“Pressure points and acupuncture, Vital. Ping taught me some things,” Grif clarified.

“Ah, that would explain it. So, you blocked his chakra?”

“If you want a mystical explanation, sure. But a more practical explanation would be I disrupted the nerve activity in his shoulders. Thus, no nerve activity, no movement.”

“Do you think you got your point across?”

“I hope so,” Grif said. “Admittedly, he took me by surprise for a moment there. Still, you keep discouraging fights with me. Tell them horror stories, if you need to.”

“I don’t think it will be necessary, but should the need arise, I’ll make sure to teach them the lessons they need in humility.” Vital smiled knowingly at his friend. “You should probably get some ice on that, though,” he said, motioning towards Grif’s shoulder with a horn.

“Thaumic field. Within the next half hour, it’ll be like it never happened.” Grif laughed. “Or at least it will appear that way.”

“All the more reason to treat it like a normal wound, until it has the chance to also repair naturally,” Vital noted as he tore a chunk from the wall and levitated it against Grif’s shoulder. “Here.”

“Thanks,” Grif chuckled, knowing it didn’t quite work that way, but he’d let his friend figure it out in time. He used a wing to press the ice.

“Say, Grif, I sort of forgot to ask this in the first place, what with all the retreating and prep for battle going on. How long have I been gone? You know, back home.”

“Just over two days,” Grif answered.

Vital sighed in relief. “Good. I’d hate to make Trixie worry. Did you catch the mercenaries that took me in the first place or did you have some help from The Doctor this time?”

“Oh, we caught them,” Grif said. “We caught them and the people who put them up to it.”

“And my stuff?”

“We saved what we could find,” Grif offered. “You totaled the staff.”

“Watcher is gone?” The Unicorn looked suddenly stricken.

“No, I mean the expensive ancient Zebrican relic,” Grif clarified.

“Oh, that. Yeah, I still don’t know what happened there.” He chuckled and rubbed the back of his head. “Just had a sudden surge of light, after I tried to channel my magic through it.”

“Well, I imagine the Zebras might have knowledge on that,” Grif noted.

“They’ve been pretty tight-lipped, when I’ve asked.”

“Stop asking, start insisting,” Grif said. “They brought you here. They have a responsibility.”

“And if they still won’t talk?”

“Remind them that they need you right now.”

“Great. So, I have to talk with Zecora about her possibly being a goddess’ avatar and the Council of Elders about what they want from me.” He rolled his eyes. “Swell.”

“In the words of my dear sweet mother, ‘life sucks, and then you die,’” Grif said. “Now come on. We have a raid to plan.”

It had been two days since Pensword had arrived in the city. He had been taken to one of the smaller inner towers of a compound closer to the mountain. The Minotaurs had made certain to keep him drunk on the salt to sedate him as he ate and drank. His accommodations remained the same as the soldiers and a few cows bustled around adjusting parts of the building to suit their new prisoner. Once the alterations were complete, the bovines departed, sealing a partition shut behind them, before letting it blend seamlessly back into the wall.

Once he had gained enough of his senses to shake off the curious reeling sensation of drunkenness, Pensword rose to his hooves and approached the bars of his cage. Much to his surprise, the barrier melted into the floor, giving him unbridled access to the rest of the dwelling. A little exploration revealed the layout of his current accommodations came in the form of what essentially leveled out to a three-room suite. The middle room, where his cage had been dropped, had been lined with windows filled with seamless stone bars as thick as his foreleg. A quick search of these portals made it only too obvious what they had been constructed for as passersby gazed from afar, while guards patrolled ten or so feet away.

Either this was a prison or some form of zoo. Neither idea sat well with the commander. A look at the ceiling revealed an ornate golden dome shaped almost like a radish. Smaller windows about the size of a hoof allowed the sunlight to filter into the space, before reflecting down to bathe a section of the floor in golden light.

“What is this, Aladdin?” he murmured to himself. The other two rooms were small and fairly rudimentary. The one to the left was what essentially equated to a bedroom. A mattress stuffed with straw had been laid down on the floor, alongside a surprisingly elegant-looking white pillow. The hybrid could only surmise that it was a spoil taken from a conquest against a Gryphon war party.

The room to the right was … less than pleasant. It was essentially what equated to a closet with a smooth stone seat, a wide hole, and a deep pit. He wrinkled his nose in distaste, especially when he realized the distinct lack of any washing facilities. When he returned to view some of the other windows, he found, much to his surprise, a lush garden paradise in a sprawling courtyard. A great net hung overhead, preventing any means of aerial escape as tropical birds of all shapes and sizes flew among the trees and plants, unleashing their cries. His eyes widened even farther, when he noticed three peacocks strutting proudly along the cobbled stones and dipping elegantly into a great fountain to drink.

Over time, he grew to learn a certain routine his captors expected him to follow. At dawn, he would be forcefully woken, dragged from his bed, and get herded into the main room for onlookers to see. Since he had little else to do for the time being, he decided to dedicate his time to recovery and maintaining fitness. If he was ever going to break out, he would need his full strength, and he would need a plan. Much to his surprise, rather than seek to prevent him from doing so, many of the onlookers appeared to take delight, even amusement, at the Pony’s actions. Clearly, they didn’t think he could pose a threat. It was a belief they would come to regret, if he had anything to say about it.

His meals consisted namely of dried fruits, with a few juicier additions added after a particularly good workout, like mangos and figs. It also appeared that his captors knew of his dietary needs, adding the occasional side of dried meat every few meals to ensure he maintained his protein levels. He also learned not to go near his bars, when the guards were around. A solid blow to his barrel still left him wincing, when he breathed too deeply. Clearly, the guards weren’t about to take any chances with him.

They would allow others to watch him eat, and they would force him to have at least one block of salt a day, leaving the equine with an almost perpetual buzz that danced a fine line between drunk and sober. This, too, proved entertaining to his spectators, and only served to fuel the anger that seethed beneath the surface at the indignity of it all. He could try flying, eventually, but even if he were to find a means of escape, the city was too well defended, and he wouldn’t put it past his captors to use those defenses he’d spied earlier to kill him, rather than allow him to escape.

No, this was a situation that required careful planning and a nigh-inexhaustible amount of patience. That being said, it could prove a most beneficial opportunity. He would have time to focus on his fitness undisturbed. No paperwork to attend to, no little ones to have to track down, no political intrigue to check. A toothy grin soon overtook his face as his fangs caught the light.

“Time to get back to basics.”

Vital Spark sighed as he plopped down next to Zecora with a bowl laden with dried fruit and jerky. The mare, for her part, was enjoying a bowl of fresh water and a few root vegetables from the crops.

“All this training is running me ragged,” the stallion said as he nuzzled her gently. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine, Vital,” Zecora insisted. “You don’t have to treat me like a little filly.”

“This coming from the mare who treated me like a colt the entire time we lived together. I believe I’m owed at least a little payback for that.”

Zecora smirked. “That’s if you believe in a fair world.”

“That’s what hard work and will is for. We help shape a fair world,” Vital noted cheekily.

“Is that so?”

“Well, in theory,” Vital noted as he popped a piece of fruit into his mouth and chewed. “So,” he said after he swallowed, “you and I still need to have that little talk I mentioned before.”

“And you want to have it here and now?”

“Nah. I’d prefer someplace private, where we won’t have to worry about listening ears. It’s something I’m pretty sure you’d prefer kept under wraps.”

“Blackmail, Vital Spark? Didn’t I teach you better?” Zecora teased.

“Zecora, this isn’t a joking matter,” Vital said seriously. “I know some very interesting things have happened to you recently, things that you and I are going to need to talk about, quite possibly in great length.”

“Things such as?”

“The fact you had a nice long talk with our invisible friends’ mother recently, most likely as far back as the spring.”

“And if I did?”

“Zecora, this isn’t one of our games. I know what you are, and I know what you have yet to become,” Vital whispered tersely.

“And your suddenly regaining your memories has somehow made you an expert?” Zecora asked curtly.

Vital Spark stared the Zebra down. “That was beneath you, Zecora, and you and I both know it. If you’re not willing to talk about it here, I know a place where we can. Meet with me at the village’s edge the night after the raid. It’s about time I got to show you something for a change.”

Haiwezekani, Bayek, Waangalifu, and Kisasi stood in a half circle around Grif and Hammer Strike. Behind them stood Zebras that had been paired up into six groups of ten. Grif was carving into the ground as he went over the final details of the raid.

“Just half a mile from this spot, the Minotaurs have a detachment camping just inside the treeline. There are probably about seventy of them there, but the terrain’s giving them trouble, so they’re primarily resting at this point. They do, however, have teams of two sentries set up here, here, here, and here,” he said, pointing to each of the respective locations on his makeshift map.

“The goal is to have each sentry dead before we begin the raid. Bayek, Haiwezekani, you’ll take teams to kill these sentires.” Grif marked two Xs. “Hammerstrike and I will take out the other two. After that, we attack, starting with a volley of arrows from Kisasi’s group on the south end. Then Waangalifu will charge from the east with your new long spears,” Grif said, stabbing a lone barbed spearhead in the ground to emphasize his points. He gave Hammer Strike a grateful nod. The spearheads were vicious-looking, but would prove incredibly effective. “Try and keep the fires low. The jungles are our ally here,” he said, winking.

“I’ve got more than just fire,” Hammer Strike chuckled.

“We’ll attack for exactly fifteen minutes. Then Kisasi will release another volley of arrows and we’ll need to leave. Does everyone understand that? Fifteen minutes?” Grif scanned their faces.

“And I’ll make sure to cover the getaway with a blanket of fog to confuse their sense of smell and direction,” Vital Spark added.

“Should you delay too long for the getaway, we cannot help you,” Hammer Strike spoke up.

Grif looked to them with a stony face. “If they capture you, I’d suggest you kill yourselves. It’s faster, and there’s less chance of you talking.”

Vital winced, but relayed the message. There was a general murmuring that passed through the gathering, but nothing outright rebellious. “You all know what you signed up for, when you volunteered to join this campaign,” he added. “If you succeed here, it will the the first step to reclaiming our homes and possibly brokering a proper peace. Now then, assuming nobody else has any questions or objections, let’s get started.”

“We’ll head out together for the first hundred feet, then we start splitting off. Remember: move quickly and quietly. Leave as little trail as possible. We don’t want to invite a counterattack.”

The raiding party nodded grimly as each took to their stations and the advance began. Having had the time to become acquainted with the jungle and all its quirks, it was a simple matter for the Zebras to pass silently among the trees and underbrush. Their war paint pulsed briefly as they made contact with the plants, and the leaves and fronds brushed silently back into place, rather than giving off their usual rustle. They knew of the intruders, and they did not like it them trampling into their forest. At last, the party broke up into their units and the plan began in earnest.

Waangalifu signaled with his hoof as he and his fellow shamans slipped ghost-like past the tree line and raced with incredible speed to slip past the sentries. It was a simple matter for them to creep up behind and slit the bulls’ throats. A faint gurgle was all the two guards could utter, before they fell to the ground in a pool of their own blood.

Haiwezekani nodded as he signaled his archers. The Zebras took careful aim, launching their arrows with practiced ease. Unfortunately, the shots went wide, missing their targets. The bulls took a deep breath, ready to sound their alarm, when a black blur blew through. Seconds later, the bulls were on the ground, their eyes rolled back in their heads. Grif gave a reproving glance at the recruits. Clearly, more training was in order. He motioned sternly toward the camp ground, then was gone in a blink.

At his next stop, Grif held up a staying hand, before Bayek’s party, then hefted Graf’s axe. He eyed his targets carefully, then wound back and tossed the weapon. It flew end over end with nary a sound. In an instant, it found its way to the neck of one of the sentries, biting hard and deep and spurting blood onto the ground. Before the sentry's partner could react, Grif called the axe back. The weapon sliced the bull’s throat on the return arc, leaving both minotaurs to sink to the ground without a noise.

Kisasi looked on in utter disbelief at the patch where Hammer Strike had once stood. There had been no magic, no glow, no flash of powder or drop of a trap door. The Earth Pony had simply seeped into the shadows, like a crocodile in the river. Seconds later, one of the younger recruits tapped his shoulder urgently and pointed toward the sentries. Their bodies had been neatly dismembered at the neck, arms, and legs. Haiwezekani sputtered in surprise at the sight. “When did he…?” He shook his head. “Never mind. Forward,” he whispered the command.

Together, the four war parties took up their positions around the encampment. With the sentries dead, they could take their time to launch a proper strike. The warriors took their bows and formed ranks. All sat waiting tersely on the far ends of the camp. Then Grif’s axe flew and hovered high in the air, before whirling back to its master.

The Zebras launched their volley, and the camp was raked with the deadly hail. Bellows of surprise mingled with outcries of pain, followed by rage. The Zebras fired off another volley, then returned their bows to their quivers and stormed the site from all sides. The ground shook with the thunder of their hooves, and their battle cries caused the very canopies above to shake as they crashed through tents, boxes, and vessels. When chance permitted, they would seek to lay low an opponent, but they knew this was a war of attrition, and prudence dictated it would be best to let the Minotaurs’ own lust for combat be their downfall.

At last, when the fifteen minutes had passed, a bright blue light flashed overhead, and a cascade of frigid cold air dropped down over the camp and clearing. The sudden drop in temperature prodded nature to take its course, and a thick blanket of white fog arose from the earth, like a sudden gasp.

“Fall back!” the cry rebounded as the stampede of hooves sounded once again. The bulls that remained charged into the fog after the Zebras, but with their speed and arts, none could be captured. The camp was in total disarray. Supplies had been properly spoiled or destroyed, and true to the plan, a final spray of arrows further hindered their opponents as the raiding party fled into the night. The mission had been a success.

Many a Zebra smiled in delight at the victory they had achieved as they fled into the trees and flocked to the rallying point, where an anxious-looking Vital Spark searched eagerly, perhaps even somewhat frantically, for the party leaders and his friends.

“Quiet,” Grif hissed. “We can celebrate, when we know we haven’t been followed.”

“Is everyone here? How many casualties did we take?” Vital whispered.

“I think we got away with a few broken bones,” Grif said as he surveyed from the upper boughs of a tree. “Overall, they did well.”

Vital let out his pent up anxieties in a gusty sigh. “Thank goodness.”

“There is still room for improvement,” Haiwezekani said pointedly as he approached. “Were it not for Grif’s swift actions, the raid would have gone poorly.” He looked back at the troops from his war party with a withering glare.

“Yes, Haiwezekani, we all know they need improvement,” Bayek agreed, “but you cannot deny they did well for ones with so little training.”

“When we have no casualties at all, then I will be satisfied,” Haiwezekani retorted.

“Might I recommend we resume this conversation back at camp?” Waangalifu suggested. “We have injuries that need tending.”

Haiwezekani grumbled in frustration, but ultimately yielded to the young warrior’s wisdom. There would be time for chastisement later, after they returned to camp.

As they moved, Grif pulled Vital and Haiwezekani aside. “Okay, this has to stop,” Grif said as he looked at the Zebra warrior and the Unicorn translated once again. “I can understand pushing them during training, but we are coming back from a battle, and a victory no less. We’re not carrying any bodies back with us. They don’t need to be admonished for doing well in what, for many of them, is their first battle. Some of them shed first blood here tonight. They don’t need you telling them what they did wrong. They need to process what happened. Right now is the time that determines what type of warrior they become in life, and I’ve seen too many pushed down a dark path, because of stunts like you just pulled back there. I don’t want to hear what I can tell to be criticism, while everyone’s tired and hungry, possibly facing an existential crisis, and/or mending a broken bone. Are we clear?”

“It is not how I teach,” Haiwezekani began, “but you’ve already proven yourself to be the better warrior. If that is really what you say is for the best, then I have little choice but to abide by it.” He sighed. “This … is going to be difficult.”

“Teaching is for before the battle. Resting comes after,” Grif told him. “This is not going to be a fast campaign, and I can say, with great ease, that they won’t always get the pleasure of everyone returning. Let them have tonight.”

“And then?”

“Tomorrow, you can drill them about their mistakes till the cows come home,” Grif promised.

Haiwezekani nodded. “I can live with that.” Then he smirked mischievously. “Say, Grif, just how partial are you to fermented berry juice?”