Hatred. Hatred through which the blizzards tore. Hatred rooted in the frozen earth several metres down; hatred entombed within the bodies of angry peasants; hatred deep under the deserts of snow; hatred whirling among flakes in the razor-tipped winds; hatred lost to the literal mists of time. Home of nothing but yetis, dead trees, and the ever-spiralling spirits of the windigoes.
A yeti looked up, snarled at nothing in the mist. It raised a claw.
Something glinted, shot out.
Seconds later, the yeti whimpered and galloped out of sight. Overhead, the windigoes saw.
In their primitive minds, they knew only the feeding frenzy. Ponies locked in their ice became near-permanent wells of food. The hatred was so cold it almost sizzled. They gathered and drank, like children around a campfire.
The windigoes sensed new hearts. They watched.
Below, the snow steamed. Began to sag. Flowed around blocks of ice like glaciers surrendering boulders. Bare soil became exposed.
A row of figures marched into view. These clanked as they marched, each in lockstep, the timing merged into the stamping of giants. Their bodies were protected by pure black barding. Their visors glowed white in glassy reflection. Their unicorn horns burst with magnesium flame, as though slow-burning fireworks lay trapped inside.
Each flank bore the pink crest of an “S”, jagged at the tips like lightning bolts, and bearing small wings as though the letter were a feathered serpent.
As one, the windigoes fell upon them. Blew harder. Tried to reclaim their land. White flecks shot down. Cold winds scythed.
The army watched impassively, horns aglow. Then…
From behind them, jets of water lashed out.
Another wave of soldiers marched forwards. Their horns were alight with more traditional magic. The water jets shot forth, curved round, became a woven shield.
A third wave of soldiers brought up the rear. Their magic bore aloft swords of iron. The blades swung, aimed, fired like darts. Winds rebuffed by the water, snowflakes trapped on its film, were scattered and shattered by the shooting swords.
Windigoes fell back, shrieking. All except one, which had sensed something.
A final figure came into view. Unlike the others, her armour was restricted to below her neck. For her face, a simple flinty stare would do – sharp, narrow, apparently bored. She stopped and watched the weaving windigo with neither fear nor despair. She seemed mildly interested in observing what it did.
Her heart was full of hatred.
With glee, the windigo shrieked and dived. Conventional attacks meant little to a spirit – water, swords, and heat spells flowed over it fruitlessly. One blast of wintry cold, and the prey would have no choice but to consume itself with its own lifeless hatred.
Some of the nearby soldiers broke ranks, scattered. Whereas the figure watched, apparently unconcerned.
The windigo puffed up its cheeks, ready to blow –
– and a plumed peacock of ice flashed over it, screeching.
Shocked, its cold attack rebuffed, the windigo felt the unnatural chill turned back on itself. Its ghostly form solidified, sharpened, felt the horrible element cling to its essence like alien claws. Caught in its own trap, it writhed, screeched –
– met the darkness of hatred, but as a shot spell. The hatred, aimed not at another, but at itself. Felt for the briefest of moments what it was like to be contorted, crushed, and constricted in the mind of an enemy. Struggled. Screamed.
Shattered.
Lady Abacus Cinch watched the pieces tinkle to the exposed earth, then lost interest.
“Rescue teams, front and centre!” she barked.
Now the soldiers regrouped. Ice blocks stood revealed by the retreating snow. Deep inside, frozen unicorn bodies could be seen.
Each soldier set to work, each to their own specialty. Heat-casters melted the blocks with pink flames. Water specialists manipulated the ice itself, sloughing it off. Swordsponies hacked away the bigger chunks, then prised the rest open with more careful hooves. Soon, the first of the frozen peasants gasped freedom.
The captain hurried back and saluted; Lady Cinch nodded her permission. “Ma’am, some of the windigoes have fled north. Shall we pursue them?”
Windigoes. Spirits of stupidity and chaos. Lady Cinch narrowed her eyes.
“We shall leave them, Captain,” she declared. “Those monsters can be routed in due time.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Another soldier scurried towards them, much jumpier and clumsier. Lady Cinch eyed his gait with distaste before he saluted.
“Ma’am! We found more, ma’am!”
“Well, Sergeant? You know what to do.”
He hesitated, then said: “Only they’re… earth ponies. And pegasi, ma’am.”
She did not shift her expression.
“You know, ma’am… non-unicorns?”
She still did not shift. Then she blinked, once.
“Are you an imbecile, Sergeant?” she drawled. “Or merely scatter-brained? I thought I made my orders quite clear. No one is to be turned away, regardless of tribe. Just because we’re reviving the Old Country, doesn’t mean we’re reviving its old mistakes.”
“Sorry, ma’am. Yes, ma’am.” He hurried off.
Lady Cinch leaned towards the captain. “Have that sergeant dishonourably discharged.”
“Yes, ma’am. He means well, ma’am.”
“Immaterial. I won’t tolerate incompetence.”
As the freed ponies gathered – unicorns, earth ponies, and pegasi eyeing each other suspiciously – the mists began to recede. Hard, dark earth spread out around them. Already, the sky was lightening.
Lady Cinch strode around them, a general before her shivering troops, or a principal before an assembly of scared freshmen. Several of the earth ponies huddled amongst themselves, watching her nervously. Even they could sense her power.
The plumed peacock of ice landed on her shoulder. She didn’t seem to notice.
“I,” she announced, “am Lady Abacus Cinch. Since the windigo attack two centuries ago, you have been trapped in their cursed ice and abandoned by your fellow citizens.” She paused to let the shocked and worried mutters have their breathing space, then came down hard with but a sharp look. “Two centuries,” she repeated. “Whilst the Old Country has been all but forgotten, a new nation has arisen – the land of Equestria – one where unicorns, pegasi, and earth ponies have since put aside their ancient differences. You may be tempted by your unfortunate history to renew those differences.”
At once, the ice peacock on her shoulder darted over their heads, circled the group, slid a wingtip skilfully along the ground. Ice stalagmites speared up behind it, fencing them in. Ponies gasped and huddled ever tighter. Someone screamed.
Lady Cinch waited until the bird had completed one circuit and landed on her shoulder again. “I, however, have a better future in store for you. Equestria once thrived on its foundations, held up by pillars of virtue. Alas, it has grown weak. Without strong leadership, it has no future of its own, and no confidence in anyone else’s. Yours, for example.”
The bird screeched defiance at the sky. Lady Cinch leaned forwards; her shadow fell upon the group. Behind, her loyal soldiers stood in arrowhead formation, with her as the deadly point.
“But I have a vision. A vision of a new nation, greater than any other. One that will not weaken and crumble like those before it. I alone have plans for the Old Country now. Pledge your loyalty to me, and you shall thrive under my guidance and protection. We shall become the greatest nation on earth.”
Far behind her, the mists fully receded. The freed ponies gasped.
The distant city, revealed. Towers still under construction, surrounded by metallic spires, crystallized arches, cloud rings in the sky, vast acres of cropland. An invisible shimmering betrayed the aura of powerful magic.
Over all, the burning pink heart hovered, warming hearts. A Fire of Friendship, spreading pure life.
One or two unicorns bowed low. Then many more. Then the earth ponies, the pegasi – many grudgingly – until they were prostrate at her armoured hooves. Already, the warmth melted the last resistance of their hardened hearts.
A small smile, like a crack in an ice sculpture, crossed Lady Cinch’s face.
Within, however, the dammed lake of hatred, compressed between levees of pure, unforgiving ice, spiked by defensive obsidian shards, and reinforced by walls of sleek metal. Coldness, untouched by futile heat…