“I don’t like this,” Meadowbrook muttered, mainly to herself, as she looked over the mare’s corpse.
“There’s a lot to not like about this,” Rockhoof replied from behind her, his eyes passing over the body. The reeking corpse appeared to have been dead for days, judging by the state of what little rotting meat clung to her yellowed bones. She lay on her side, glassy eyes staring east as if still longing for the promise of freedom. Her swollen black tongue hung out of her mouth; the snout had mostly rotted away, but the ground about her mouth was stained black. Similar dots marked the victim’s path up the dirt road, showing her desperate bid for freedom. The air about them hung heavy and unnaturally warm, a putrid potpourri of rot and decay.
“It ain’t just that, Rockhoof,” Meadowbrook said, smoothing out her dress as she stood up. “This body should be surrounded by flies and scavengers. There aren’t any bite marks on her and I don’t see a fly ‘round here.”
“Not much else living ‘round here, Meadowbrook,” Rockhoof commented, looking around.
This area had once been fertile farmland, the fields on either side of the dirt road lined with wheat and corn, and other crops. Now the ground was barren, the flattened brown husks rustling in the still wind. The only signs of life were themselves, the pony’s corpse, and a sign farther down the road marked with a skull and crossbones and an ominous warning in hastily scrawled red paint: Danger! Plague! Stay out!
“So what is this?” Meadowbrook mused, tapping her chin in thought. “Something in the plants? The air?” She walked up to the fields, retrieving some glass jars from her saddlebags. She started scraping dirt and dead plants into the jars.
“I think we’ll probably find out more once we get into town,” Rockhoof suggested, nodding towards the gabled rooftops of the village ahead, the cottages small enough to appear as toys from this far away.
“Right. Masks on from here on in,” Meadowbrook nodded, placing her samples back in her saddlebags. She pulled out her famous flash bee-styled mask and secured it tightly over her head, ensuring that the straps were all snug. She adjusted to make sure that the eyeholes were lined up properly and took a deep breath of scented air, the herbs stored in the mask's filters purifying the tainted air.
She looked over to find Rockhoof fumbling with one of her mother’s spare masks. “So why did I get the boar-shaped one?” he asked.
Meadowbrook giggled as she stepped up to help her bearded companion with the mask. “Well, you certainly eat like one,” she commented, securing the straps.
Rockhoof let out a hearty laugh. “Especially when it’s your cooking!”
The two chuckled together for a moment, but the laughter quickly died down, stolen away by the polluted wind. They left the mare’s corpse behind, hoofsteps crunching against the dirt as they proceeded past the warning sign and towards the village, flanked by the destitute fields on either side.
The village was silent as they entered. The empty, darkened windows stared at them like eyes as they passed. Stacked outside the doors, like so much firewood, were distinctly shaped bundles wrapped tightly in sackcloth. Meadowbrook hissed as she passed by a particularly large stack.
Rockhoof laid a heavy hoof on her shoulder. “‘Ey, you’re here now,” he assured her. “You can fix this.” He nodded towards a cottage that stood out on its own, separated from the rest of the village. The battered sign hanging over the door displayed a Rod of Asclepius in gold paint, squeaking as it listlessly swung in the wind.
A line of emaciated ponies trickled in and out of the doorway, shivering and hacking, phlegm and black blood flying from their mouths with every cough. A large tent had been hastily erected outside the doctor’s office: more sick ponies lay inside on cots, feebly moaning in between coughs. The stench of disease and waste hung over the entire area, nearly overwhelming the herbs in their masks.
Meadowbrook took a breath and recollected herself. “Here goes nothing,” she declared, striding towards the doorway.
She pushed her way in, with Rockhoof right behind her, their hoofsteps slick against a trail of sweat, phlegm, and exhaled blood. The pharmacy was a cluttered mess. The shelf of jarred supplies at the back of the small room was badly disorganized, with bottles of every shape haphazardly placed with no discernible order, and almost none full. Littered on the countertops were samples of soil, crops, water, and blood, alongside mortars and pestles, bowls, half-melted candles, and other tools. Notes crammed with writing were discarded everywhere, like leaves in the aftermath of a tempest.
The apothecary herself was currently busy with another patient that was sprawled over a bench in the center of the room. The pale green stallion’s body was wracked with coughs that sent shudders through the flaps of skin clinging to his bones, more phlegm. His blue eyes seemed to bulge out of his head as he turned to the doctor, a cream-colored pegasus mare with her aqua mane pulled back into a ponytail and the cutie mark of a blade of grass heavy with morning dew.
“Easy, Dandelion,” the apothecary tried to reassure her patient, her voice muffled by the layers of scarves that she’d wrapped around her mouth and nose. She placed a brass hearing tube against Dandelion’s chest. “Try to breathe evenly.”
Dandelion had to force himself to suck in several deep, steady breaths. The apothecary listened intently to his breathing and heartbeat, then jotted down several notes on a spare parchment. She rummaged through the bottles on the shelf for a few moments, using her wings to grab and set aside several ingredients, then carried them over to the mortar and pestle.
“The turmeric might help with the coughing, but what are you doing to use for the phlegm?” Meadowbrook asked, observing the labels on the ingredients.
“Honey with tincture of doe’s eyes,” the apothecary responded, mashing and blending her brew. “I’m still experimenting with the dosages.” She heated a small jar of thick yellow honey over a candle for a few moments before adding it to the mix, producing a gently steaming pale orange mixture, which she used to fill a glass.
“Here, drink this,” she said to Dandelion. In between coughs and wheezes, the stallion gulped down the mixture and passed it back to the apothecary with a sigh. “All right, now try and get some rest. Come back tomorrow and we’ll see how you’re doing.”
Dandelion nodded, but the glazed look in his eye made it clear what he considered his chances of coming back. He slowly rose and shuffled out the door, adding his own sweat and fluids to the trail leading in and out the door.
The apothecary sighed and pulled the scarves from her mouth with a relieved sigh. “Praise the gods you came, Mage,” she sighed, blinking her heavily shadowed yellow eyes up at Meadowbrook.
“Just Meadowbrook is fine,” Meadowbrook waved her off gently. “What’s your name?”
“Dewdrop Cure,” the apothecary replied, wiping her sweaty brow. “Real glad to make your acquaintance.” She turned to Rockhoof, who was trying to carefully maneuver through the cluttered mess. “And the mighty Rockhoof himself. Not that I’m glad for a little extra help, but I didn’t think that you’d come down for a plague.”
“I’m always glad to help where I can,” Rockhoof said, gingerly sitting down but still producing enough of a rumble that the jars on the shelf rattled alarmingly. “But I’m not here for the plague; I leave medicine for Meadowbrook.” He placed a hoof on the handle of the shovel across his shoulders. “I’m here for the monster.”
Dewdrop scowled at him, shooting a nervous glance out the window. “Keep it down, hey? Things are bad enough without stirring up even more panic over rumors.”
“Rumors?” Rockhoof asked. “The messenger ye sent said that ye had a monster lurking about these lands.”
Dewdrop sighed. “I told him not to mention that.”
“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” Meadowbrook asked.
“It started about three weeks ago,” Dewdrop replied. “The crops started dying off all at once, accompanied by a foul smell in the air. The first symptoms appeared over the next few days: the eldest ponies started coughing and wheezing, accompanied by chills, fever, and muscle weakness. The first deaths were within days, and by then, virtually everypony in the village was sick. I started experimenting with treatments, but…” She gestured at the notes surrounding her and sighed. “The most I seem to be doing is prolonging it. Nothing I’ve come up with is curing it, just treating the symptoms. This is way beyond anything I’ve dealt with.”
She suddenly shivered, then lifted her foreleg and coughed into it. She hurriedly wiped it off on the filthy apron that she was wearing, but not before both Meadowbrook and Rockhoof noticed the black phlegm staining her fetlock.
“We’re running out of food and supplies,” Dewdrop pleaded, tears glimmering in her shadowed, bloodshot eyes. “Please, Mage, you have to help.”
“I’ll find a cure for this,” Meadowbrook promised. “I need to know everything you have about what might have caused this.”
She and Rockhoof glanced at each other. “The monster might be a part of it,” she said tacitly.
Dewdrop sighed. “We don’t even know if there is a monster,” she said. “No one’s ever seen it. A few days after the crops died off, we started hearing…noises from the west. Some of the villagers say that it sounds like bellowing, but it…” She frowned pensively. “Well, I’m not sure what it is, but I don’t think we need to start making a fuss over what might just be the wind. And then a few days ago, Copper Kettle went down to the riverbend to get water, and she came back saying that she’d seen tracks. Now I’m one of the only ponies who are willing to go to the river. Thankfully, we’ve had a few days of rain on and off, so that helped a little.”
“Have you seen any tracks there?” Rockhoof asked.
“No, nor any monsters,” Dewdrop replied firmly. “I don’t have time to go looking for rumors.”
“We have to keep any possibility in mind,” Meadowbrook replied.
Another coughing mare appeared at the doorway, wheezing for breath as she leaned against the wall. Meadowbrook shrugged her shoulders and took in a breath as Dewdrop replaced the scarves over her snout, stifling a cough of her own. “Here goes nothing,” she declared.
For the rest of the day, Meadowbrook toiled alongside the apothecary, taking intense notes of her own on symptoms, histories, and treatments, comparing them to Dewdrop’s own notes. Rockhoof set to work helping where he could, mainly by putting his shovel to work. He carved out new latrines, carried over logs from a forest to the south to chop into firewood, and dug graves for the wrapped bodies, a task that he handled with great solemnity.
Several times, he trekked out to the west, where a flowing river flowed in from a forest before curving on towards the north, and gathered buckets of fresh water, after assurances from Dewdrop that the water was safe (and the only nearby source of water). The land out there was even more barren than in the village: the copses of trees were rotting, their branches bare, and his hooves sunk into the rotten ground. On each trip, he kept his eyes and ears open for any sign, any sound, but there was nothing but the wind, the gurgling of the water, and the dying groans of the trees.
As Rockhoof returned from one excursion, a shivering orange stallion sitting outside the tents looked up at his approach. “Have you seen it?” he asked in a timorous croak. “The monster?”
“Nay,” Rockhoof shook his head. “No sign of it.”
The sick stallion coughed heartily. “Have you been down to the farmhouse further into the woods?” he asked. “The ol’ hermit was living there when this all started. Haven’t seen him since…since before the plague started.”
“The hermit?” Rockhoof asked.
“Aye,” the stallion nodded. “He had an accent like yours, now that I think of it. Nice enough: he made his living doing odd jobs like chopping wood and the such. Mainly, though, he bartered potash and kelp with the rest of us.”
Rockhoof let out a thoughtful hum and passed the stallion a tankard of water. “Get some rest, friend. Meadowbrook and I shall handle this.”
The stallion took a long, weary draught and nodded, managing a weak smile as Rockhoof continued on.
As the sun began to set, an exhausted and sweat-covered Meadowbrook finally took a break from her work. She and her partner partook in some of the meager rations that had been delivered to the village from out of town: flavorless cooked oats, thin carrot soup, and warm milk. During their dinner, far from the sick villagers’ prying ears, they compared notes.
“Did you notice that the crops became more and more decayed out to the west?” Meadowbrook asked.
“Aye,” Rockhoof nodded. “And that’s where the mysterious hermit lives.”
“We should pay him a visit,” Meadowbrook nodded.
“Agreed,” Rockhoof nodded.
The two retrieved lanterns and set out to the west, chasing after the last red remnants of the setting sun. The villagers watched them in deep, fearful silence. Some weakly entreated the heroes not to travel into the copses of dead trees, but in vain: Meadowbrook assured them that the clues to a cure probably lay with the hermit, while Rockhoof boasted that if there were a beast, it would be no match for his shovel.
Soon they had left the village and its dim lights and constant sound of coughing behind and were trekking across the rotten, foul-smelling ground. They walked alongside the river towards the copses of bare trees, which let out their groans and creaks as if trying to ward them off.
The duo paused just outside the perimeter of the woods, where a dark arch revealed a lightly beaten pathway. The lengthening shadows made it look like the maw of a beast, the darkness gobbling up the flickering light from their lanterns.
They exchanged glances. Meadowbrook shifted to adjust for the weight of her saddlebags, the potions within rattling faintly; Rockhoof adjusted the handle of his shovel so it would be easier to grab. And they set forth into the woods.
The sun finally set as they entered the woods; the only sound was their own footsteps, the muffled babbling of the unseen brook, the rattling and jingling of Meadowbrook’s potions, and the continuing moans of the wind and dying trees. There were no calls of nocturnal birds, no chirps of insects, no leaves or grass or flowers fluttering in the stinking breeze.
Meadowbrook winced as her hoof went off the path and sunk deep into the mire. “This creepy to you at all?” she asked.
“Have to wonder what possessed the stallion to come out here,” Rockhoof agreed, then abruptly stopped. “What’s this now?”
Here, some of the trees had been knocked aside as if by a giant arm and lay on the ground, bent and broken like toothpicks. The barren ground here was trampled with many large, round tracks.
“Do…do you recognize those?” Meadowbrook asked with a swallow as Rockhoof bent to examine them.
“Nay, they’re too close together. I can’t see any good details,” Rockhoof shook his head. “But it’s proof enough that there’s a beast out here. Stay close to me.”
“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Meadowbrook gulped, staying close to her companion’s side.
They continued on for a little while longer before Rockhoof paused and squinted ahead. “Ay, there’s a clearing up there.”
There was indeed a clearing where trees had been chopped away to make room for a cabin, the ground now utterly desolate. But as Rockhoof and Meadowbrook’s lanterns lit up the clearing, they gasped at what they saw. Where the cabin had once stood, there was now only a ruin of wood and stone, crushed like a child’s toy.
“Hello?” Meadowbrook called out timorously. The only sound was the running of the nearby river. Meadowbrook sniffed the air, detecting something abnormally tangy beneath the reek of rot. “What’s that smell?” she pondered, following her nose to a set of overturned buckets outside the cabin. The contents were spread everywhere: piles of long, green, flat plants. Nearby was a firepit, lined with stones: some white ashes were still scattered across the bottom of the pit.
“Seaweed?” Meadowbrook said, picking up a hoofful to examine. She sniffed at it tentatively. “Still fresh…”
Rockhoof pointed to the north, where more trees had been trampled by giant hooves, creating a path that led north, wide enough for three ponies to walk abreast. Once again, there were the great round tracks marring the ground, but this time, he saw one that was separated from the others.
It looked like a regular horse’s hoof, aside from being nearly four times as large as even his great hooves. But aside from the tracks, Rockhoof noticed narrow trenches gouged into the muck, like the beast had been carrying a rake on either side of it as it passed through the wood…or if talons had scratched the ground astride it.
And that’s when something finally clicked in his head. “Oh, no,” he breathed.
“What?” Meadowbrook asked.
“I know what this is,” Rockhoof turned to her, his eyes wide through the boar mask. “We need to get out of here, now!”
“Why--?”
But suddenly the ground trembled with the beating of massive hooves and the clearing was awash with a blood-red glow. “Too late,” Rockhoof breathed, dropping his lantern and drawing his shovel.
Meadowbrook stared in growing horror as it emerged through the trees from the north, her lantern falling from her hoof in shock. The thing had the general shape of a pony, save that it was so great that Rockhoof’s head barely came to the beast’s knees. The pony head had only one eye, glowing crimson like a flame; it exhaled a stinking black cloud, and the few lichens and moss that were stubbornly growing over the rotting trees instantly withered at its touch.
But astride the beast’s shoulders was another form, a shape that Meadowbrook identified as looking vaguely like a hairless ape: a great trunk with long arms ending in five talons that dragged along the ground as it walked, topped with a great round head with two glowing eyes and a wide, grinning mouth. And on top of all that, the thing had no skin, leaving its red muscles exposed.
It stared at them for a moment, then both of the mouths opened and it let out a bellow like the rushing wind, a roar from two mouths that sounded strident and furious through the woods. Its cry mixed with Meadowbrook’s shriek.
“RUN!” Rockhoof bellowed, pulling Meadowbrook about to flee.
The monster howled once more and pursued them, the ground shaking violently with every step. Meadowbrook and Rockhoof bounded in between the trees, trying to keep as many obstacles between them and the beast as they could; the sound of crashing and snapping branches marked their pursuit.
“The river!” Rockhoof shouted, pointing up the trampled path to the north. “Get to the river and--”
Something sailed through the air and landed in front of the duo with a crash, throwing up a cascade of rotten earth. A huge tree trunk had landed in front of them, wider than Rockhoof was tall.
The duo turned to see the monster bearing down on them, the ground astride him churning as its talons dug into the ground. The red eyes shone with delight, the mouth of the round ape head spread in a huge grin.
Rockhoof cursed beneath his breath, then drew his shovel under Meadowbrook’s hooves and hefted her up into the air. “Whoa!” she gasped as she landed atop the tree trunk, scrabbling for a hold.
“Go!” Rockhoof shouted. He held up his shovel in both hooves, holding the blade up in a guarding position. “Come on, ye skinless bastard!”
The monster roared, more foul-smelling smoke billowing from the pony’s nostrils, and it raised a talon to strike Rockhoof down.
Meadowbrook’s hoof moved on its own, reaching into her saddlebag. Without needing to look, without needing to think, she seized the right bottle, a circular jar with a long neck. She seized it by the neck and drew it out, the red liquid inside sloshing as she drew her foreleg back.
“Get away from him!” Meadowbrook shouted, throwing the bottle at the rider’s face. The bottle exploded and flames spread across the crimson muscles, casting the forest into stark orange light. The monster let out a wail of startled pain, rearing up onto its hind hooves and flailing at itself as the fire ate at its skinless form.
Rockhoof turned and leaped onto the tree, managing to grab the top of the trunk. Meadowbrook heaved him up over the edge and the two jumped down to the other side.
“That won’t stop it, to the river!” Rockhoof shouted, urging Meadowbrook on.
They ran, hearts pounding and lungs burning, leaping over and dodging under warped trees. The ground behind them began to quake once more as the beast pursued them with a monstrous bellow. But the river was in sight, closer with every step! The wide channel of babbling, churning water never looked so sweet, reflecting the silver of the moonlight!
“Hop on!” Rockhoof ordered Meadowbrook, holding his shovel out to one side in his mouth. Meadowbrook hopped onto the blade and Rockhoof catapulted her with a grunt, sending her flying over the river and tumbling onto the opposite bank.
She scrambled to her hooves and looked up to watch, her heart in her throat, as Rockhoof barreled down the path, the huge beast right on his tail. “Come on, come on!” she cried.
Inches from the riverbank, Rockhoof coiled his legs and sprang, flying over the water. A skinless claw swiped through the air, missing Rockhoof’s tail by a hair’s breadth. Rockhoof crashed down onto the other bank with a grunt.
“Come on!” Meadowbrook shouted, trying to pull Rockhoof to his hooves.
“Calm down,” Rockhoof replied, shaking her off gently. “It can’t cross running water.”
The two stared at their hunter, gasping for air. The beast let out another eerie cry from its two mouths, stamping its hooves and flailing its massive arms in fury at being denied its prey, but it would not cross the running water. After a few moments of venting its rage, it let out another snort of black clouds, giving the two ponies a sneer, then turned and walked back into the forest.
“What is that?” Meadowbrook asked.
“A nuckelavee,” Rockhoof replied, regaining his hooves. “A monster from my homelands. Don’t normally see them this far from home.”
“Maybe it came looking for our hermit friend,” Meadowbrook mused. “It’s the cause of the plague; you see how its breath withered the moss?”
“Aye,” Rockhoof nodded. “Its breath kills crops and spreads plague. Mostly nocturnal. Doesn’t like rain, though; that might be why it hasn’t come close to the village.”
“Any ideas on how to cure the plague?” Meadowbrook asked, her shock pushed aside by determination and medical curiosity.
Rockhoof grimaced. “There are a few tales of apothecaries who got lucky and found a cure by accident, but nothing definitive…”
“Wait a minute,” Meadowbrook mused, looking at the riverbank. She inserted her hoof into the water and extracted a hoofful of seaweed floating at the surface of the river. “The hermit was collecting seaweed…and look. All the plants around here are dead, dying, or rotting, but this seaweed is still alive. And the seaweed at the cabin was still fresh.”
“Nuckelavee are angered by the smell of burning seaweed,” Rockhoof explained. “Some of our farmers make a living burning seaweed to make kelp: the ash can be made into potash or soda. They have to be very careful when they do it, though. That’s probably what brought the nuckelavee around here.”
“But if the seaweed is immune to the plague…” Meadowbrook’s eyes narrowed in thought, then brightened. “Then maybe they’re part of the cure! Maybe that’s why burning it made it angry!”
“Ah, now we’re onto something!” Rockhoof beamed.
“But even if I can make a cure out of the seaweed, we still need to deal with the nuck…nick…it,” Meadowbrook frowned.
“They’re mighty hard to kill: few things short of a god can give 'em a problem,” Rockhoof said, looking up and down the river. “But I do have an idea.” He grinned and hefted his shovel. “If there’s one thing I can do well, it’s dig.”
“Great,” Meadowbrook smiled. “How fast can you dig a trench encircling the forest?”
“Hmm…give me five minutes,” Rockhoof replied.
Meadowbrook clapped her hooves together. “Okay. Let’s get the buckets of seaweed, and then you can dig the trench and trap our friend here.”
The duo swam back over the river and crept back onto the opposite bank. They paused, breaths held as they listened for any sign of the monster. All was silent save for the wind and the babbling river.
They slowly snuck through the trees, creeping over and under twisted logs, dodging around fallen sticks, their pads soft in the rotten ground. They dodged around the massive hoofprints of the nuckelavee, ears constantly flicking to and fro as they strained for any sign that they had been discovered. But still was that eerie, dense, unnatural quiet that allowed their imaginations to run free.
A dim, flickering light through the shadows marked their goal. A few more trees and they were back at the wreckage of the cabin. The guttering lanterns that they’d dropped illuminated the knocked-over buckets of seaweed.
“Great,” Meadowbrook breathed, rushing forward. She started scooping up as much of the seaweed as she could and stuffing it into her saddlebags.
“Get some of the kelp and ashes, too,” Rockhoof suggested, his shovel at the ready as he scanned the darkness.
“Good idea,” Meadowbrook said, taking out an empty jar and a small trowel. She leaned over the firepit and started scooping some of the white ashes into the jar.
Barely had the ashes touched the bottom of the glass container when a howl reverberated through the woods, the scream of rage so powerful that the trees and ground shook beneath the blow.
“Oh, bloody hell,” Rockhoof exhaled.
“Maybe that wasn’t such a great idea,” Meadowbrook winced, rapidly scooping more ash into the jar.
Rapid hoofsteps beat against the rotten ground, getting louder and closer with every moment. “Time to go!” Rockhoof urged, seizing Meadowbrook’s tail and hauling her out of the fire pit.
As they turned to run, the clearing was suddenly illuminated by a blood-red light. The trees to the south parted like the gates at a race and the nuckelavee burst forth, howling its fury. Meadowbrook and Rockhoof turned to flee, but the beast was upon them in a pair of steps.
“Down!” Rockhoof shouted, shoving Meadowbrook out of the way as a massive arm swiped down at them, the yellowed nails narrowly missing Meadowbrook’s dress. Rockhoof ducked and swatted at the offending limb with his shovel, drawing a snarl of pain.
The other talon swiped at Rockhoof, who rolled aside with a grunt. Too late, he realized it was a feint: the nuckelavee drew one of his legs back and kicked Rockhoof full in the face. Rockhoof was sent flying like a kickball, screaming all the way.
With a satisfied growl, the beast turned towards Meadowbrook, who was already running through the brambles and trees, her silhouette cast before her in the crimson light. Gasping with every step, stumbling as the ground shook beneath her pursuer’s hooves, she vaulted a broken log, ducked beneath some branches that snagged at her as she passed, and dodged around another trunk.
With a roar, the nuckelavee swiped at her again, knocking over a tree that she’d just dodged around with a great cracking and groaning of timber. Yelping, Meadowbrook dove beneath a fallen log, stumbling over herself and desperately trying to crawl forward.
Claws seized her hind leg and pulled her back. “No! No!” Meadowbrook screamed, scrabbling at the ground as she was dragged from her hiding place. The world turned upside-down and she found herself staring at the nuckelavee’s grinning, ape-like face. She screamed helplessly as she was lowered towards the grinning mouth.
“VALHALLA!”
With a roar that matched the nuckelavee’s fury, Rockhoof came charging in, shovel at the ready. The blade struck against the monster’s flank, drawing a snarl of pain. The beast swiped at Rockhoof but missed as the hero leaped onto his arm, then onto the snorting horse-like head. Gripping his shovel in both hooves, he raised it high and plunged it into the single red eye.
The nuckelavee’s high-pitched shriek of agony echoed through the forest as it flailed about and stamped its hooves, black ichor gushing from the punctured organ. It dropped Meadowbrook in its throes of pain, sending her tumbling to the ground.
“Oof!” she grunted as she landed astride Rockhoof’s shoulders. She barely had time to wrap her forelegs around his neck before he was charging out the wood, bounding over obstacles and around trees, snorting loudly as his hoofsteps beat the ground, every step rattling Meadowbrook’s bones. The shrieks of the nuckelavee faded behind them as Rockhoof carried her to safety.
They tore through the edge of the woods with a crash of dead branches. Barely slowing, Rockhoof dropped Meadowbrook off, then sprinted for the river, discarding the boar mask he wore as he ran. No sooner had he reached the bank than he seized his shovel in his mouth, stuck the blade into the ground, and began digging.
Meadowbrook had seen her companion push himself before, witnessed him perform feats of strength and dexterity and speed that boggled the mind. But this nearly outdid them all. Rockhoof was a blur of motion, a near-solid wall of dirt flying in his wake as he tunneled through the ground as fast as a fish through still waters. He ran so fast that the river flowing into the trench behind him was outpaced.
And then another bellow of fury echoed across the barren landscape, the rotting trees bowing before the sound. Frantic hoofsteps pounded against the ground.
“Rockhoof, it’s coming!” Meadowbrook shouted needlessly.
“I’m aware!” Rockhoof replied, passing by her in a moment.
Meadowbrook watched as Rockhoof raced around the forest, the river following in his wake. The trees shook violently and the nuckelavee tore its way out of the woods, its remaining two eyes blazing with hatred.
It instantly seemed to realize what Rockhoof was doing and let out another shriek of pure rage. It began to chase after Rockhoof, claws tearing into the ground beside him as they both circled the forest, heading for the river that circled the woods.
Rockhoof pushed himself as hard as he could, his coat drenched with sweat, breath burning in his lungs; salt water and dirt stung at his eyes, nearly blinding him, but he kept going. The ground shook so violently that he was nearly tossed off his hooves more than once; even without looking up, he knew that his target was bearing down on him, every one of its strides matching four of his own.
But he was rounding the last turn! The river was in sight and the water was right on his tail!
Wind struck at his back! Rockhoof shifted to one side and the nuckelavee howled in frustration as its filthy talons struck the ground instead of him.
Closer, closer! Mere yards away!
The nuckelavee leaped into the air and landed in front of Rockhoof with a snarl. The gaping hole where the horse’s eye glared down at him like a gate into Hell; the second head twisted its snarling mouth open into a desperate roar as it reached down towards him with both talons.
Like the flare of a guttering candle, Rockhoof put on one last burst of speed. He dug himself beneath the outstretched digits, adjusting his course around the mighty hooves that tried to stomp him like a bug, missing him by inches!
He tore through the bank of the river. Water rushed in, crushing him beneath its icy embrace for a moment, but he threw himself out of the water with a great splash, crashing down on the opposite bank. Every inch of his body ached down to his tail, and every breath came in a heavy gasp, but a smile of victory crossed his face.
Behind him, the nuckelavee shrieked and raved, stamping the ground and flailing its mighty limbs, gnashing its teeth and glaring at Rockhoof. Mere feet and a river separated it from its prey, but it may as well have been a solid steel wall; it tried to reach out towards him, but could not reach farther than the river.
Rockhoof stood up and gave his foe an ironic salute as he retrieved his shovel. “Sorry, mate. Ye won’t be making anypony else sick.”
Meadowbrook ran up, gasping in relief when she saw Rockhoof save on the other side of the new river. “Have ye still got the seaweed?” Rockhoof asked, tiredly stumbling towards her.
Meadowbrook briefly checked her saddlebags.”Yes!”
“Great. Let’s get back to the village.”
And the duo staggered back to the village, leaning against each other for support, leaving the shrieking and helplessly flailing monster behind.
By the time they returned to the plagued village, the entire community was awake, roused by the shrieks of the monster. They greeted the Pillars with wide eyes and a flurry of questions.
“The monster,” Dewdrop Cure gasped as they stumbled towards the apothecary. “There actually was a monster?”
“There is,” Meadowbrook replied, stumbling into the workshop and placing her saddlebags on the table, pulling out the hooffuls of seaweed. “But it won’t bother you anymore. And soon, neither will this plague.”
For the next three days, Meadowbrook worked tirelessly, barely taking time to eat or sleep. She experimented with the seaweed, stewing it, boiling it, and even burning it, ignoring the infuriated shrieks in the distance as the scent of the kelp was carried to the west. She tried every variation she could think of, feeding samples to the sick villagers and observing their reactions. Rockhoof stood watch, ever vigilant should the nuckelavee break from its imprisonment, but his caution proved unnecessary.
On the morning of the fourth day, an emaciated Dandelion was gently carried into the apothecary by Rockhoof. “Easy now, friend,” Rockhoof reassured her, his great hooves gentle as he lifted her from his back and placed her on the table. “Meadowbrook’s gonna fix you right up.”
Dandelion had no strength left to respond. His blue eyes were sunken deep into his heavily wrinkled face; his every breath was a labor, and his skin hung from his bones. He let out a feeble hack, drool and phlegm dripping from his nostrils and cracked lips.
Meadowbrook looked over the patient, then looked back at the bubbling concoction on the table. “Is it ready?”
Dewdrop Cure lifted the small glass thermometer out of the jar and studied it. “Looks ready. Are you sure about this?” she asked.
“Sure as I can be,” Meadowbrook replied. She carefully lifted the jar of pale yellow liquid from the small burner and carried it over.
“What…” Dandelion wheezed feebly, then dissolved into a fit of coughing. “What is that?”
“Kelp ash mixed with honey and turmeric,” Meadowbrook replied with a smile. “This won’t taste good, but this should help.”
Dandelion examined the bubbling bottle with a hopeless expression, all light gone from his eyes, then obediently opened his mouth and allowed Meadowbrook to pour some of the warm syrup onto his tongue. He swallowed with some mild difficulty and fell back onto the couch, still wheezing and moaning. Dewdrop and Rockhoof watched in silent anticipation.
For a few moments, nothing changed. Then Dandelion let out a feeble little gasp and opened his eyes. His breaths began to become deeper and more even; phlegm ceased to drip from his mouth and nose.
Meadowbrook took the hearing tube and pressed it against Dandelion’s chest, listening to his heartbeat and breathing. With every moment, her smile grew wider.
“Sounding a lot better, my friend,” she beamed at Dandelion.
“Feeling a lot better!” Dandelion replied, stretching his limbs.
“Praise the gods,” Dewdrop Cure breathed, a relieved smile crossing her face. “Mage, you’ve done it.”
“Not yet, I haven’t,” Meadowbrook replied, turning back to the syrup.
More of the miraculous cure was quickly crafted and distributed to the sick villagers. One by one, their coughs were silenced and replaced with cries of joy and relief; light shone into flooded eyes once more, listlessness was banished by surges of energy. By the end of the day, Meadowbrook had crafted another version of the potion that, when added to the irrigation channels that Rockhoof had dug through the farmlands, brought life to the blistered land once more; green overtook the black and brown, sprouts beginning to shoot up and replace the dry, dead stalks. The villagers cheered their saviors as life returned to their land once more.
Meadowbrook wrote down the recipe for her cure for the apothecary to keep. “Keep that mixture on hoof,” she advised Dewdrop.
“And keep an eye on that river,” Rockhoof added. “The nuckelavee won’t be able to cross it as long as the water flows. It should be gone by summer.”
“Bless you both,” Dewdrop Cure gasped, wringing both of their hooves. “Bless you! We shall never forget this!”
“Just part of our job,” Rockhoof said humbly. “And now, ‘tis time for us to return.”
With a sendoff from the cheering villagers, the duo headed back up the barren road, away from the gabled roofs and past the now blooming fields.
The mare’s body had been long collected for proper burial; the dark stains that had marked her dying steps were long gone. As they passed the warning sign of the skull and crossbones, Rockhoof lifted it up out of the ground and tossed it into a ditch. A distant roar of fury rolled over the hills, but neither paused nor turned their heads to acknowledge it.
Together they passed into the setting sun and their next legend.