They dragged their hooves through the snow, wandering south, or east, or even west—Rye couldn’t see a thing in the snow. He prayed Inger’s head-compass would not lead them astray.
His ears had long since gone numb. His hood was pulled tightly down over his head, but against this storm there was no protection. Thunder rumbled in the distance, but no lightning flashed to light their way.
Rye spared a glance at his companions. Inger looked gaunt, stretched thin, exhausted. His armor was still stained with blood and ash, the gold plates no longer lustrous and shiny. But it was his posture that was worrying. The military rigidness had collapsed into a slump.
This is all my fault. I had the hammer, I had Braki, I had my army—and I choked.
Cranberry’s face looked like a burned-out building. She shuffled through the snow, not looking at any of them. She hadn’t said a word since their escape. The spark in her eyes was gone, and he was afraid it would never return.
I’ve killed her sister. I’ve killed my parents, and Inger’s brothers- and sisters-in-arms, and everypony in Canterlot and Cloudsdale and Whitewall and-
Eberhardt was an emotional blank slate. He looked as numb as Rye felt. Hollow was the word, Rye thought. Eberhardt noticed him and turned his head slightly. Rye looked away, unable to meet his eyes.
Her voice low and soft, Cranberry broke the silence. “Does anypony have any water?”
“No,” said Rye bleakly. “No water, no food, no shelter.”
“Then where are we going?” Inger sounded more tired than bitter, but Rye could hear the hardness in his voice. “You’ve had us walking south the entire night.”
At least they were still on track, then. “Breyr told me that the Giant’s Forest is bordered by lots of logging camps. We’re too far away from any other villages or holds to last the journey, but if we can make the forest, maybe we can find one of those camps and get some supplies.”
“And then what?” Inger blinked blearily. “We can’t go back to Hoofnjord. Erik must have seized power by now.”
“Let’s just worry about getting to the forest for now,” said Rye, worried that they were going to collapse on him. “Afterwards we’ll… think of something,” he finished weakly.
With a shake of his head, Inger pressed on. The four of them trudged through the snow, ducking against the wind.
Rye wished he were half as confident as he sounded. They weren’t even sure how far they would have to walk to reach the forest, or if anypony would be there, or if they would help them.
If he covered his horn, he might be able to pass himself and Eberhardt off as refugees, fleeing the battle from the Blood Fields; but Cranberry and Inger were obviously not from Sleipnord. Maybe he could bluff the Nordponies into taking the four of them on as woodworkers. They’d earn some money, enough to buy food and supplies, and then head back east to the mountain pass.
Of course, there was little point in returning home without the Nordponies at their backs. Maybe they should just stick around in Sleipnord, try to forge a new life here… Equestria would surely fall without allies, there would be nothing left for them in the south. Would Cranberry and Inger be happy, living here? About as happy as I would, probably. Still, living in a foreign land had to be better than dying at home.
He could think of one reason to go back. He wanted to reunite with his father, at least once, before the end. It wouldn’t be fair to disappear without a trace and abandon him to the griffons.
But he held no more illusions that he would ever see his mother again. The war had started months ago, and she would have been on the front lines from the first battle. There was little chance she had survived so long, especially if the griffons had moved as far north as he suspected they had.
It didn’t hurt as bad as he’d thought it would; the pain was just a dull ache where his heart used to be. He tried to remember the last thing they’d said to each other, but all he could think of was the guardian, wearing his mother’s scowling face.
Maybe they held off the griffons after all, without us. We’ve beaten them before. Sure. Six hundred years ago, with an alliance of six different races and a dozen nations. He quashed the optimistic delusion before it could take root. Getting your hopes up only led to disappointment. He’d learned that lesson well in the last few months.
He lost track of time. The snow was endless, and the dark showed no signs of fading. The night stretched out interminably under the stormy skies, with no end in sight. Plans wheeled uselessly through his head, spinning around in vain attempts to salvage the absolute disaster around them.
They could try to raise an army to fight Erik, in the hopes of unifying Sleipnord under Saddlestead. They could try to get a message to Breyr, pleading for help. They could try going straight back to Erik and giving him the blasted Kingshammer, and hoping he still wanted it enough to give them his support against Grypha. Rye was almost desperate enough to think it would work—but not quite.
“Rye.”
He looked up, alarmed by the strange tone of Inger’s voice. “What?”
“That’s a fire.” Inger pointed ahead of them, to a small glowing dot in the distance. Rye peered closer and realized it was flickering.
“What in the name of…” Rye blinked. “Why is somepony camped out in the wastelands in the middle of a storm?”
“Perhaps… other survivors?” Eberhardt’s face lit with wary hope. “We may not have been the only ones to escape.”
“Ah… maybe,” said Rye, biting his lip. “Let’s not go running up shouting, though, eh?”
It wasn’t like they had much choice. They were going to die if they kept wandering through the storm without fire or shelter. They’d have to hope whoever owned the fire ahead was friendly.
Rye could make out the shape of a tent near the fire, on the far side. As they drew closer, the shapes of several ponies began to resolve themselves in the firelight. Inger, at the lead, raised a hoof and motioned them down.
All four of them crouched in the snow. Inger motioned to Eberhardt, and the two of them began creeping closer to the campfire. Rye’s breath puffed out in front of him, and he brushed aside a strand of hair from his eyes. It was impossible to get a good look at the ponies ahead through the weather.
“Okay,” whispered Inger. “Eberhardt and I will get as close as we can and try to identify them. If they’re friendly, we’ll reveal ourselves. If not… well, we need that fire.”
Rye’s stomach twisted at the thought of more violence, but he simply nodded. “Good luck.”
He lay in the snow, shivering, watching as Inger and Eberhardt crawled forward. When they had nearly reached the glow cast by the fire, he felt something cold and sharp press against his neck. From the side, he heard Cranberry gasp, and surmised the same had happened to her.
“Vash jeren tiljen?”
His eyes slowly closed. He was almost relieved. If they were to be prisoners, at least they might have the luxury of a warm fire. And if they were simply going to be killed… well, he’d never wanted to freeze to death.
The pony nudged him with the blade of his weapon—an axe, Rye guessed—and repeated his question. Rye bared his teeth in a humorless smile. “I don’t speak Sleipnordic.”
“Equestriar…” The pony gave a low, slow chuckle that sent a chill down his spine. Or maybe it was just the weather. At this point it was hard to tell. “Come, Equestriar. Meet leader.”
The pony allowed him to stand, and he heard Cranberry follow suit. He risked a glance over at her, and was glad to see her looking scared but unhurt. The ponies that had accosted them were indeed wielding axes, dressed in threadbare cloaks. It was impossible to see the color in the darkness.
Rye felt another nudge from behind, and began walking toward the campfire. His escort called ahead in Sleipnordic, and there was a muffled grunt and a thwack! Rye winced. Inger had tried to fight, but it seemed Eberhardt had given in without protest. Counting the one at the fire, that makes five of them, at least. I doubt they could fit more in the tent.
They might be able to take on five armed Nordponies. At least, they might if Inger were in top fighting shape and Eberhardt pulled himself out of the funk he’d been in ever since Braki’s death. Rye weighed their current chances and gave up the idea almost immediately.
The four of them were frog-marched up to the campfire, where the hooded pony sitting at the opening of the tent gestured for them to sit. Rye slumped to the ground, wanting to fall asleep beside the fire. Beside him, he fancied he could hear Inger’s teeth grinding. Being caught like a filly stealing cookies must have smarted, but it was hardly Inger’s fault, they’d been walking for hours without rest. He’d have to tell him that later, if they survived.
“So,” said the hooded pony, clearly the leader of the small band. His voice was even more thickly accented than Eberhardt’s, but Rye’s now-practiced ear could pick out the words easily enough. “The Equestrians come to me, bringing the servant of our betrayer.”
Eberhardt’s eyes flared. “That voice…” He stood abruptly, with a roar. “Velrim! Ter trayane veir ni shailne ven na—” He was cut off by a hoof cuff from his guard. He bowed his head in pain.
Not pain. Rye’s stomach twisted. “Eberhardt, wait—”
Eberhardt’s head whipped up, bringing out his sword in one clean motion. He leaped forward, swinging the blade at the hooded pony’s head. The pony reacted with a warrior’s reflexes, jumping back and avoiding the blow. An axe had appeared in his mouth seemingly from nowhere. Steel rang out as the two began exchanging blows.
Inger seized the distraction and punched a hoof into his guard’s face. He jumped out of the pony’s grasp and beat his wings, taking flight. He wound up to dive into the fray as Rye’s own guard rushed forward to stop him.
“STOP!”
Everypony paused. Cranberry, her chest heaving, screamed “STOP IT! STOP FIGHTING!”
“Never,” said Eberhardt, panting. He glared at the leader of the strange band with hate in his eyes. “This is Velrim, chief huskarl of the murderer, Erik. My opposite number. The first servant of the traitorous demon who slaughtered my liege lord.” He roared. “Mortilij vas!”
“You dare!” Velrim, the hooded pony, swept his hood away to reveal the curly golden locks of a typical Nordpony. “You would throw your own crimes upon us?”
“What?” Eberhardt’s resolve faltered for a moment.
Velrim dropped his axe to the snow, and spat bitterly. “We were brought together under a flag of truce. We trusted you to respect that law, but the ravens care less for guest-rights than they do for power. Blue assassins in the night—”
“Wait—what?” Cranberry looked baffled. The other ponies were looking around, unsure of whether to recapture the prisoners or aid their leader.
Rye seized the moment of confusion. “Blue assassins? We were set upon by red-cloaked ponies tonight, who killed Braki and burned our lodging to the ground. Know anything about that, hm?”
Velrim paused. “Our fate is the same as yours, save the color of their cloaks. We fled from the wreckage and killed the guards to escape. We barely had time to take the tent.” He seemed to brace himself. “Thane Erik… is dead.”
“Impossible,” snarled Eberhardt. “I have to kill him myself.”
“Erik’s… dead?” Rye blinked, uncomprehending. Realization hit him like a brick wall. “Oh… ohoho…” He couldn’t hold it in, and to the surprise of all present, he burst into laughter.
“You mock my house?” Velrim’s face contorted in fury.
“No,” gasped Rye, shaking his head. “Oh, oh, you clever son of a bitch.” He wiped his eyes. “No, Velrim. We’ve been played. All of us, Saddlestead and Aenir alike.” He looked up at the sky, still pelting them with snow. “Like violins.”
“Rye?” Cranberry sounded tentative.
“We’ve been betrayed.” Rye felt a manic grin creeping onto his face. “What a chess player he must be.”
“Who…” Inger had descended back to the ground. “Who do you mean?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Rye’s eyes glittered. “Who stands to gain from the destruction of both your houses? Who could possibly hope to seize power without the support of either Aenir or Saddlestead? Who had enough warriors on hoof to disguise and assault the households of two thanes at once?”
Eberhardt breathed out, his eyes widening. “The Snake.”
“All that time, he was courting me, trying to get the hammer, and I never realized it.” Rye was stuck between a mixture of appalled disbelief and admiration. “Every interaction, calculated down to the last detail. That beggar… the raven… those wonderful little interviews with the thanes… I’ll bet my horseshoes he told them ahead of time exactly what bribes to offer, knowing I’d refuse them all. Lies upon lies upon lies.”
“But… why kill Erik and Braki? That’s too bold, even for somepony with kingly ambitions,” said Inger.
“Not at all,” said Rye. “We’ve just spent the better part of a week instilling the notion that Sleipnord needs a king into the heads of every thane in the country. They’re going to choose, hammer or not, and without the strongest military leaders in the land to vie for the position, there’s only one real option left. And it even looks like they killed each other, sending assassins the same night. A poetic little irony.”
“It’ll never work,” began Inger, before Eberhardt silenced him with a hoof.
“Yes, it will. The thanes are scared, with the griffons threatening their southern borders, and the Blood Fields soaked in their namesake. There’s never been a better time to make a power grab.”
“Then he’s won,” said Inger bleakly. “Without Braki or Erik, there’s no way we can hope to stop him from being crowned.”
“One way,” said Rye, the manic grin growing wider. “We still have this.” He held up the hammer.
“But Braki’s dead, Rye!”
Rye just let the hammer fall back to his side. “We can do this. It can work. Just maybe.”
“How?” Cranberry looked eager but uncertain. “How are three foreigners and the huskarl of a dead thane going to topple the most powerful pony in Sleipnord?
“Not just us,” said Rye, looking at Velrim. “Tell me, Velrim. Do you want power? Do you want a pony of Aenir to wield the hammer? To be the king? To rule?”
“That was my thane’s wish,” breathed Velrim. “His wishes were always mine, as Braki’s were your companion’s.”
“I’m not offering that to you.” Rye rushed ahead as Velrim began to scowl. You’ve got momentum now, Rye, don’t lose it! “I am offering you vengeance for your liege lord. Pledge your service to the king I choose and I’ll see that your betrayer’s fate is sealed.”
“I…” Velrim bowed his head. “Thane Erik would want…”
“I can save Sleipnord, and Sleipnord can save Equestria. But I need your help.”
Velrim’s eyes opened and he gave a single nod.
Rye grinned again. “Then pack up the tent. There’s no time to lose.”