The smell of freshly baked bread woke him. The scent wafted into his room from the kitchens below, and he breathed it in deeply. He rolled over in his bed, groaning. He wanted to lay there and go back to sleep, but the scent of the bread was too compelling. Rye threw aside the sheets and stumbled out of his bed.
He lurched across the room to his desk, massaging his temples. “Ohhh…” He winced. He stood in front of his desk mirror, looking blearily at his reflection. His hair was a tangled mess. His eyes had dark circles underneath them. He reached up a hoof to his mane and found a dried bit of mud that he’d missed earlier.
Rye set his head down on the counter with a thunk. He waited for the room to stop spinning. Clearly opening that second bottle of brandy last night had been a mistake. He let out a low moan as his stomach churned.
Outside the open window, he heard the cooing of a pigeon. He dragged his hooves to the window, looking out onto the city of Canterlot. Thatched roofs and smoking chimneys gave the capital city a homey air. It was a beautiful day out, and the clouds of the previous morning had been replaced by a shining sun and blue skies. Above the city, high in the mountain, the Sun Castle shone in the warm light. If Rye looked closely he could see the path that cut up the mountainside from the city to the castle, passing over one of the many rivers that descended through the castle to end in a waterfall.
He’d never been inside the castle before. They said it was beautiful, but it was not often that visitors were allowed within. The castle’s inhabitants were primarily serviceponies and soldiers. The Firewings were housed within, though many of them, including his mother, lived in the city while not on duty. The new officers would be inside frequently during their studies and training. He had been looking forward to seeing his mother during her tours of duty.
Rye turned away from the window. He crossed back to the mirror, looking at his mane. It remained irrepressibly fluffy, despite his best efforts to cut it short for the exams. Normally he let it grow out. When he poofed it up, the long mane would cover his horn, and then he could pass as a simple pegasus for his day-to-day wanderings of the city. It was a hassle, but worth it to avoid the stares.
He glanced down at the comb beside his mirror. His father always held his with magic, but Rye was forced to use one with his hoof. Maybe today was different? It could hardly make him feel worse. He stared at the comb, gritting his teeth. Come on, work this time.
Rye’s horn began to glow, a soft orange light like a dim flame. He closed his eyes, concentrating harder. Remember what dad said. Open yourself like a sieve. He reached out for the magic.
It lay just beneath the surface of reality, a cool river that flowed everywhere at once, a million different streams and tributaries all brimming with quiet power. His father, Apricot, had described it to him a hundred times, but no words could quite capture the essence of magic. When unicorns used their power it was like swimming in the river, letting the current flow over them and directing it outward.
Let it rush around and through you, into your horn, his father’s voice echoed in his thoughts. There are no words, or gestures; just picture the spell and feel it flow into and out of yourself. Rye reached tentatively into the river. He felt the cool kiss of the magic, and pressed forward. He suddenly came to a stop, encountering the familiar resistance.
What had he expected? To suddenly push past it to reach the flow, unlike all the times before? Rye shoved harder, trying to feel the magical energies. He was so close, always so close, but he could never fully immerse himself in the magic. His horn glowed brightly, the orange light reflecting off his mirror like a torch. He reached out with his mind, stretching toward the river, but it was out of his grasp. It was like lifting his head to grab an apple from a tree, only to have the branch pull away at his approach.
He threw himself into it again, screwing up his face with effort. His horn pulsed with magic, sending orange sparks flying. He grunted with exertion. His eyes snapped open.
The comb remained resolutely still.
Abruptly he released the magic, feeling the cool flow trickle away. His horn’s light petered out as he stood breathing heavily. He felt a sudden urge to smash a hoof through the mirror. He’d been wrong. It had made him feel worse.
He shoved a hoof through the comb’s ring, holding it up and smoothing his mane into a slightly less tangled bird’s nest. He threw it down onto the counter when he was finished and glared at the mirror. He pushed the top of it, swiveling it up and banishing his reflection. Rye turned and left the room.
On the lower floor of the house, the bakery was open for business. Apricot Strudel, Canterlot’s most popular baker and an extraordinary cook besides, was packaging a set of loaves for a customer. He slipped the bread into a bag, tying it off with a ribbon. “That’ll be twelve bits, please.”
The customer, a bright yellow earth pony, reached into her saddlebags and pulled out the money. “Thanks again, Mr. Strudel.” She grabbed the bag and trotted out of the store, ringing the bell on the door. Apricot smiled and placed the money beneath the counter. He turned and saw his son, and his face beamed.
“Rye! Good morning!” He frowned. “Or rather, afternoon.”
Rye winced. “Exactly how much did I have to drink last night?”
His mother appeared from behind, looking displeased. “Too much.” She flashed a disapproving look at him. “I realize you were upset, and you aren’t a colt anymore, but don’t overdo it like that. I don’t enjoy getting summoned down to lower Canterlot to drag you back home.” Her stern look softened. “I was a little worried when you didn’t show up by midnight.”
“Sorry,” he said, cringing at the thought of his mother having to drag him back to the bakery like a foal. Thankfully his memory of the night was a blur. “Do we have any coffee?”
“I have a pot on,” said his father. “I’ll be back in a minute.” Apricot bustled off to the kitchen. Windstreak followed him, shaking her head.
Rye looked around the little bakery. His parents had lived in this house since before he was born. The familiar grain of the wood was comforting. The storefront was the largest room in the building, lined with shelves that displayed all the baked goods a pony could dream of. He knew the names of every one, thanks to his father.
Perhaps he could be a baker. After all, why had he never considered following in his father’s hoofsteps? He craned his head around to see his cutie mark. He waggled his rump, watching the little olive branch imprinted on his flank dance.
Olives, eh? Maybe I should try cooking. His mother always joked that he was a terrible chef, but she didn’t count. Apricot’s culinary masterpieces had spoiled his wife for years. No. I can lie to my parents, but I can’t lie to myself. He was no cook. He wanted to wield a spear, not a spoon. His dream was to serve Equestria and the Princess, like his mother before him, defending Equestria against her enemies.
At least, he would if Equestria had enemies. The kingdom had been at relative peace for over a hundred years. There were no great wars with which to gain the recognition he craved. It didn’t much matter, anyway. He’d already lost his chance. His mother’s influence might have bought him one opportunity to try the Army’s recruitment exams regardless of his physical condition, but he doubted there would be another.
Apricot and Windstreak returned with a tray holding two mugs of coffee. He smiled and took one. “Thanks.” He grabbed the cup with his mouth and emptied it.
His parents looked at him questioningly. Windstreak finally broke the silence. “So, are you feeling better, Rye?”
“My head’s clearing right up,” he said, knowing what she really meant but not wanting to prod fresh wounds. “I think I’m going to go take a trip to the market today. I’ll see you both later, okay?”
His mother looked frustrated, but she just pursed her lips and nodded. “Alright. Try to be home before the sun comes up this time, please?”
“Sure,” Rye promised. He pushed open the bakery door, ringing the little bell.
“And Rye?” He paused, looking over his shoulder. His mother and father both wore the same expression of parental concern. “When you’re ready to talk about it, so are we.”
He summoned his best fake smile and said “Thanks.” He shouldered through the door and left, hearing the bell jingle behind him. He wondered when they’d realize he hadn’t taken any money with him.
* * *
The Canterlot market was the largest economic hub in the northern half of Equestria, topped only by the famous Great Bazaar in the southern provinces. There were stalls for everything: food, books, traveling equipment, weapons, armor, antiques, wines, paintings, and anything else one could imagine. The place bustled with activity. Rye faintly caught the end of a song from a street performer, hearing the beat of a tambourine. A dog raced by in hot pursuit of a harried-looking cat, barking. Wagons trundled up and down the street, carrying goods to and from the city. Rye wandered aimlessly past the vendors, listening to them call out their wares.
“Fresh apples! Fresh apples! All the way from the farms of Westermin! Try our world-famous fruits today!”
“We’ve got oddities from all over the world! Come and see our fine selection of Gryphan antiques and Sleipnordic carvings! That’s right, straight from the snowy northlands!”
“Fine spears and hoof-maces for sale! You won’t find a better selection outside of Easthill, I guarantee it.”
“Got hoof-rot? Suffering from a bad case of tail-mange? Going bald before your time? Stop in and check out our collection of cure-alls to fix what ails you!”
Anything you could ever want. Except officer’s bars…
Something caught his eye. A bright peony-pink earth pony with curly yellow hair was standing at one of the stalls, talking to the shopkeeper. Rye smiled and walked up behind her.
“Are these really all the way from Sleipnord?” she was saying.
“Oh, yes,” said the vendor, displaying his collection of small wooden figurines. “Very difficult to get these days, what with the Nordponies turning back travelers at the border. They’re worth quite a few bits, but I think I could cut you a deal, miss.” His eyes were filled with greedy anticipation.
The pink pony tapped her chin with a hoof. “Hmm… if these are authentic, then why are they made out of rowan wood? Rowan trees don’t grow that far north.”
The shopkeeper blinked and gave a disarming smile. “Well, you see, sometimes caravans bring up wood from Equestria for construction purposes—”
The pink pony interrupted. “But you said it yourself; the Nordponies don’t let anypony through the Midrothel pass anymore. It’s been closed ever since the last war against the giants under Helvinkja.” She stared at the shopkeeper skeptically.
Clearly confounded, the vendor stuttered. “Ah, ah, um… well…”
Taking pity on the beleaguered vendor, Rye said “Cranberry?” The pink mare turned and started in surprise.
“Rye! Oh, it’s good to see you!” She jumped on him and hugged tightly. She pulled her head back. “I… I heard about yesterday.”
He grimaced. “The story’s spreading around that fast?”
“Well I didn’t hear a story, really, just a little rumor that that at the officers’ exams yesterday there was a weird pegac—er, that a, uh, pony had, um…”
“Royally botched the training and humiliated himself in front of half of Canterlot?” Rye finished dryly.
“Oh, don’t act like that, it was only a few dozen ponies. But yes, that’s what I heard, and since you’re the only pony I know with wings and a horn…” Cranberry shrugged apologetically. “If it makes you feel better, I haven’t been spreading it around.”
He sighed. “Not really. But thanks anyway.” He didn’t want to look like a whiner. He would not bleed on Cranberry. He changed the subject. “So, what are you doing out in the market today?”
Cranberry’s eyes lit up. “Oooh, I’m looking for new items for my collection. There was this beautiful statue of Phileostryx the Black, and I’ve been looking for more dragon statuettes for years now.” She was starting to gush like she always did whenever she talked about her antiques. “I’m pretty sure it’s actually from Wyrmgand, and you know how difficult it is to find artifacts from the dragon lands these days.”
Rye smiled as she babbled on. Cranberry was a complete history nut. She could always be found reading a book on ancient griffon architecture, the tombs of the camel kings, the roaming paths of the zebra tribes, or some other tome of old civilizations the world had long forgotten about. Her enthusiasm was infectious and endearing. She was like a history-obsessed puppy.
“So I’ve already gotten items from Wyrmgand and Grypha, and now I’m looking for a carving from Sleipnord to complete the set.” She paused for breath, sighing wistfully. “Oh, I’d just love to go to some of these places someday. Think about it, Rye! Adventuring across the world, exploring the deep caverns under the mountains, seeing distant lands and meeting new ponies and other creatures we’ve never seen before…”
Rye grinned. “Cranberry Sugar, wandering historian?” He raised a hoof and gestured grandly. “Galloping across the lands, fending off manticores and trolls by throwing textbooks at them.”
“Now you’re making fun of me,” she pouted. Rye smirked at her, and she gave him a kick. “I’m serious, Rye! Wouldn’t it be great to get out of this boring town for a while and see the world?”
The vendor, by now extremely annoyed, leaned forward. “Look, lady, are you going to buy anything?”
Cranberry gave him a dismissive look and sniffed. “No, I don’t think so. I only buy real artifacts, thank you.” Rye and Cranberry left the shopkeeper muttering bitterly to himself about rowan wood and keeping the merchandise shelved. They trotted off together through the busy marketplace.
“So tell me about Sleipnord,” said Rye, eager for the distraction.
Cranberry was happy to oblige him. “Well, it’s the ancestral home of all ponies, of course, but most of us haven’t lived there for thousands of years. When the old unicorn, pegasus, and earth pony tribes fled south from the never-ending winter, a few holdouts remained in the north. They were the ancestors of the modern day Nordponies.”
They walked over a bridge that crossed one of the rivers running through the city from the castle above. They continued on into another area of the market district. Cranberry talked ceaselessly while Rye adopted a glazed expression and nodded at appropriate times.
“They’re very warlike, which is only to be expected when somepony lives in a land as cold and hard as Sleipnord. There’s a big emphasis on battle in Sleipnordic society.” Cranberry suddenly stopped walking—and more miraculously, talking—and gave Rye a hard look.
“Okay, I didn’t want to have to push, but you’re clearly avoiding the subject. How are you, really?”
He sighed. “I’ll be fine. I knew from the beginning that getting accepted would be a long shot. This is a disappointment, but not a surprise.”
“It meant more to you than that, Rye. You’ve been talking nonstop about the officers’ corps for weeks.” She rolled her eyes. “More than usual, I mean.”
Rye shrugged, trying to look nonchalant and failing. “I’ll survive.”
“I know you wanted to… to prove yourself, in the military.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, “There are other things in life besides the army. Who knows, maybe I’ll be a cook?”
Cranberry snorted. “I can’t see you making bread for a living, Rye.”
“Ah, you’ve never tried my honeyed oats before.”
“No, and I don’t intend to. I’ve been warned by your mother.”
He groaned. “She thinks everything tastes horrible unless my father makes it.” He looked around. “Where are we going, anyway?”
Cranberry started walking again. “I was hoping Jensine might have some Sleipnordic carvings. Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve said hello.” The two of them carried on into the market, winding deeper into the city.
They came at last to a market stall run by an elderly purple mare with a pair of half-spectacles perched upon her nose. Cranberry waved to her as they approached. “Hello, Jensine.”
“Well, if it isn’t little Miss Sugar and Master Strudel! My, but you two are getting big.” The older pony smiled at them as they came up to her stall. “So how can this old mare help you today?”
“I’m looking for Sleipnordic carvings. Got anything like that in stock?”
“Hmm, I’m afraid not. I haven’t received any new shipments from outside Equestria in over a month, now. Getting artifacts over the borders isn’t as easy as it used to be. The last shipment of those beads from the zebra tribes got lost somewhere in the mountains. The Wild Lands aren’t very safe these days.” She leaned over the counter and gave a conspiratorial whisper. “But I do have a collection of maps I don’t think you’ve seen.”
“Ooh,” said Cranberry, her face lighting up. “Yes, please! Let’s have a look at them.”
Rye groaned. “Don’t you have enough maps by now? I can’t even see the walls of your room through them all.”
“Well it’s a library, Rye, there are supposed to be maps and things hanging up.”
“You’re not supposed to wallpaper your home with them, Cranberry.”
She shushed him and turned to the collection of parchment that Jensine had dumped onto the countertop. “Hmm… Oh, I don’t think I’ve seen one of these with the capitals marked quite like that… Ooh!”
Rye shook his head and turned to Jensine. “So, still keeping an ear to the ground? What’s going on in the kingdom these days?”
The old pony frowned. “These are dangerous times, Master Strudel. The roads are falling into disrepair all across the kingdom. The crown doesn’t have the money to keep them in good condition any more. Caravans are no longer safe. There have been troll attacks near Norharren, and even the Great Road isn’t as protected as it used to be. The situation up north is deteriorating. And news from Whitetail isn’t much better.”
She looked around before leaning in closer and speaking in a low voice. “I hear rumors. They say the griffons are on the move again. I hear whispers of armies in the desert, tens of thousands of campfires that darken the sky with smoke…”
Rye sucked in his breath. “But… we’ve been at peace with Grypha for centuries. You don’t think they’d really…”
“Who knows how the minds of griffons work?” Jensine shook her head. “There is little news from the other lands, thankfully. Wyrmgand is still shut off from the rest of the world. The dragons want to stay cooped up in their rocky canyons, and I say let them. Never did anypony any good to have dragons mucking about.” She looked darkly to the west. Beyond the horizon lay the ominous Drakkengard mountains, standing their solemn vigil over the border between the land of the ponies and the arid realm of the great firebreathing lizards.
“Ah, here’s the one!” exclaimed Cranberry. She pointed a hoof at the map. “How much?”
“Four bits,” Jensine smiled, “But for you, Miss Sugar, I’ll make it two.”
Cranberry dropped a pair of gold pieces on the counter and swept the map into one of her saddlebags. She smiled at the old pony. “Thanks again, Jensine.”
“Stop by anytime, dear. You too, Master Strudel.”
The two of them walked away. Cranberry stopped suddenly and smacked her forehead. “Oh, drat, I forgot. Inkpot wanted me back at the library by three to help sort the reference section. You know how fussy she gets whenever somepony puts a book on the wrong shelf.”
“Well if she’d just arrange them alphabetically like everypony else…”
“I know, I know. She claims her system is better. It just confuses me.” Cranberry looked apologetic. “Look, I’d really rather stick around, but my sister’s more important than some wooden carving. I’ll see you later, okay?”
Rye nodded. “Not a problem. See you ‘round, Cranberry.” He watched as she cantered off, melding into the throng of shopping ponies and disappearing.
Well, what now? Find another friend to talk to? Well, you’d need another friend for that, wouldn’t you... There were other ponies who treated Rye with at least a modicum of respect, but Cranberry was the only real friend he’d ever had, and vice versa. He smiled to himself, remembering how the two of them had used to play in the city streets during the summer.
Rye’s favorite game had always been Firewings and Monsters. He would be the Firewing captain, naturally, and Cranberry excitedly assumed her role as the monster of the day. They would tussle around, Rye defending the Princess from whatever horrible chimera Cranberry had read about that week.
He sighed longingly. He knew more about the adventures of the legendary pegasi of Equestria’s royal guard than most, not surprisingly because of his mother. She would tell him the stories of old battles against monsters, keeping the kingdom safe from hydras and trolls. The exploits of those heroes had shaped his childhood in more ways than one. He dreamed of being remembered like them; not as a freak of nature but as a great defender of Equestria.
Dreams were for children, he thought bitterly. Rye turned his hooves south, marching for the city gates. He knew a place where he could find some solace, one that wouldn’t leave him unconscious on a barroom floor.
He walked down the main street of the city, dodging merchant wagons. Reaching the grand archway at last, he paused to take in the sight. The gates of Canterlot were a marvel of craftsmanship. The wall surrounding the city was forty meters high and a good four meters thick. No foe had ever breached them, and no foe had even tried since the Great War six hundred years ago, during the fall of the Gryphan Empire.
The gates were swung open as hundreds of ponies milled around, entering and leaving the city. Rye slipped through the crowd, his small frame working to his advantage. He finally emerged on the other side of the mob, outside the city. The road led away into the distance, where it eventually met with the Great Road that ran all the way from Midrothel Pass in the north to the fortress of Sel-Paloth on Equestria’s southern border.
He wasn’t going that far today, though. His destination was in the little Cottontail Wood that lay just outside Canterlot’s outskirts. Rye trotted through the grass as he left the city behind him. He took a deep breath of the crisp autumn air.
The sun rolled lower in the sky as his hooves carried him on, turning the sky from blue to pink. The city grew smaller behind him, but the gleam of gold on the mountainside remained a beacon home.
Rye reached the forest late in the day, entering the woods amidst the reds and golds of the fall leaves. He wandered deeper into the trees, looking for the place he’d come for. He finally stepped into a small clearing. In the center of the little copse was a single tree stump. This glade was his secret hideaway, a tiny pocket of peace away from the bustle of the city. He often came here to think, or just to get away from everything for a while.
He sat on his stump, musing. Cranberry was right. He wasn’t sure what was in his future, but it certainly wasn’t cooking. He wanted ponies to look past his gimpy wings and ungainly horn, to see him as, if not normal, at least not cursed. He wanted to do great things, to be seen to do great things. He didn’t want to be a celebrity. He wanted to be a hero.
Seized by a sudden carefree urge, he posed on his stump. “Fear not, Princess! I will slay the dragon!” He waved an imaginary hoof-mace. For a brief moment, he was a foal again, cavorting around the clearing chasing off monsters from his childhood. Laughing like an idiot, he fought griffons and dragons and giant snakes for the glory of Equestria and Princess Celestia.
Exhausted, he collapsed onto his stump. Still giggling like a little colt, Rye curled up and closed his eyes. All I ever wanted was to be like mom. What am I going to do with myself? He sighed, huddling tighter on his stump. The evening sun was warm and comforting…
* * *
Rye blinked. He yawned and raised his head. The glade was pitch black as his eyes began adjusting to the darkness. Night had clearly fallen hours ago. He stretched his wings and hooves out, yawning again. How long had he been asleep? His mother was going to give him an earful for this one. She probably thought he’d been at the tavern again. Well, the longer he stayed outside the worse the scolding would be. Time to head back to the city—
Snap! Rye’s head whirled. His eyes darted around the trees, looking for the source of the noise in the darkness. He heard a winded gasp and another stick breaking. He climbed off his stump to investigate. Rye snuck out of the glade, moving deeper into the forest after the sounds.
Somepony was moving fast, galloping full-out through the forest. He ran to catch up, trying to get a look at the pony ahead of him. Through the trees, he caught a brief glimpse of purple. His curiosity fully aroused, Rye followed the stranger deeper into the forest. It seemed like he or she was headed toward Canterlot.
His quarry suddenly paused, gasping raggedly. As the pony hadn’t seemed to hear him yet, Rye took the opportunity to inch closer, hiding behind a bush. It was a female unicorn, her dull pink mane and lavender cloak standing out against the muted blues and blacks of the night. She had a brown cape draped over her back, but it didn’t obscure the symbol on her saddlebags: a scroll with a seal in the shape of the sun.
What is a royal courier doing in Cottontail Woods?
The unicorn regained control of her breathing. She lifted her head, looking around with a wary expression. Her gaze passed over Rye’s hiding spot behind the bush, and he held his breath. She didn’t see him, continuing to look around. She took another deep breath, and turned to run again.
A dark shape emerged from the trees in front of the unicorn, blocking her way. Whatever it was, it wore a heavy, dark blue cloak around it. The mare slowly backed away, her horn glowing with bright violet magic. Rye watched, transfixed. She set her hooves cautiously behind her, never taking her eyes off of the hooded creature. She was so intent on it that she missed the second one as it jumped at her from behind.
The creature grasped the unicorn with an arm. Whatever it was, it clearly wasn’t a pony. The arm ended not in a hoof but in four talons, all of which wrapped around the unicorn’s neck. The creature spoke, its voice raspy and hoarse. “End of the line, Equestrian.”
The unicorn reacted instantly. She jerked her head back, bashing her horn into the creature’s hood. It dropped her, recoiling. Its hood fell off, and Rye choked back a gasp of surprise. The thing’s head was feathered. It could only be a griffon. She bucked hard with her back legs, taking it in the midsection. The griffon reeled backwards, but the first one was already charging for the unicorn.
She rolled to avoid its claws, ducking as they slashed through the air and ripped through her cape. The unicorn’s horn glowed brightly, and the first assailant flew through the air to land in one of the trees. She turned to run, but the second griffon had recovered and dived for her. She rolled away again.
Rye had to help. He broke from his cover behind the bush and charged into the fray.
I flunked out of the military. So why am I the only trainee seeing battle this week?
Reflecting on the irony of the situation could wait. The first griffon descended from the tree again, and was headed straight for the unicorn. Rye reached into the magic and cast the only spell he could. His horn blossomed with orange light, flooding the clearing.
“Hey!” he yelled, as the pony and her attackers both swerved to look at him.
The first cloaked griffon hissed. “No witnesses.”
The unicorn seized the moment of distraction, her horn blazing. A wall of violet light flew outward, smashing into the two creatures. They fell backwards. She yelled, “Come on!” and raced into the woods. Rye ran after her, as the two griffons behind him began to stand again.
He felt a sudden, inane urge to introduce himself. “Nice to meet you,” he said, panting as they galloped, “I’m Rye, what’s your name?” The unicorn didn’t answer immediately, looking fearfully behind.
“Run now,” she said, “talk later.” The two ponies galloped onward. They had nearly cleared the forest when the attackers caught them.
Another cloaked shape loomed before them, sharp talons outstretched. The unicorn and Rye skidded to a halt, horns alight. The two griffons from earlier bounded out of the trees behind them. All of them froze in the clearing. The ponies and the griffons stood still, watching each other.
“This is going to get ugly. Can you cast any battle magic?” asked the unicorn.
“Uh… no.”
“Then this is going to get really ugly,” she amended, scowling at the foreigners.
The unicorn and the griffons moved as one. Her horn blazing, the unicorn hit one in the face with a hoof, and sent a streak of violet light in the direction of another. Rye dodged a swipe from the third griffon, jumping backwards. It came on again, its beak open wide and its eyes furrowed in anger.
There was a blinding flash of purple light and a crack as one of the griffons behind him soared past like a meteor, smashing into a tree with a loud crunch. Rye struck out with his hooves, forcing the griffon in front of him to back off. It spread its wings, leaping into the air above him. He rolled over to dodge its talons as it landed, coming up onto his hooves with flap of his wings. The griffon shrieked at him and he flinched.
In a split-second, it was on him. He felt the griffon’s claws wrap around his neck, and he looked deep into its eyes as it raised its other claw to slash across his throat. There was a booming sound and another pulse of violet light, and the griffon was suddenly ripped away and hurled into the forest.
“Thanks!” he called, grinning as he looked over at the unicorn. The grin vanished as he saw the final griffon right behind her. “Look out!”
The unicorn whirled as the griffon slashed its talons down. He heard her cry out, falling to the ground. Rye’s hooves thundered as he charged toward the griffon. It crouched to finish the unicorn off as Rye jumped into the air. He flew into the griffon and they both tumbled into the grass.
He raised his hoof and smashed it down into the griffon’s face, screaming with fear and anger. Adrenaline coursed through his body.
The griffon gurgled and clawed at him. He brought the hoof up and down, again and again and again. The avian creature’s motions slowed and it fell silent. Its claws hung limply by its sides as Rye kept hitting it over and over with his bloody hoof. Frightened tears ran down his cheeks as his heartbeat pounded in his ears.
Rye stood, shaking all over. He was sweating, quivering like a leaf. He looked around, feeling a spike of terror as he tried to find the remaining griffons. They lay where the unicorn’s spells had thrown them, unmoving. He tried to calm his racing heart, but his chest heaved as he took one quivering breath after another.
The stories always said you were supposed to feel something after you killed for the first time, some regret or horror at what you had done. He remembered how Lythalia the Brave had wept for his enemies for weeks after their deaths. But Rye just felt terrified, his fight-or-flight response leaving no room for sentiment. He looked at his bloodstained hoof with a strangely detached disbelief.
There was a low moan from the unicorn. Rye ran to her side, kneeling down. He turned the unicorn over, cringing at the wound the griffon had left. There were three huge gashes in her side, and blood was pouring out at an alarming rate. She was still alive, but it didn’t look like she would last very long.
“L-l-listen,” she choked. “Listen to me.”
“I’m listening,” said Rye, his eyes wide.
“M-my name is Dawn Sparkle,” said the unicorn, trembling. She gasped and curled up, pressing her legs across the wounds on her belly. “Oh, Sisters, this hurts.” She closed her eyes, and breathed heavily.
“Wait here, Dawn, I’ll run to the city and get help.”
“No!” Her head snapped up before she cried out again. She hunched over, panting. Blood dripped into the grass. “There’s no time. Listen to me.” She pointed a bloody hoof at her saddlebags, which had fallen off during the fight. “Inside the bag, there’s a scroll.”
Rye obediently opened the bag, removing the item. It was a simple message scroll. It was stamped with black wax. Rye’s eyes went as wide as saucers, and he dropped it.
“Th-that’s a black seal!” Those seals were reserved for messages of extreme importance: famine, treason… war.
“You must—” Dawn coughed, flecks of red staining the grass. “You must get that message to the Princess. Celestia has to—” she hacked again, spitting out a gob of blood, “—has to know about the griffons. I failed in my duty, but you… you can’t…” she laid her head on the ground. “You can’t…” She closed her eyes for the last time. “Tell Celestia... that I….”
Rye sat for a minute, staring at the dead unicorn before him. He’d only known her for a few minutes, and in that time she’d saved his life twice over.
He unfastened her cape and draped it over Dawn’s head like a shroud. He picked a bright blue flower from a nearby bush, laying it down on her chest. Cranberry would know the flower’s name, some distant part of his brain thought. He looked down at the little scroll.
You must get that message to the Princess.
He snatched up the scroll in his mouth, marching to the edge of the clearing. He took one last look back at Dawn Sparkle’s body, and his brow stiffened in determination.
Don’t worry. I won’t fail you.
If he ran as fast as he could, he would reach the castle gates at sunrise.