Chapter 16
Scootaloo wriggled beneath a broad, warm wing. She was jammed snugly between two bodies, and a substantial weight held down her head.
Suddenly a spear point fell from her fluffy headgear, and the pony woke with a sharp cry. She heard gurgling from above, and moments later another scaly foot scrambled for purchase on her flattened ears.
“Ow!”
The big wing folded against its owner’s side, allowing all the children beneath it to stand up. Scootaloo whipped her head back and forth, but Cabbage had very strong feet. The parrot clamped down like a vice, and beat her mercilessly with his sizable wings as he twisted around to counterbalance the rocking of his hostile steed.
“Scootaloo! Hold still!”
Another pair of claws closed around her neck. Gina held down the pony with all her strength while her sister removed the panicked bird.
“Cabbage!” She scolded, holding the parrot against her chest with his wings clamped under her claws. “You don’t scratch ponies!”
Galina lumbered to her side and took the pony in her arms.
“Just a few scratches,” she reported after a thorough examination of her scalp. “Gina, get the first aid kit.”
The griffin patched her up quickly and suggested she should go back to sleep. Scootaloo declined politely and went into the breaking dawn, making sure to fasten her axe around her waist. Its weight seemed so natural now; her stride had adjusted to its presence, so much so that she felt off-balance without it.
The Master was curled up in the middle of the deck with a rubberized tarp for a blanket. The boat’s long pole was fastened to the starboard side via a rusty bracket, and despite Scootaloo’s initial skepticism the barge did not drift during the night.
“Keep it down,” the stallion mumbled grumpily, regarding her with one bloodshot eye as she passed. “You think it’s easy, ferrying all you griffins and kids and chickens and…”
His rant devolved into meaningless mumbling as sleep claimed him once more. Scootaloo fluttered her wings irritably as she approached the bow; the morning fog was hot like steam from a kettle, and sweat did not cool her one bit. Breathing the air made her feel light-headed.
She sat down at the front edge and peered through the haze at the line of red shining through the surrounding trees. Her head was swimming with uneasy thoughts. She wished the sun would rise faster.
After the truth serum wore off, Galina had spent a good hour with the ponies in her lap trying to calm them down. Scootaloo vaguely remembered lying exhausted on a sleeping mat beneath the griffin’s wings and watching the twins get ready for bed. The last thing she saw was the Master climbing over the manticore with a loudly-hissing lantern between his teeth.
Her brother’s outburst seemed to her like a bad dream. Morning Rain had always spoken so highly of his father. There had been nights when he only talked about the countless heroic deeds of Lieutenant Summer Rain of Dredger Company. But the vile curses that rolled off his tongue could not have come from a boy who’d never met his mother. There could only be one explanation, and Scootaloo shuddered at the thought.
It can’t be! He tells me everything! He wouldn’t hide something like that!
The gradually growing light did little to ease her mind. She lay down on the deck and stretched out her wings in one last attempt to cool herself before the sun baked her dry.
Morning Rain joined her when the fog had cleared enough to see the nearest trees. They did not talk, but the way he leaned his head on her neck told her just enough. Scootaloo draped one foreleg across his shoulder and held him close despite the almost feverish heat radiation off his back. It seemed the Master had finally grown some sense. He worked around them in grim silence, speaking only to Gregor in a hushed tone.
They stayed at the water’s edge until Grace announced that breakfast was ready. Scootaloo would have declined, but both the griffin and her bird insisted. It was hard to say no to the giant parrot’s persistent tail-pulling.
The ponies walked with their heads down past the mound of equipment near the deckhouse entrance. At the very top were Grace’s disembodied bat wings. She had no real wings, only two deformed nubs sticking out of her shoulder blades. The right was larger than the left, with two tiny feathers sticking out at an odd angle. With two fewer appendages, she was noticeably smaller than her sister.
Scootaloo eagerly ate the griffins’ sweet oatmeal. Again the Master took his meal on the job, looking like a rockstar with the last of the morning fog swirling around his ankles.
Near the end of breakfast the conversation between Grace and her mother grew heated. She evidently wanted something, but Galina was reluctant to consent. At last the latter sighed in defeat, and the girl hopped once in triumph, the nubs on her back drumming excitedly against her sides.
Galina placed the black canvas wings on her daughter’s back and tightened the buckles. Grace tapped her toes restlessly for the minute it took to adjust the many straps. No sooner had Galina stepped back, Grace’s wings sprang open with a bang.
Scootaloo’s jaw dropped. The curves of the ivory frame looked organic, each digit tapering to a rounded point. The black canvas looked light as silk, contrasting beautifully with the zigzagging red hem.
“You like it?” She said to the ponies while her sister rolled her eyes.
“D… do they work?” Scootaloo asked hopefully.
Grace did not answer in words. A single powerful push got her feet off the deck, and she remained hovering just below the low ceiling with shorter strokes. Her prosthesis didn’t move quite as smoothly as real wings, but it was no doubt effective. The tremendous wind generated by her flight was little comfort for the jealous Scootaloo.
“Where can I get one?” She asked as soon as the griffin landed.
#
Grace’s wings came with a square leather saddle between her shoulders where a bird could perch, and that was where Cabbage stayed for most of the morning as the children played on deck. The twins taught Scootaloo and Morning Rain how to sharpen their blades, and then to haft arrows. The water pole was always close by, and even the parrot did not manage to keep his feathers dry.
The griffins had a kind of harsh soap that came in a spheres resembling an ostrich egg. After picking reeds the ponies were given a pile of laundry and half a wood barrel. They stomped on the many cloaks and hoods, the water in the barrel quickly becoming brown and developing a film of twigs, oil and dead insects.
Grace was proud of her wings, and told many stories about long flights and all the different coverings she had at home. She had been born without wings, and knew a lot about the various styles of prosthetics available to the griffins. Scootaloo was the only one who was truly interested, and her questions were eagerly answered: Yes, she could get a set for herself; Yes, she could get them in blue; No, wooden frames would not work, only whale bone.
When the ponies climbed out of the basin and rinsed the suds from their freshly-cleaned coats, Gina and Grace were waiting for them with a small pile of short stone-tipped arrows.
“Can you throw darts?” Gina asked, speaking slowly and deliberately in the unfamiliar tongue.
They couldn’t, of course, and the griffins found great pleasure in teaching them. For once Morning Rain’s enormous wings gave him no advantage. After half an hour Scootaloo had mastered picking up darts using only her wings, while her brother still struggled to balance a full-length arrow for more than five seconds. As for Grace, having no wings left her with some rather creative options; it turned out that a quick front flip imparted more than enough force to send darts whistling down range by the handful.
Scootaloo’s first few tries sent darts spinning through the air, rarely touching the wooden board they were using as a target. She lost two overboard, but the griffins were content to trade them for a laugh at her expense.
“Slowly when you start,” Gina said before flicking another dart into the weathered wood with a loud boom from her large white wings.
By the time Scootaloo land her first shot the griffins had written off the idea of a shooting contest with the ponies. The target looked like a porcupine from their tight pattern, and now they supervised with half-lidded eyes from just inside the deckhouse. Cabbage strutted in a circle around Morning Rain, who was chewing on his tongue as he tried for the hundredth time to fling a dart with his relatively functional left wing.
“Mama, ecas set feric?”
Scootaloo folded her tired wings and looked back towards the deckhouse. The twins had stood up, and Cabbage scampered over to their side wearing his dumb smile.
“Vaset feran!” Galina snapped. “Set dune avasa!”
This reply displeased the girls, who dragged their feet further into the shade with their mother watching closely. Cabbage hung his head and slumped back to the bow theatrically.
Scootaloo glanced quickly at the Master, who was staring across the water lost in thought.
This is my chance.
“Rain,” she said, lifting the arrow off his wing. “Do you want to talk about what happened last night?”
“Nothing happened,” he said. “We all took the truth serum, and we all told the truth. That’s the end of it.”
“So… you just really hate your mother.”
“I didn’t say that!” He said, a little louder than was necessary.
“Rain,” Scootaloo said as she guided him to face the starboard edge of the barge. “I’m worried about you. What you said last night; did you hear it from your dad?”
“And what if I did?” Retorted the boy angrily. “What if he said all that? What’s it to you?”
“You attacked Gregor last night,” she said. “Was your dad drunk when he told you all that stuff? How often did this happen? You’ve told me nothing but good things about your dad.”
“Yeah, he was pretty drunk,” said Rain without hesitation. “Officers get drunk. That’s what officers like to do. Canterlot pays for his food and lodging for years at a time; what else is he gonna use his paycheques for? Don’t tell me your dad’s never been drunk!”
“Did he hit you while he was drunk?” Scootaloo asked.
“Yeah, and that’s normal too. You know it is!”
“Come on,” she said, pulling him closer. “He hurt you pretty badly. I think you’ll feel better if you talk to me about it.”
“I’m fine,” he grumbled. “I’ll feel better if we never talk about this again.”
With that he shuffled out of her embrace and went to the deckhouse to help with lunch.
At least he doesn’t hate griffins anymore.
#
The Master ate with them in the deckhouse, anchoring the barge like he did the night before. Rice porridge and roast rabbit were on the menu, and he did not hesitate to snatch a well done hindquarter much to Scootaloo’s disgust.
“It’s just a rabbit,” he said defensively. “Oy! Stop staring! I don’t need your Canterlot sensibilities on my boat!”
The combined effect of the warm meal, humid air and early start overtook Scootaloo as she and was scrubbing the dishes. After pouring the soapy dishwater overboard she joined the other children on deck.
“…And then he sailed out of Percheron Landing, never seen again!”
Gina smiled proudly as Rain and Grace looked on with pale faces. The Master broke the silence with his manic laughter.
“That was good,” he said, leaning heavily on his pole. “I haven’t heard that one in a while! Boy!”
“What so funny?” Gina asked, her brows furrowed in annoyance. “It’s true scary story! Gareth and his crew took the cursed amulet! All died!”
“This cursed amulet,” the Master said. “How big did you say it was?”
“About as big as a pocket watch,” Gina said automatically. “Thin enough to fit inside a glove…”
“With a five-ring bullseye and two straight lines that intersect in the middle marking the bottom third,” the Master interrupted. “Yeah, I know the story. And does it look like this?”
He rolled up his left socks as he spoke, and held out his hoof with a circular metal plate on top. The three kids’ eyes widened in horror. Morning Rain, who was lying closest to the bargepony, shuffled a few inches towards the bow.
“Hey, my dad has one of those!”
The other kids turned in unison and stared at Scootaloo as if she just sprouted an extra head.
“I don’t blame him!” The Master chuckled, flipping the medallion like a big coin. “Cursed medallions make good horseshoes! Well, they don’t really; I’ve never seen a cursed medallion, and I don’t think anyone in Percherone Landing has either.
“This here is a navvy’s medallion. The griffins made them by the thousands back when they were talking about extending the rail from Dodge Junction up north. This was only a couple years ago, you know. The Princess wanted to put in a new line: Vanhoover to Saddletowne. From sea to shining sea, as it were. Your dad told you about this, right Scootaloo?”
“He mentioned it,” she said.
“Then keep your mouth shut,” he snapped. “Anyways, they were serious about this project in Canterlot. And who do you call when you need a new rail line? You need ponies to drag stuff around and dig trenches, but to do things properly you need griffins. And griffins they had, from every town in the Foal Mountains and to the west. There was work to be done and good money to be had. Five years on the road can make a young fellow rich if he’d stick with it.
“Now I don’t expect you to know much about public works, so I’ll just go over it quickly. Canterlot isn’t going to send anypony to go door to door handing out paycheques. Besides, what would you do with a bag of bits in the middle of nowhere? You can’t eat bits, you know?”
Goosebumps crept down Scootaloo’s neck when she heard that familiar proverb.
“Now, what they decided to do could only have worked with navvies. Navvies are a close bunch; they look out for each other. So what better way to deal with money than to pool it all? They rented a big vault in the royal treasury right across the hall from the one holding the building funds. When the job was done, the bits were to be moved across the hall and become theirs to distribute as they see fit. You know what happened next, Scootaloo.
“Work went ahead for three years, and everything was looking good. These griffins and ponies made moving towns for themselves. They had kids even, and why shouldn’t they? There was going to be money enough for everyone! Then news came from Canterlot that the project was cancelled. A school for unicorns got demolished by accident or something like that, and they just took the money to pay for repairs. That’s all fine and dandy, but what happens to twenty thousand navvies? Why, just don’t pay them and hope they go away!
“That didn’t go over well, as you can imagine. These were tough guys who worked under the sun. A lot of them had families now. They had kids to worry about. They’re not going to sit by while they’re getting robbed no matter how tall the robber is!
“Runners went around to all the camps, and pretty soon they had a plan. Under Hunter’s Moon every navvy be they pony or griffin marched into Canterlot. There were mares carrying infants, and kids with hammers and rail stakes ready to take that city apart. They got all the way to the palace gates and demanded what’s rightfully theirs. Surely they would have justice now, right?
“The Princess didn’t even give them an audience. They stood at her gate for an hour, until the Captain of the Royal Guards told them to leave. Diamond Vambrace was his name, and he was not the sharpest tool in the shed. He came from some old aristocratic family, but that doesn’t make him good with words. It all spiraled out of control after that, and I’m told that half of Canterlot lie in ruins by morning.
“You can imagine the Princess’ reaction. Nopony knows how many navvies were killed in Canterlot and how many were captured, but to this day the railroad towns sit abandoned. Few ponies care to visit, and those who can rightfully claim the stuff have all fled far away. Diamond Vambrace hunted them for five years until another Captain came along. Suddenly these medallions weren’t great things to have. Many of the navvies who came south sold theirs as scrap metal or melted them to make light horseshoes. Some buried theirs; that’s where mine came from. And of course a few of them ended up in Percherone Landing, where Captain Gareth found his crew.
“By all accounts Gareth wasn’t a sailor. The story goes that he inherited the Spring Leaf from his uncle, put together a uniform with his father’s fine clothes and sailed away from home the very next morning with nothing but a hold full of beer. No crew would serve him for more than one voyage, so he was always in this town or that looking to pick up seafarers foolish enough to set foot on his ship. It so happened that he met a navvy one day with some knickknacks to sell. A medallion like this one caught his eye, and so he bought it for ten bits and wore it proudly around his neck.
“Now the pony selling the medallion wasn’t the only navvy in town that day, and Gareth wander around enough that the others took notice.
“‘Here is one of our brothers,’ they said, ‘looks like he’s doing better than we are. Maybe he’ll help us.’
“Five ponies and three griffins came to him that morning, wearing their medallions openly. Gareth took them for sailors, and immediately launched into his usual spiel. He was a talker, and so he convinced all eight of them to follow him. They were all under his spell, and though they told him again and again that they were no sailors Gareth would have none of it. He had a crew, and his crew had his promise of fifty bits a day for ninety days.
“Gareth left Percheron on the same day he landed, that part is true, but don’t think for a minute that he died because of some curse. He didn’t disappear; he drowned. And don’t you cry for him or curse his ‘demon crew’. Any one of them is worth ten of him. So the Master knows the tale, and so you’ll tell it!”
“That’s a lot different from Gina’s story,” Rain said. “Where did you find that out, Mr…”
“Call me Master,” he said.
“Come on,” Scootaloo spoke up. “That can’t be your real name! What kind of parents would name their kid ‘Master’?”
“I am the Master,” he said. “You will call me Master.”
“Why should I?”
“I’ll tell you why,” he said. “Since you’re in the mood to tell scary stories, I’ll tell you one that’ll keep you up tonight night. Fetch me some water, Gina.”
After downing two brimming mugs of straight swamp water the Master wiped his mouth and replaced his sock with the medallion inside.
“This one goes way back,” he began. “Before the Princesses, and even before Discord’s reign, there were ponies who traveled this swamp. Their barges looked a lot like mine, but they never stayed on the water after sundown. You see, they did not travel alone.
“This swamp is the home of the kappa. What are kappa, you may ask? Well, I’ll tell it as I heard it: kappa are water monsters, about the size of a pony and covered in slimy green scales. They have sharp claws and webbed feet for swimming. And have you ever heard of water on the brain? Well, kappa have no brains. The tops of their heads are open, and their skulls are filled to the brim with water. They have wide, flat beaks, and their eyes are the bulging black eyes of a drowned pony.
“Kappa can’t hurt you during the day. They love the shade, and cling onto the bottoms of barges or hide under piers. But as soon as the sun sets anypony caught out on the water is good as gone.
“In the dead of night, when you are drowsy and your lantern is burning low, you may hear a voice like that of an elderly mare.
“’Young fellow,’ it will say. ‘Young fellow. That is a pretty barge you have. What is your name?’”
“’Why thank you,’ you reply. ‘I am Scootaloo.’”
“Then you will hear a gentle splash behind you, and a sound like big fish flopping on your deck. Slimy claws grab you around your neck, and icy water sloshes out of the creature’s head and onto yours. It pushes you forwards into the black water, and the last thing you see is the dim reflection of its bottomless black eyes peeking over your head.
“Well, one day a young stallion was moving with his pregnant wife. He did not know the swamp very well, and could not find a town in time. He rowed until sundown, and then by the light of his lantern. His wife was asleep in the deckhouse when he finally stopped and laid down to rest.
“’Young fellow’
“His blood froze when he heard that voice. It sounded like a rusty door hinge.
“’Young fellow,’ it said again. ‘That is a nice barge you have. I see a kitchen table made of fine wood and some very comfortable chairs, woolen blankets and soft feather pillows. What is your name, and who is that mare you have with you?”
Grace let out a small squeak and huddled closer to her sister.
“The stallion knew what would happen if he told the truth. But what could he say? He heard the splash behind him, followed by a wet smack at the edge of the deck.
“’You can’t take me,’ he cried. ‘I am the Sheriff! What will my town do without its sheriff?’”
“And lo and behold, the kappa stopped.
“’The Sheriff, you say? You are important. Ponies may come after me if I take you! I will spare you, Sheriff. Be on your way!’
“That stallion found his way to a town the next day, and told the ponies there what happened. Since that day, bargeponies in these parts never speak their names on the swamp. The kappa are still listening, waiting for one misspoken word so they can know for sure that their next meal will not bring disaster upon their empty heads.”
The children were silent for a whole minute after the Master stopped speaking.
“I’m not afraid of any kappa,” Grace said at last. “I’ll just stab it and fly away!”
“No you wouldn’t!” Gina said. “You don’t even wear your wings most of the time. The kappa will get you for sure!”
“Would not!”
Grace lashed out with her claws, tearing a few feathers from her sister’s face. For a moment Gina sat dumbstruck, and that was all Grace needed. Her wings deployed, and Scootaloo felt a swift cooling breeze on her back. She had a ten metre head start by the time her sister recovered. Cabbage screeched in protest, flailing his wings as he clung onto the saddle for dear life.
The griffins chased each other overhead, never straying too far from the barge. Scootaloo and Morning Rain craned their necks to follow their rolls and turns and collisions.
“Why don’t you give it a try?” The Master asked. “Those are wings on your back, aren’t they?”
Scootaloo opened her mouth to argue, but Morning Rain extended his wings.
“Rain, you can’t fly!” She said, grabbing his tail just before he could leap off the deck.
“Let him go, Scootaloo!” The Master said, raising his pole out of the water. “He knows what he can do!”
Fearing the Master’s paddle, Scootaloo let go of her brother. Rain wobbled into the air. His right wing was not pulling its weight, forcing him to lean heavily on his left side. It did not seem to bother him, for he wore his happiest smile the whole time. Rocks could chip hooves, water could drown, but air had never hurt him.
Scootaloo now watched with a deep and familiar longing. She paced the deck restlessly with her tiny wings half extended. Every inch of the deck’s railing free edges called out to her.
“Come,” they seemed to say. “Take a leap. You won’t fall.”
She shadowed the griffins towards the bow and reached out past the deck with her wings fluttering, certain that her they could bear her weight. But her hoof dipped into the water and she tipped forwards. At the last moment a pole caught her beneath the ribs and knocked her painfully onto the deck.
“What’s wrong with you?” The Master chided. “If you’re itching to fly, fly properly. I’m not spending my afternoon fishing you out of this swamp!”
Scootaloo could not look him in the face. She stayed sitting near the bow and looked into the rippling water with angry tears burning in her eyes.
Should have known better. I can’t fly. I’m just an earth pony with wings.
She laid her head down on her hooves and closed her eyes. A gust of wind and the sound of flapping canvas to her right alerted her before she could fall asleep under the warm sun.
Grace stood to her right and regarded her with a quizzical expression.
“What do you want?” Scootaloo mumbled without getting up.
“Why are you no flying?” She asked innocently.
“Can’t,” Scootaloo said, fluttering her wings for emphasis. “Why do you think I want wings like yours in the first place?”
“Do you want to try?”
Scootaloo stared blankly at the griffin, half expecting her to fly away laughing.
“Do you want to try?” She said again, tapping the brass clasp at the centre of her chest. “You can borrow wings.”
“Do you mean…” Scootaloo felt her legs becoming weak as her heart raced, and could not stand up immediately to accept the offer.
“My wings,” Grace said. “You can fly.”
Without further explanation she sat down and began undoing the straps around her torso. Scootaloo shot the Master a questioning glance, but his thousand mile stare passed right over her head.
Grace dropped her wings on the deck beside her and stretched like a house cat. Scootaloo cowered instinctively as the griffin approached her with the harness. Its many limp, dangling straps reminded her of a daddy longlegs spider.
She shivered when the sweat-soaked saddle touched her back. The contraption was quite heavy, but its balance was flawless. Scootaloo felt like she could run without any risk of tripping. Her legs shook beneath her as she stepped into the leg loops, and she could barely keep her teeth from chattering as Grace adjusted the straps to fit her larger torso. Her ribs were squeezed so tight that she thought she would pass out. When Grace stepped away, Scootaloo’s wings were jammed painfully beneath the hard frame of the prosthesis.
Fortunately for her Grace was not finished. Scootaloo winced when she felt the grip of a small, scaly hand on her left wing. The griffin guided her wing through a notch in the saddle with one quick motion and immediately pulled a tight leather ring over the limb. Scootaloo stretched and flapped, desperate to escape the uncomfortable contraption. Her hooves lifted off the deck, and she skidded a few steps to the right before falling on her face.
The wings were nothing like she had imagined. Just one was enough to generate a significant push, but it felt as if she was being lifted by a string hooked between her shoulder blades. Grace had ducked in time to avoid her flailing limbs, and was gently guiding the canvas wing back to its folded position. The force transmitted back to Scootaloo’s wing of flesh and feathers. She was amazed to see the gigantic frame retracting in synch with her motions.
“Here problem,” Grace mumbled. “Safety not on. Hold still.”
She showed her the little levers behind her ribs that could lock and unlock the wings and finished hitching her in. The way her wings were attached to the frame made her feel trapped no matter how she tried to fold them.
“Done,” Grace said, and backed away to a safe distance.
Trying to fly was like moving through molasses. Scootaloo’s customary hum became a cycle of powerful strokes. She didn’t know what to do with her legs as she wobbled into the air, climbing at an alarming rate. The harness provided a lot of support, and though her wings strained against a tremendous volume of air Scootaloo could not fight the feeling that she was being lifted by something else.
Gina’s cheering made her look down. She and Morning Rain hovered far below her, and Scootaloo would never forget her brother’s awestruck face.
The barge was a tiny rectangle on the shining water, and she could see the entirety of the swamp. Huge patches of fog crawled lazily above tongues of water, engulfing luscious green groves and spitting them out again unharmed. There were other barges on the waterway; she spotted the Maestro’s green barge in a narrow channel to the west, tailed by a dozen more vessels in all the colours of the rainbow. The river barges were remarkable in their consistency; except for colour and the presence or absence of a deckhouse they were cookie cutter copies.
Scootaloo’s borrowed wings did not obey her completely. Going up was easy, but now she struggled to move forwards. Response was agonizingly slow compared to bare wings, and though she gained a little speed in the right direction her ascent became faster still.
She didn’t notice the first two times her ears popped, and the cold wind was refreshing at first. The thinner air was easier to move through, and Scootaloo focused all her effort on mastering flight. Turning took a great deal of effort, and she found that the only way to level off was to angle her wings almost completely backwards. She didn’t need that much lift after all.
Her breaths whistled out of her mouth in a ribbon of ice crystals, and black spots invaded the edges of her vision. She blinked quickly and shielded her eyes from the sun, but the spots would not go away.
Hey, this is easy!
Scootaloo laughed and whooped, and heard enthusiastic replies from below. They were all waving at her; the Master stopped pushing entirely, rearing up and flailing both front hoofs over his head.
She was high above the clouds now. Far to the north the royal palace glittered. The towers clung to the side of a pebble, and was itself no more than a particularly shiny grain of sand. The Everfree Forest looked like a bed of moss, and the San Palomino Desert was nothing more than a smooth slab of sandstone. Storm systems drifted like bits of cotton candy; it was raining in Ponyville. The ocean seemed not so far away; a sheet of tinted glass extending all the way to the eastern horizon.
Scootaloo turned and turned, trying to see it all before the spots rendered her blind. Colour was fading from the scene. She rubbed her eyes and felt frost on her hooves.
Strong hands grabbed her from behind, clamping her wings shut. The lever clicked to its “locked” position, but instead of falling she was surrounded by warm fur.
“Scootaloo, it’s me.”
Gregor’s voice sounded different; a little higher than usual, and lacking resonance.
Scootaloo huddled in his tight embrace as he descended in a smooth spiral. She hadn’t realized how cold it had become. Her ears tingled as blood flow returned, and soon her nose started to drip. Gregor’s broad shoulder took up much of her field of view, but she couldn’t keep her eyes off the magnificent scenery that lay before her. After a while the griffin turned her around so she was dangling beneath him.
Right below her was Hayseed Swamp, and the air was warm and humid once again. She saw many barges now, with many bargeponies watching her. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment when she realized just how many ponies saw her short and barely-controlled flight.
Her eyes widened in horror when she saw them: a procession of three blue barges far to the northeast. Unlike their sisters that carried only one or two passengers, these decks were packed with at least a dozen ponies each.
A dozen uniformly dark grey ponies.
The last barge in line had its deckhouse replaced with a cage, and each pony onboard had an all too familiar weapon leaning against his shoulder.
They were all staring at her.
“Are you seeing this?” Scootaloo managed to say, pointing at the crowded barges with a trembling hoof. Her throat had turned to leather.
“I see them,” Gregor said grimly. “I'm already going down as fast as I can. This looks bad.”