Long before the coming of the alicorns and the founding of Equestria, Equilonia was a mighty nation, civilized and strong, with many subject states paying her tribute, an empire in all but name. It was on the day of the birth of the new prince that a black-maned mare from the barbaric north, a giant among ponykind, first crossed the border from the savage north in search of loot and war. A she-wolf of Cimmareia, where Roanan stepped, wise ponies made way. Her blood sang to her of battles to be fought, her bones ached to carry the weight of axe and shield into combat.
Roanan was no simple savage. Cimmareia was a poor land, a place of mists and gloomy forests where dead gods scowled with dour meins upon the ponies scraping a meager living from the hard rock, but it was a land that birthed many a hard-sinewed bravo. Those with ambition and imagination would seek to exploit what opportunities may be at hoof in the soft lands of the south or the wild icy madness of the far north. Roanan had already been more of battle and death than many a chieftan, all before her twentieth year, and yet the war-hunger in her breast was not satisfied.
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Captain Ironshoe looked at the requisition forms he was sending up the chain, asking for more weapons, more recruits, and more stores so he could press his momentary advantage against the Jackish tribes that crowded Equilonia's northern border. There was an opportunity now; a blood feud between the Mac Muir and the Brun Bruin tribes. One blood-crazed mule had murdered another and so thousands must fight one another and die; such is the life of a Jack. Ironshoe had no hopes for any response, not realistically. This outpost was a dead-end; his dreams for glory doomed when his father fell from grace at court. His troops were the castoffs and leavings of better connected officers, and though he did his best to train them, they would eventually fall to the bloody axe of a maddened Jack raider.
"Captain! We have a visitor!" Ironshoe was astounded.
"By all means! Prepare the imperial suite for our guest and summon the chef!" The corporal chuckled at his commander's humor; of all the prick officers he'd had the misfortune to serve under, this one was the least prickish. "What manner of madpony would visit this pile of pustular pigshit?" The dark tan pony absently ran a hoof through his blue mane. His tail was cropped short, victim of a Jackish waraxe when he was serving his lieutenantcy, and he kept it that way as a reminder.
"A Cimmareian, by the gods!" laughed the corporal.
"No wonder! Cimmareia makes this place look like a garden spot! Let me put my maps up, corp." He rolled up a few sketches he had of the frontier and stuffed them in his hooflocker, and stood up to his full, intimidating height.
The mare who entered topped him by half a head. She was a dark blue roan with a black, square cut mane and blue eyes that were almost molten. Her body was sheathed in bands of muscle that rippled like a panther's when she moved. She was covered with numerous small scars, some of them recent, and on her flank she bore the cutie mark of a bloody sword.
He recovered his aplomb quickly. "Well met, stranger. I am Captain Ironshoe. Welcome to Fort Pigshit!" He grinned and put out a hoof.
She did not laugh nor crack a smile, though he thought he saw a glimmer in those burning blue flames. She did, however, meet his hoof with hers. "I am Roanan. In Cimmareia, even our pigshit piles are in more defensible places than this bundle of kindling." Then she did crack a smile, but only a small one.
"Indeed, I look forward to the day when I may lead my valiant troops against a Cimmarean pig farmer and conquer a proper pile of pigshit, but for now, this must do." Roanan laughed at that.
"You are more entertaining than other Equilonean officers I have met. But most of them were dead, after all." Then she roared at her own joke and especially the look on Ironshoe's face, her laugh like a lion facing down a pack of jackals.
"Well Roanan, allow me to offer you what hospitality I may. You can have a meal with the troops and there is an empty sergeant's room with a lock on the door. All stallions here, I'm afraid, though it looks to me that... well, they'd be madder than Stirrupian sand lice to try anything. Now, sit with me for a bit and enjoy some of this fine brandy," he held out a skein of rotgut, "and tell me about what you've seen on the trail."
She sat on a bench with him and took a mighty pull of the harsh stuff, relishing the burning running down her throat. "Ah! My thanks; this brandy is horrible! I traveled from the north, down the sea road. Normally I would have taken to the swamps but Donkan Mac Muir has slain Blue Brun Bruin after the Jackish knave cheated in a drinking contest, and so now the road is clear of large bands of reavers, at least until the blood debt is settled. I was able to whet my blade a few times, however, on those Jacks foolish enough to come against me."
Ironshoe slammed his hoof down on the small table. "Damn! I knew it! If I could mount an expedition with a decent force, I could take the old fortress at the rivermouth. It is made of good stone and commands the bridge. Fifty ponies with bows in there could fight off a thousand Jacks if they were supplied by the sea! The Jacks, if they even thought to defend it, would at best be armed with spears, and they could not survive a siege. But I have only a hundred-odd castoffs from the lowest ranked outfits. Old swaybacks, colts with lips still wet from their matron's teats, the best ones I have are the cripples; at least they have seen battle!"
"That corporal who brought me in here from the gatehouse, Jaghoof, he seems likely enough." Roanan took another swig and passed the foul liquor to the captain.
"He is at that, for all that he has a glass eye and he's an insubordinate bastard who couldn't keep straight with any other officer. But I don't mind him, and he's hoofy with bow, spear and sword, that one. I'd rate him my master of arms if I could, but there's sergeants senior to him who aren't worth a sack of assholes and anyway, I need him to clerk for me. Sergeant Stoutshanks does well enough for a pony with three legs and no imagination; he's the best of a bad bunch at any rate, not a sadist or an idiot."
"Captain, I was wondering..." her face and voice softened and she smiled at him, seeming to warm up a bit. "Maybe I don't need to stay in that sergeant's room. It's been a while since I've taken a stallion, and I find I can talk to you. You might even survive the experience." He looked at her again. Under the dirt and grime of the road, while she'd never be pretty, and scars aside, she was a handsome mare with high cheekbones, fascinating eyes and a glossy mane. Not an ounce of fat on her body; she'd probably buck him to death given half a chance. He'd never been attracted to muscular females, but there was something about this one; he found that he could talk to her too. But...
"Roanan, if I was not the Captain of these ponies, in this, the plothole of Equilonia, I would be delighted. You are, however, the only mare within a hundred miles who isn't a Jenny, and we have a pretty severe morale problem as it is. If the Captain were to cover the only available mare... I must respectfully decline your tempting offer." He bowed his head to her, in his heart truly regretting the necessity.
Her eyes narrowed. "Not many stallions would dare refuse me. Tell me, if your command were surrounded, heavily outnumbered and on death ground, what would you do?"
"Attack!" he cried, without hesitation. She smiled.
"You, Captain, are a good leader. I could serve under you, and not in the capacity we were talking about earlier. Take me on as your mistress-at-arms at the rate of sergeant, and I'll train your ponies to kill Jacks. Then we can go take your castle. Tell me, how many Jacks have you slain?"
He thought about it for a moment. "Six I know are dead, and four that probably died of their wounds. That doesn't count the ones I crippled who were slain by others. Call it ten then."
"I have slain that many and three hundred more, Ironshoe. Do you believe me?"
It seemed a ridiculous boast, but something in her eyes made him hesitate to name it so. "I want to believe you, but I find it difficult. Perhaps Cimmareans are not good with arithmetic?"
"We count ears well enough." Her grin was savage and he smiled back.
"Very well. Defeat Corporal Jaghoof with staves and I will rate you at Sergeant and make you my mistress-at-arms. After that, we shall see what you can make of this band of misfits. Tomorrow?" He pulled at the grisly skein, grimacing at the bite of the alcohol.
"Tomorrow." She put out her hoof and he met it with his.
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Deep within the swamp to the north, a black unicorn, or something like it, chanted foul syllables under a crescent moon. She cackled as shadows seemed to gather before her, her twisted horn dancing with crimson and green. She reached into a bag and drew forth the still-beating heart of a Jack chieftan and cast it into the midst of the wrenching darkness that sought to warp the eye that followed it. "Yoth! Aghtrach! Kshnthyr! Maeg!" Her horn blazed and the darkness solidified. It rose before her, a pile of rotting vegetation twice the height of a pony with four stout legs, a gaping maw and eyes that seemed doorways into madness. It roared and a nauseating stench rolled across the scene. The unicornoid witch gibbered and capered. "My son! My son!"
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Corporal Jaghoof whirled his staff, warming up his forelegs. From what he was told, the odds were running three to one, against him. Looking at his opponent, he thought that highly optimistic. In the daylight, with the grime of the road washed off, she was an exceptionally healthy looking specimen of marehood, just half again as large as any mare he'd ever seen, and broad in comparison. Her forelegs were more heavily muscled than his rear legs were. He swallowed and planned his fight. Perhaps with that heavy musculature, she'll be slow, but from the near-perfect balance of her stance, he highly doubted it. This one was a slayer to be reckoned with. That left only one arrow in his quiver; trickery.
She saluted him and he returned the gesture, settling into what he hoped looked like an imperfect defensive rearing stance, one that would encourage her to attack low on the right side. The remainder of the garrison watched intently. She did strike low on the right, attacking with the staff in her mouth to have greater mobility, gods she's fast! his staff defense deliberately weak, allowing the strike through, but he leaned back just enough so that the wind of the strike tickled the coat of his rear leg as he riposted straight at her chin. She danced back though, not off balance as he'd hoped, either suspicious of his defense or just unreasonably quick. Or both, he thought glumly. Better go with Plan B.
He danced to the right, near the carts, fending off two lightning strikes that numbed his hooves. She saw that he had moved too close to one of the carts, and thought that he'd made a mistake; now he could only dodge to the left, or perhaps he intended to duck under the cart, though that would be a losing tactic. She rose up on her hind legs to close with her staff in her forelegs, intending to wear him down with her greater strength and endurance.
His hoof plunged into the hay in the cart and emerged with a glass vial, which he immediately threw to break at her feet. Treachery! she thought, her legs going out from under her as the oil slicked the cobblestoned courtyard. There was a great shout from the stallions of the garrison as Jaghoof leaped, his staff striking to take her solidly on her skull, but even stunned, she rolled with the strike and it glanced off.
She let go of the staff with her left hoof and whipped it around with her right to take him in the legs when he leaped past her, catching him a fell blow to the ankle. He went down with a grimace, rising as she did, shaking her head. He took a properly balanced posture, readying himself for a grim stand. She stepped in and her staff was a whirling blur. He blocked a dozen attacks successfully before one snuck through, then another and another, striking him on the upper forelegs and the shins, the pain causing him to slow.
Her blood was now warmed up. With a great cry, she redoubled the strength and speed of her attacks and his eyes went wide with dismay, as three strikes in a row took him in the shoulders and a last one creased his brow, sending him senseless to the ground.
Jaghoof came to when a pail of water was thrown in his face. He moaned, his head feeling split wide open, his shoulders and shins aching and by all useless little gods that ankle! Roanan reached a hoof down to lift him and he did his best to grin but he feared he looked like he was displaying a death-mask rictus. "Well struck, Roanan."
She grinned back at him. "Well done, yourself! You secreted that oil there last night, did you not?"
"Yes I did, sergeant. Congratulations."
"You did very well indeed, Jaghoof. That was the best fight I've had in almost a year. Just one thing though." She gestured at her eye. His hoof flew up and felt the empty socket.
"Shit! Nopony move!"
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Ioan Mac Farry watched from the top of the stone house. Why his father bade him to do so, he did not know. Jacks were not meant for the stone houses, not even these that stood like mountains. Jacks were not made to kill ponies from a distance with rocks or spears; one had to look into the eyes of one's opponent when they were dying to be able to eat their soul when you ate their heart. Nothing was as good as the astonishment on a pony's face as he realizes that today is the day, and Ioan Mac Farry is my slayer.
There was a shape moving in the edge of the woods near the bridge. Or two shapes. Perhaps an adult and a foal, looking at the relative sizes of the two. He called down to his eight brothers in the cruelly accented Jackish tongue, and they went forward to investigate. The light of magic sizzled, killing several of his brothers, but worse, illuminating the nightmare shape that bit the head off of Arran Mac Farry and started chewing.
Ioan shrieked and threw himself from the tower at the sight.