Swordpony

by Wisdom Thumbs


Chapter Five - "Antlers"

Red tore the road under his hooves, stretched flat out with every stride, his lungs working like bellows. Ahead of him, the six Shetlanders dashed at breakneck speed, their tails glimpsed around bend after bend. Behind, the sound of his pursuers grew steadily louder until they drowned out even Red’s hoofbeats, defiling the forest with their warped cries.

Something shrieked in the woods to his left, a wicked and grating gibbering in his ear. The unnatural scream continued, picked up by more and more voices until it filled the air. The things crashed through the trees just behind him, felt, unseen, and nipping at his tail. They carried the smell of death.

It had antlers.

Red plunged into a gully that bent into a sharp turn, trampled sucking mud, and raced up the rain-cut slope at the other end. The Shetlanders came back into view, flickering through the intermittent light of the path ahead.

He put on another turn of speed and forced himself to ignore the pain in his flank. The other ponies drew closer with every footfall. At the same time, something flashed in the corner of the swordpony’s eye.

It had antlers.

The Wrothkin were gaining ground.

Red’s mind returned to the Dictum lying somewhere back up the road. He cursed himself for bolting. When had he become a stallion of panic? When danger threatened, he stood his ground. His answer to fear was steel and bared teeth; kill the threat, live another day, tell the tale. That was why he was the Master Swordpony of Everfree, and not some slump-backed hay farmer.

But the things chasing him, the phantoms with cloven hooves, they’d inspired a reaction in him that defied steel. They defied courage. Even as he ran, the fear grew in his chest just as it had when he’d fled at the sight of the pegasus on the hilltop.

It had antlers.

He’d seen them before, he knew. In his mad flight down the hill they had been in the corners of his eyes, bounding alongside him through the forest. He’d heard their cruel laughter, felt them nipping at his heels. They’d fed his fear and made sport of him, running him to ground. How long had they been in the woods, watching his every move? How long had they watched from the trees as the Shetlanders surrounded him? Had they been there at the fork in the road, watching him study their road marker?

The prickling down Red’s neck hadn’t been imagined. The scent of death had not been from a wolf’s days-old kill. No, the eyes had been watching all along.

And he knew what they were.

“Deer!” he cried in disbelief when he drew level with the slowest warrior. “They’re deer!”

The Shetlander made no effort to reply, his eyes wide and his breathing ragged. Red left him behind with a few more galloping lunges. His mind reeled as his sword slapped at his side.

Deer. But how was that possible? They were the guardians of good. As the most powerful and magical of all the races, the deer had shaped the very world. They’d ruled over nature when ponies were still but nomadic herds. Even diminished, they cast their light over all things great and small. They were incorruptible, nigh immortal.

Another keening wail cut through the forest. This time it came from all sides.

“They’re going to cut us off!” shouted the blue unicorn from the front of the stampede.

“We’re almost... there!” Bardiche panted between breaths. “Keep... going!”

Red surged forward between the Shetlanders. The path grew level. They were on a straightaway, only a hundred yards to the end of the road. Beyond that the trees came to an abrupt end. In the dim light of the forest, that end looked like a portal shining white.

The ponies put all of their remaining strength into the effort, every muscle straining to keep them ahead of the monsters at their backs. Foam flecked from every mouth, flying into the faces of those behind. The pain built in Red’s legs, shooting up and down from hoof to shoulder. Blood gushed from the wound in his flank, spilling down his tail and into the wind. The cut in his neck stretched and ripped.

Somepony behind him gave a strangled cry. Nopony dared look back.

Red’s heart felt about to burst. He ran breathlessly now, unable to draw in air. His eyes watered, stinging in the cold. He could not close his mouth. Wounds raked down his lungs and his scalp burned.

The end of the road came closer, closer... closer...

The shrieks sounded again, stabbing into Red’s spine like white hot needles. This time it came from the woods mere yards to either side.

He could see them now, just glimpses, just for a few hairs of a second. The Wrothkin bounded like shadows alongside him, leaping through the underbrush on all-but-silent hooves, antlers slashing velvet at the trees. They vanished and returned in the corners of his eyes, trying to pull his attention away from the road. But he couldn’t look, not now. If he looked away he would fall or give out. And he daren’t think of what they’d do to him.

The Shetlanders pulled ahead, their endurance gone but their bodies unwilling to give out. There was a sharp Twang and one veered off course, tripped, went flying, skidding down the road with a long shaft through his neck. Red leaped the tangle of legs without breaking stride, every sore on his body hot like fresh burns.

They ran on muscles that stiffened with each stride, suffocating themselves from exertion. Red’s vision faded, darkening, until shadows strangled his eyes.

Another Twang. Another scream of pain. The Wrothkin chorus filled Red’s ears, rolling through his brain, enveloping the noise of the stampeding ponies. They would not escape. They could never escape.

One of the ponies still ran even with an arrow lodged in his rump. There was a third Twang, an arrow thudding into the shield slung over his side, so hard it knocked him off course. Still he ran. Red matched his pace.

“Hrr’up!” Bardiche rasped behind.

The Wrothkin in the forest screamed again, raking at Red’s brain. They were angry this time, their mere voices cutting new wounds into his flesh. He heard bows sing and arrows hiss.

Then the white light was upon him.

The ponies broke from the trees all at once, leaves trailing after them. As they adjusted to the brightness, a great clearing opened up before Red’s eyes, at least three hundred yards in every direction, all ashen mud and ruin. Severed tree roots grasped at the sky. And at the center of the clearing, in contrast to the blue hills beyond, there stood a stone tower surrounded by walls of oak and pine. Black columns of smoke rose from within the palisade, snaking into the sky.

The Broch.


-- Sworn Shield’s "Broch" journal entry --

Fresh air poured into Red’s lungs, his wounds forgotten in an instant. There was safety!

Another pony screamed when an arrow punched through his shield. It was only then Red noticed the sound of swarming hornets. Arrows spattered the plain all around, each longer than a leg. Shafts snapped in the mud at his passing.

Just ahead, the blue unicorn’s horn flashed and a shield hummed into existence, a shimmering ceiling which rippled overhead. Arrows rang like bells, shunting down a blast of heat with each hit. Entropic shield, notoriously bad at dispersing kinetic energy. The remaining ponies bunched together under the ceiling, lashing one another with their tails. They ran in an oven; Red’s nape prickled at the sudden heat. He’d bake alive if the arrows didn’t get to him first.

“Almost...” one pony wheezed, hooves flying in the mud. Arrows beat a steady tempo overhead.

The blue unicorn’s magic faltered, just for a moment. Bardiche appeared at his shoulder, keeping the unicorn on track even as they flagged behind. Another stallion fell in on the unicorn’s other side, bracing him further.

Feathers brushed Red’s cheek. He felt the shaft glance from his vambrace. Sweat and foam flecked down his neck. His head swam in the sweltering heat.

The shower of arrows ended as suddenly as it began. Red barely slowed. Whether the Wrothkin were loath to waste arrows or the ponies had passed beyond their range, there was no way of knowing. The unicorn maintained his spell-shield either way, struggling to keep the pace under the strain of it.

The fortified Broch loomed closer and closer, Red’s legs threatening to give out from underneath him but relief carrying them on. He could hear shouting now, the stone tower blocking out the hills beyond. Tattered pendants flew in the wind from the palisade.

Armored ponies appeared between the sharpened timber battlements, shouting encouragement. A ramshackle gate of planks was drawn open even as Red dashed through.

The Shetlanders poured into the fort, sucking air, and the gates crashed shut behind them. Red slid to a stop ahead of the other ponies. He left deep ruts in the ashen mud and almost collapsed. His legs quivered, his lungs aflame, his head spinning from the sudden stop. He paced in a circle, trying to cool down, but the fever remained even in the chill northern wind.

Nearby, the axepony Bardiche stumbled to a stop and collapsed to his knees. Sweat dribbled into a greasy puddle. “Water!” he croaked. He looked ready to try the puddle. “Fetch water!”

Nearby, the blue unicorn groaned and collapsed on his side, heaving in the mud.

Only one other stallion remained. He staggered about in circles trying to get a look at the arrow wagging in his flank. Warriors clustered in, hauling him and the unicorn away with magic and strong hooves. Other ponies rushed up with water jugs, some wearing nothing but rags to protect them from the cold.

Red couldn’t help but notice that nopony was fetching him any water. Then again, he had his own canteen. He dug it out from beneath his armor and loosened the cap with his tongue.

He’d chugged about half his canteen’s contents when an axe prodded his neck. He choked.

“Hiltstrong. Timber Haft. Hoarlock.” The crescent blade scraped at Red’s throat.

Red looked right down into the burning eyes of Bardiche, red-rimmed, exhausted, his mane and beard matted wet. He blinked away rivulets of sweat, and bared a sordid mess of teeth. Red could smell the oats on his breath. The warrior’s hooves pressed the axe harder into Red’s throat, driving him back a step.

Hiltstrong. Timber Haft. Hoarlock.” He bit out the names like they were fire. The yard around the two ponies had fallen silent. All eyes were on them. “They died for you today, Equestrian. For that you will answer.

Red backed away another step; the axe followed. The canteen trembled in Red’s mouth. He tried to speak around it, realized it sounded like an excuse.

“Take him,” Bar wheezed. He stumbled away, suddenly deflated. Another warrior took his place, with another axe.

“What’s an Equestrian doing here?” the new pony at his throat asked, licking his lips and staring at Red's scabbard. Avarice gleamed in his eyes. This pony had his axe strapped to one foreleg, and he wasted no time in shaving fur with it.

Red would have laughed had he any breath. The Shetlanders had just saved his life, and now they were robbing him. All he could do was stare upward at the overcast sky, the hoofaxe biting into his throat. He attempted to stand perfectly still, but the onset of pains from his wounds and muscles made the effort impossible. Even the smallest breath had to force its way past the edge at his throat.

Nearby, Bar sucked down water and swayed on his hooves. “Take him to my father,” he ordered, pointing to the swordpony and somehow managing to sound commanding despite his lack of breath. “Says he’s a messenger. Three good thanes..." he paused for air. "Three. I want to know... why.”

My father. Well, that certainly explained things. Red gulped one last trickle from his canteen.

The gathered Shetlanders muttered oaths and curses, ranging from incredulous to outright furious. An Equestrian? In their midst? Red felt several new blades prick him from every direction. Blood off his flank tickled down one leg, warm against the bite of the wind. The hoofaxe at his neck carefully lifted the canteen over his head by the strap, to be passed to another pony.

“Awright!” somepony snapped in a gravelly voice. “Get inside or I’ll have yer ears.”

Two pegasi thrust their hooves under Red’s front legs and dragged him to the tower, buffeting him with their wings. He groaned in pain but bit it off, eyes screwed shut. Better they carried him than force him to walk, after all. He wasn't sure if his legs could carry him another step. It felt as if every sore on his body had opened up into bleeding wounds.

The Shetland camp passed by in a blur. Red's vision swam with pain. There were fences and tents that ran nearly to the base of the tower, and the smell of mouldering death hung everywhere. Beyond that his reeling senses grasped nothing.

The doors to the great stone tower were abnormally small for so large a structure, but when they opened they did so with all the weight of old oak. Red was yanked through them before he could find his wits, crying out anew.

Pain pulsated behind his eyes, in his ears, on every inch of his flesh. He’d have sooner been raked by hellfire than be dragged another step. As if sensing his surrender, the warriors cast him cruelly to the floor. He found his muzzle in warm straw, blowing dust, and slowly began to gather his faculties as he fought down the pain.

It was night in the Broch, full with the smells of filth and equine sweat. There was a stench of death, too, not quite so profound as it had been outside but ever-present nonetheless. Dozens of voices fell silent when the tower’s denizens took note of this new pony’s presence.

Steel rasped on leather and Red’s body jolted. He was aware of someone taking his sword. The voices rose again in awe, no doubt marveling at the reflection of torchlight off the blade, or at the glitter of the ruby in its pommel. He didn’t care. They could have the sword so long as they left him to lie in peace. Maybe if he didn’t move the pain would fade.

Silence returned to the Broch. Red could hear the breaths of a hundred ponies, each hitching in their throats. Somewhere a pony said the word "Equestrian" over and over.

“Bring him here,” a deep voice rumbled from across the room, crushing Red’s hopes of respite. The other voices quieted to mutters.

Red groaned. More hooves took hold of him and dragged him on his belly across the dirt floor. By this point he didn’t even have the strength to protest the rough treatment. It was all he could do to keep from whimpering.

He was relieved when his captors hurled him back to the straw at the other end of the room, only to be forced up to his haunches a second later. He hadn't even caught his breath yet.

“Lord Ashbane.”

Red felt more than saw the Shetlanders bow. It was the sound of a full room pressed down by the weight of a single pony, silent but heavy. Some cowardly part of him wanted to bow with them. A braver part was tempted to ask “do you treat all your guests this way, or just couriers?” 

Were he a true questing knight, full of dare and vinegar, he might actually have said the words. Instead he kept his mouth shut and tried not to squirm when a warrior pressed his own sword against his throat.

When his eyes adjusted to the dark he found himself sitting before a raised stage. Above, towering in an enormous carven throne, reclined a grulla stallion the colors of ash.

The lord wore entire animals worth of furs. Hair like silver velvet obscured most of his face. An iron helm covered the rest. That helm was adorned with a hideously huge set of downturned antlers, bone-white and bristling with prongs like spears. They stretched out to either side beyond the span of any pony.

Equally imposing guards flanked the throne on either side, two of the biggest stallions Red had ever seen and both silent as statues. Their armor alone must have outweighed him. And behind them lurked attendants wearing animal furs of their own, at least a dozen. A goblet hung in the air before the ashen lord’s lips, green with the aura of one of those attendants.

“Father.” Bar stepped forward from behind Red. He spoke formally, or at least tried to through a hoarse throat.

Ashbane pushed the floating goblet aside. It receded into the shadows along with his attendants, hidden by the arms of the wooden throne.

“What is an Equestrian doing so far north?” asked the reclining Lord. It sounded like an accusation.

"Stormwind spotted him on the road. On High Hill. We intercepted him just in time.”

Ashbane lifted his head just enough for one of his orange eyes to be seen through the helm. “Stormwind tells me you were beset by Wrothkin.” For the time being he pointedly forgot the Equestrian at his hooves. “What happened?”

Hushed whispers filled the room at the word Wrothkin. Red was tempted to turn his head and see just how many ponies were at his back, but the sword at his throat pressed too tightly.

Bar rolled right over his father’s question. “He claims to be an envoy from the Sisters Alicorn. We were beset as I was making my interrogation.”

“An envoy?” questioned the Shetland lord, suddenly taking interest. “What message could the alicorns possibly have for me?”

“The message is not for you,” Red interrupted. Time to get this over with. His heart was hammering. He’d give them whatever answers they sought and be done with any misunderstandings. “The Princesses--”

“Speak when you are spoken to,” Ashbane snapped. "If you truly are a messenger, then act like one."

Red shrank down, cowed by the booming voice and menacing antler crown. His sword shaved a tiny patch of hair off his throat.

“Now,” continued Ashbane, settling back into his throne and nodding toward his son. “You say… you say you intercepted him on the road? And the Wrothkin attacked immediately? Festering bile...”

“We… I could not leave him to die, father. We did not know him to be...”

“Bile!” Ashbane repeated the curse. “You acted without my consent! Equestrian or not, you ran off into the woods for a single pony. You have cost lives, Bardiche!”

Bardiche stared unmoving at the floor.

The silence stretched on until Ashbane shifted in his chair. His voice softened. “Who did we lose?”

“Hoarlock. Timber Haft. And Hiltstrong.” Bardiche didn’t look up from the floor. “And Roanblade took two arrows.”

There followed a brooding silence while Ashbane absorbed the news. His chin sank to his chest, and a hoof rose to meet it.

The sword at Red’s throat dug deep, until he was afraid to breathe. He needed to swallow. But he knew how sharp that edge was. Just another pound or two more pressure and they’d be sweeping red straw out the door for hours. He stayed still.

At length Ashbane pulled himself upright in his throne and set his hooves to the armrests. Not a lord but a judge, high and dark in the chair, mighty in his wrath.

“I’ve known Hoarlock since I was a colt,” he said. His voice was so soft and raw it did not seem his own. For a moment Red thought it came from somepony else. A borrowed thing, taken from an older and quieter stallion.

The silence stretched on.

“...Damned Wrothkin. Damned… It’s been too long since their last visit. I should have known we were overdue.”

Red’s curiosity got the best of him. “What in the hay is going on here?” His jaw tap-tapped the blade. “Overdue for what?”

Stars flashed behind his eyes. He felt the pain two shakes later. It blossomed from his left ear where one of his captors cuffed him upside the head. The sound of it rang in his ears for a lifetime. He blinked it away and wondered just how much abuse he’d taken over the last few days.

He did his best to stare into Ashbane’s glowering orange eyes.

“Are you so ignorant, Equestrian, that you do not know of our besiegement?”

Red gulped. His sword pressed slid against his throat. “I’m afraid I don’t, m’Lord.”

“I am not your lord,” Ashbane rebuked. “You are a vassal of the Sisters Alicorn, and would do well to remember that.”

Red fought back a scowl of his own. It wasn’t as though he could forget whom he served. He wore their colors on his flanks.

“This is Shetland, little pony,” said Ashbane. “Not your beloved little land of little meadows and little forests and little princesses. How are you here if you do not know of our affairs? Were you sent to find out? Well then, hear me Equestrian. I will enlighten you on a few matters that are... unique... to this neck of our proud kingdom.”

Ashbane spoke harshly, his voice measured. He didn’t shout as he had before. If he still felt the same rage and pain as he had with his son, he didn’t show it. He motioned for something, and the unicorn mare from earlier floated the goblet back to his lips. He drank deep before continuing.

“You know of the Draconequus’ rule, yes?”

“I know of Discord.” Red fought down his tone.

“For a hundred years since, my people have been harried by the fallen woodkeepers... the Wrothkin, as they call themselves.”

It had antlers.

“You mean the deer?” asked Red.

Ashbane spat on the floor. “Fie! They are not deer. Not anymore. They are murderous cannibals, bent solely to the purpose of eradicating my people. For generations they have waged war on us solely for the fact that no antlers grace our heads, and we, in turn, have waged war on them.”

He seemed to reflect for a moment.

“Tell me, Equestrian. Have you ever seen war?” His hooves dragged on the armrests of his throne and his teeth thrust forward. “Not the simple combat of two ponies, but the clash of armies. The storms of swords. Have you seen arrows fall like rain?” His voice sharpened and his eyes did the same. “Have you killed to survive?”

Red tried to follow, found he couldn’t. In an instant his thoughts were gone away to another time and another place. To the screams of the dying. To an earsplitting din of steel on steel.

He could remember even years later what it felt like. He could still feel it. The resistance of the poor colt’s throat as his blade passed through it, taste the stickiness of the blood as it gushed into his face. The image of two armies, spears and banners held aloft as they rolled into one another on that snowy field, was one that would never leave his nightmares. The war spells coming in to… to...

To...

...

-- Sworn Shield’s “War” journal entry --

“I have been to war, yes.” Red sliced off the memory as quickly and cleanly as he could. It was like an oozing limb. He couldn't let its infection spread. “And I’ve killed ponies.”

No, that’s not quite true. He looked away. “...More than a few.”

Ashbane spat again. Disdain. “Well, Equestrian. I have not.”

The lord reclined in his chair, letting Red stew in the revelation before continuing. How could a pony like that never have seen battle? he could only wonder, confused.

“But then...” he began, only for Ashbane to cut him off.

“I have never killed a pony. Not by my own hooves and not by intrigue. This surprises you, yes? But I have fought the Wrothkin... and they are far more terrible than any mere pony. Perhaps you have seen war. But you have not seen our war.”

Ashbane sounded weary. This was a pony who stood between his people and death’s door, Red realized. The weight of old battles lingered on him like a mantle. But he did not seem to know regret.

He seemed proud.

The Lord of the Broch leaned forward again in his chair, fixating Red with a furious stare.

“Did you know, little envoy, that all deer once had antlers? Buck, doe, it made no difference. All were magical. But that changed when the deer took up arms against one another. They waged a war more terrible than you or I have seen. They broke their magic, broke nature itself... And when it ended, what deer survived were fractured ghosts of their former selves, set against one another in eternal enmity. They withdrew from the world, and from one another, to live in isolated communes.

“That is how the Wrothkin came to be. They came here, to the Shadow Wood, and here... they devolved. Something happened to them, corrupted them. Now they eat flesh, drink blood, and adorn themselves with the bones of the slain. The females wear the horned skulls of their husbands. Even the animals of the forest flee before them, hunted just as we are. I have seen them run a boar to ground and tear into it like wolves.”

Red’s mind reeled, unable to comprehend. How could something like the deer fall so far? Were they cursed? He had no doubt that Ashbane was telling the truth. He’d glimpsed the Wrothkin for himself, heard their cries. But the revelation of their true nature... it was almost too much for him to handle.

Ashbane tapped the arm of his throne, regaining Red’s attention. “So you see, Equestrian, why my people live in this hillfort, surrounded on all sides by walls. We live at the end of the road, outside the reach of our own kingdom. We are the bulwark that holds back the Wrothkin. And we are overdue.”

His voice grew dry as he spoke so he took another sip from his cup, wetting his lips.

“As for what, specifically, we are overdue for… let us say the Wrothkin are a... seasonal problem. We are under perpetual siege, but though they lurk in the woods just beyond my clearing, only rarely do they come in force. And it has been well over a year since their last attack.”

He reclined for a moment, and seemed larger. Prouder. “That is not to say we are trapped here, however. On the contrary...” He pointed up at something behind Red. “We do very well for ourselves in this war.”

The hooves on Red’s shoulders slackened their grip, allowing him to turn.

The great hall was a sight of barbaric splendor, like a twisted parody of civilization. Long tables stretched from the stage to the doors, many of them packed with mares and children. Animal furs adorned every bench. Most of the room was shrouded in darkness, the rest lit by guttering firepits down its length and menacing candle-chandeliers that hung from the high ceiling’s support beams. Barbarous decorations were strung from the rafters.

It was with a start that Red realized just what the decorations were made of.

Antlers. They decorate their hall with antlers!

Moldering deer skulls hung everywhere. Candles flickered in their mouths, in their empty sockets. The chandeliers were made entirely of antlers and filled with candles or torches. There was no magic illumination to speak of here. Foals played in the dark with stained bones.

Horrified, Red turned back to the throne. He recoiled with the realization that such ghastly decorations covered even the wall behind Ashbane from floor to ceiling. An enormous skull hung from the back of his throne, not quite a deer, but not quite something else.

And he wore those vast, downturned antlers on his helm. Wider than the wingspan of Celestia. Wider than dragon’s jaws. What deer could wear those?

“You keep their bones?” Red’s voice cracked.

He faltered, tripping over his own words. Could he blame he Shetlanders if the Wrothkin were as bad as Ashbane claimed? Maybe not, but he certainly couldn’t forgive them. The Wrothkin were still deer, weren’t they? Fallen or not, that had to count for something. And he sincerely doubted they were operating under their own free will. At the very least, the bodies of the dead deserved proper treatment.

“This is monstrous,” Red finally declared, feeling the edge of his sword press harder against his neck. “Are you really any better than them if you make trophies of their bodies?”

Ashbane’s eyes flashed. Thunder struck the hall; his hoof hammered the arm of his throne with a resounding bang. “This is Shetland! Your Equestrian ideals do nopony any good in these hills. Only cruelty can pay back the monsters at our door. Only steel! Fire! Now silence!” 

Attendants shirked away, cowed low. The green mare sprang to the lord’s side, her eyes wide.

The anger slipped away and the room fell silent. Ashbane slumped in his chair. He looked away from Red as though he were trash, beneath notice. “Your lesson is over.”

Ashbane motioned for his goblet, then turned to his son while he drank.

“Bardiche, fetch the thanes. Only those on wall duty need stay outside. I’ll send for them when the others have eaten.”

Bardiche bowed low enough that his beard brushed the dirt. “I’ll stand watch with them myself until it is their turn to feast.”

“No, stay. I wish to feast with my sons tonight.”

The axepony frowned. “You have many sons, father. Some are on the walls.”

“I meant my trueborn sons, Bardiche. Please, do this much for me. If I lose you tomorrow, or the next day... I want to at least have had this last feast. Is Angharad on the wall?”

“Aye. She is.”

“Bring her too.”

Bardiche gave another bow, more reserved this time, before trotting back across the room. Red’s ears perked up at the sound of the doors being flung open. As the son was leaving, several other ponies entered.

The cries of a stallion in agony could be heard from across the great hall.

“Woanbwade,” muttered one of the tall guards standing at Ashbane’s side, horrified. Red did not fail to notice the lisp.

The hall fell silent save for the cries of the wounded thane. Red turned his head enough to see several ponies carrying the poor wretch between them, wrapped in dirty woolen blankets. The stallion pawed at the air with one leg, spewing unintelligible curses.

Lord Ashbane made to rise, grunting, but was stopped by the hoof of the unicorn mare that held his cup. He sat back, harried but resigned to his seat, and shooed the attendant away.

It took nearly a full minute more for the thanes to carry Roanblade across the hall. He only stopped gibbering long enough to beg for them to stop and set him down. They did so at the foot of the stage. Red could make out bloodstains in the blankets even in the dim light.

“Hellfires,” mumbled the warrior holding Red’s sword.

One of the unicorns that carried the thane now stepped to the throne. Red recognized him as the blue unicorn who cast the entropic shield during the long run. He looked exhausted and there was blood smeared down his neck, but he was uninjured. His twin swords hung on either flank.

“We’ve done all we can for him, my lord. He took a shaft in the flank before we even left the woods, and another in his side. His shield took the brunt of the second, but... well... Both wreaked terrible mutilation. If he survives...”

Roanblade just laughed a bloody laugh and lay still. His teeth were blood spotted. Every heave of his chest was a rattle and a rasp.

Red knew what he was hearing, and what the unicorn implied. He’d seen what one arrowhead could do to a pony, and Roanblade had run almost two hundred yards with arrows in him that put spears to shame. It took a masterful Equestrian doctor and powerful healing magic to repair that kind of damage.

“Set him by the hearth,” Ashbane commanded. “Gently now. Renvers! Where is Lush Renvers?”

The thanes gathered around their stricken brother, each taking a corner of the blanket beneath him before tottering off to a large fireplace on the right of the stage. Roanblade protested weakly but could do little besides shout and groan in pain until they set him by the fire.

Ashbane motioned for his attendant again, having seemingly forgotten the Equestrian sitting before him. Red’s hind legs were about to go to sleep. He had no idea how long he’d been sitting on his haunches, but he could feel blood glueing the quilted crupper to his flank. The pains in his sores had dulled, at least. His skull still throbbed.

The attendant was at her Lord’s side in an instant. She lifted the goblet. Ashbane waved it away but set one enormous hoof on her shoulder, caressing her mane. Judging by the mare’s age, Red judged her to be his wife or concubine.

“Verdant. My sword. Please.”

The hushed voices filling the great hall fell silent in reverence. Even Roanblade bit back his rasping moans. Ashbane’s two massive guards stepped back out of sight, bowing as they went.

Red’s ears swiveled, curious. Was he about to witness some sort of ceremony?

The green mare returned, an enormous sword balanced across her withers. Red’s eyes almost bugged out of his skull at the size of it. Ashbane was big, at least a head taller than most stallions, but he wasn’t that big. The blade was smeared with black soot, and easily longer than any pony. Surely it was only ceremonial?

Ashbane scooped up the sword in one hoof, wrapping his foreleg around the hilt to stand the blade on its point. Red couldn’t help but notice that the pommel was carved in the shape of a horse’s head.

With a grunt of exertion, Ashbane pulled himself out of the throne, his hooves thundering on the stage. One hind leg curled up beneath him, withered and obviously lame. He kept a foreleg on the hilts to compensate for the maimed limb. His guards and attendants poised just beyond the throne on all sides, ready to catch him at a moment’s notice.

And then Ashbane opened his wings.

It was with a start that Red realized the Lord of the Broch was a pegasus. His wingspan must have been two ponies across in his prime. But Ashbane was no longer in his prime. When he unfurled his enormous wings Red could see that only one remained intact. The other stopped short at the wrist, severed by some cruel blade. It was less than half the length of the other, a stump of limp feathers.

Ashbane bowed his head low and two attendants crossed the stage. They took hold of the antlers on his helm, lifted the iron bowl from his head, and bore it away into darkness. He shook his fraying mane, let the tattered remnants of it spill velvety down his neck.

Red almost looked away at the sight of Ashbane’s face. It was pink and wrinkled with melted flesh. Burn scars. One whole ear and the forelock of his mane were gone. The corner of his lip twisted in a permanent snarl.

Ashbane raised his free hoof into the air. Once he might have been among the largest ponies Red knew. Even aged and broken, there was muscle under those furs. The reverent silence of his ponies was broken by a wild cheer. Red’s guards stomped their hooves, bellowing praise.

“My children!” the lord roared, his voice stretching to the end of the hall and back again. “Let every family sleep warmly this night. Let every thane gird themselves for the coming days!”

The assembled Shetlanders cheered again. Pegasi leaped the rafters and howled among smoke.

Ashbane patted his chest, then swept a hoof down the intricately patterned blade of his sword. There was an anger in his scarred face, a set to his jaw that sent a shiver down Red’s spine.

“By this, my father’s sword, and the sword of his father before him, the sword of my ancestors… the sword of Nomare the Wanderer... I declare tonight a night of feasting, and tomorrow a day for war!”

Another cheer. By now, scores of warriors had filtered in from outside and taken up their places all around the room. They jumped on the tables, shouting at the tops of their lungs. Bloodlust filled the air. Red could smell it.

Lord Ashbane’s gritty bass lowered an octave, silencing the roar of his people. "Steel your hearts and bodies! It is only a matter of time before Shetland calls once more upon the strength of our necks."

The Broch rattled in its foundations. At the next collective shout rang steel, aglow with fire as though from within, as from every warrior’s heart. Red felt it in his chest, accompanied by the rising cheers of the other Shetlanders. The whole floor shook beneath the pounding of their hooves.

“And when Shetland calls, we shall answer.”

It was several minutes before the cheering died down to a dull roar. Red’s ears were ringing. By then the ponies on the stage had rushed to a breathless Ashbane’s side and began helping him down from the stage. The green mare, Verdant, took his sword and hauled it away. At the same time a number of thanes dragged a table into the space just behind Red. They set it perpendicular to the twin rows of the other tables, as if it were a capstone to a great arch.

The firepits running down the length of the room blazed to life while mares prepared the feast, already laying out bowls of oats and hay for the swarms of ponies to whet their appetites on. Several stallions appeared as if from nowhere rolling an enormous barrel onto the stage. More barrels followed. Ashbane’s throne was hidden in moments.

“Move,” one of Red’s guards growled in his ear, yanking him to his hooves. He was dragged away, teeth gritted against the pain, as Ashbane limped to his personal table.

Red hadn’t even been given the chance to explain his business in the griffon kingdoms.

They met Bardiche behind the torchlight, an armored mare at his side. His namesake hung loosely from his saddle, crescent blade a-bright with orange gleam. The mare had her leg intertwined with his. They stopped mid-conversation, jaws clenched tight at the interruption that must surely be the Equestrian’s fault.

“What should we do with him, Bar?” one of the guards asked. He prodded an elbow into Red’s side.

With one leg that was thick enough to be Red’s neck, Bardiche dragged the guard to one side. Up close he towered over the other Shetlander. They stood nose to nose, Bardiche looking down. Red had to strain his ears over the noise of the feast to hear what they said. Thankfully the lord’s son couldn’t whisper worth a bent straw.

“Put him somewhere out of sight. Under guard.” Bar pulled his comrade’s forehead to his own. The guard’s horn rested in his mane. Neither pony blinked. “Nopony touches him. Not until I've had a chance to speak with him myself. Is that understood?"

The guard nodded.

Red breathed a sigh of relief before he was led away.

“Lucky buck.” The guard returned. He and the other hauled Red through a doorway.

The stairs to the upper floors of the broch turned out to have been built inside its outer walls. It was a cunning design, Red noted as he was dragged up flight after flight. His wounds blazed agony before they even reached the second floor. By the third he knew what Roanblade felt.

Red grit his teeth and focused on counting the landings, tried to ignore his raw sores and the building headache. It didn’t help that one of the thanes had him mane in teeth and was apparently trying to dislocate his neck.

He was close to vomiting when they reached the sixth floor. He hurt so badly, he wasn’t even sure if he could open his eyes. I’ve gone soft, he told himself. Pain like this wasn’t any worse than the agony he’d endured for years during his training. It didn’t even begin to compare to how he’d felt during the Centennial Solstice Tournament. And yet here he was, sore from running just a few measly miles and wishing he could pass out because of a few cuts, a possible concussion and...

Oh, right. He’d forgotten about the blow to the head. Not a good sign.

One of the thanes pinned Red to the wall while the other hauled open a door rotted to grey and rust. Hinges screamed like windigos and a breath of shocking cold hit Red full in the face. It was dark, and the circular room inside was tiny in comparison to the great hall below. It was also far colder.

“Oop.”

Red’s nose hit the floorboards at the same time as his eyes. He stood on his ears for a moment, groaned, and toppled over onto his back.

Had they just thrown him?

They had.

He found himself looking at the faces of his captors. One of them, the unicorn who spoke with Bardiche, had Red’s sword and its golden scabbard. He had the stronger build of the two, and the longer horn. There was a dangerous glint in his eyes when he leaned close. Those eyes sparkled with fresh tears.

“Hiltstrong was my brother,” said the thane inches from Red’s face. His grimace was misery. “And Timber Haft was my friend.”

Red suppressed another groan. He knew where this was going.

His magnificent Equestrian blade pressed against his throat. Again. This time the Shetlander held it in a magical envelope, his silver horn alight with yellow magic.

“Don’t kill him, Hornwin,” said the other thane. He still didn’t look any less murderous than his friend. “Bar’ll beat eight shades of guts outta you.”

Hornwin displayed remarkable control of Red’s sword. It didn’t move at all when he turned to the other thane and shot him a glare. “I’m not gonna kill him,” He snarled. “He’s got to suffer first.”

Now the sword did move. Red blinked instinctively, the heavy ruby-pommel coming down hard against his temple with a resounding CRACK.

For a moment there was only a dull ringing in the swordpony’s ears, his eyes rolling slowly in their sockets. He lay completely still, unable to even make a sound. The pain crept up on him slowly, steadily building until finally it was a crushing agony that forced him to writhe and groan on the floor.

“Ow,” he managed to groan inarticulately after several moments of blinding agony. He had the feeling that he was supposed to be unconscious.

Hornwin was turning the longsword over and over in his magic, unperturbed by the fact that the Equestrian was still awake. “This is the best sword I’ve ever seen,” he said, his voice quiet but sharp. He slid the blade back into its sheath with only the faintest rasp. “Masterwork. Weight’s a bit off... too much in the pommel... Still. This is fine work.”

Red wasn’t sure if he was passing out or just surrendering to exhaustion, but the edges of his vision were growing darker. Within moments all he could see was Hornwin waving the sheathed sword under his nose. The other thane was just a fuzzy blur. He fought to stay conscious. He needed to stay awake...

“I swear by all the gods under the earth,” the unicorn was saying through gritted teeth, his snout inches from Red’s own. “I will put this sword through yer guts for the thanes you killed.”

Red gave in, closed his eyes. He was dimly aware of hooves clip-clopping out of the room when the door slammed shut.