Swordpony

by Wisdom Thumbs

Chapter Two - "Edge of the Map"

The road to Shetland was not a busy road. It was hardly even a road at all, being little more than a long swath through the gentle green hills that marked Equestria’s north-western boundary. Long stretches of it were nearly overgrown.

The last town on that lonely path, if it could be called a town, was just as small and weedy as the road. Scarcely more than a dozen ponies lived there, their homes clustered together for safety, ringed by pens and shacks.

The town was uncharacteristically busy today, as close to a hive of activity as it could ever be. A tinker had passed through in the morning, stopping to mend pots and tools for the ponies living there. He’d brought with him stories from abroad and fine goods from Prance — for a price.

It wasn’t often tinkers passed down through this nameless place. Their trips were few and far between, sometimes even years apart. For this reason alone the blacksmith had bought for himself several bars of quality iron in exchange for fitting the tinker with new horseshoes. The mayor, if he could be called a mayor when his town wasn’t even large enough to warrant a name, had bought himself a new rug with the money he’d been saving for his daughter’s wedding.

And yet despite the excitement, the little village still maintained an air of sleepiness. There was a deep quiet here, so deeply entrenched as to be almost imperceptible. A pony might not even notice it. But there it was, a blanket dulling the edges of the town, taking the corners off the events of the day.

Six ponies were gathered in the tiny inn that served as the town’s only landmark. They huddled over their drinks around a single table, and in doing so took up half the space in the room. Their voices mingled with the familiarity of those who have known one another all their lives, talking of little things and laughing over old jokes worn smooth by long use. Behind the bar, a doughy unicorn sorted bottles with an idle ear to the conversation.

This was the smallest kind of village, as isolated as could be, the sort of place where everypony had cutie marks of shovel handles and plowshares. No amount of excitement could dispel the silence. Even outside, the ring of the blacksmith’s hammer seemed somehow muted. Because of this the conversation in the inn gave the impression of being almost desperate, a secret meeting held in defiance of the quiet that blanketed everything.

One earth pony, his back to the corner, was relating a story the tinker had told him for the price of a penny. New stories were worth gold in towns such as this, and it had been a long time since anything of the sort had found its way so far out into the wild. Though his tones were hushed, he spoke with excitement and vigor.

“The tinker says the Old Kingdoms are telling a new story these days,” he said so quickly as to nearly trip over his words.  A half empty bottle rubbed back and forth on the table between his hooves. “It’s one about a terrible monster, a demon what thrives off rot an’ suffering. They say he stalks the night, looking for ponies to feast on. He goes from house to house, radiating cold. Just looking at him is death. They say he’s returned from ages gone by to...”

“Now hold on, Lanky,” interjected an older stallion, chewing on an unlit pipe and, occasionally, the stray hairs of a mustache. He leaned back in his chair until his back touched the wall. “If you can die just by looking at him, how does anypony know he exists?”

Lanky scowled and waved a hoof. “Don’t interrupt me. They can hear him and feel his cold when he’s nearby. And ‘sides that, the tinker said that if you hold up a piece of glass like this...” He held up the half empty bottle between his hooves, swishing the beer inside. “Then you can look right at him and be fine. So long as you don’t look into his eyes, o’course.”

“O’course.” The ponies all nodded in agreement. Everypony with a lick of sense knew about the dangers posed by the eyes of demons. Demons held most of their power in their eyes, after all.

“So anyway,” Lanky continued, “He stalks the night on cloven hooves, feasting on death and sickness and spreading it wherever he goes. And he has these great big ol’ antlers, so big they’d fill up this whole room!” He gestured expansively, but it wasn’t saying much. The room could barely fit two tables and a scattering of stools. The other ponies nodded anyway, impressed.

“So he’s a moose?” the youngest of the stallions asked. He was by no means a child, but even at the age of twenty six he was still called ‘colt’ more often than not. His inability to grow whiskers didn’t help.

Lanky scowled again. “What? No, he ain’t no moose. He’s a monster what just happens to have antlers. He’s also made completely out of shadow and skeletons and stuff like that. And his eyes are made all of blue fire. Who ever heard of a moose made o’ stuff like that?”

“That’s mighty frightening,” said the older stallion chewing on the pipe. “How’d the tinker come to hear that one?”

“He says it’s all over Germaneigh. Parents tell their foals about him to keep ‘em quiet at night. Says even the Shetlanders are locking their doors when the sun goes down.”

One of the older stallions snorted in amusement. “As if Shetlanders have doors.”

“Heh, right. So anyway, he roams far an’ wide, trailing death like a snail oozes slime. And they say his name... No, wait. What was his name again? I think it was ‘the bone stumbler’ but I’m not rightly sure...”

A long moment of silence took hold, digging its claws deep into the conversation. Lanky mulled over the forgotten name of the deathly horror, lost in thought. The other ponies exchanged looks, but nopony could think of anything to say. One or two cast longing glances at the door, almost eager to leave.

At length, one of the older stallions spoke up in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. The creeping silence halted. It withdrew its claws ever so slightly.

“Tinker said the dragons’r gettin’ worse.”

The six ponies muttered darkly amongst themselves. Dragons were a distant threat, far removed from their little corner of Equestria. But nopony was willing to distrust a tinker’s word.

“No way they’ll come this far west,” said Lanky matter-of-factly, only the faintest hint of uncertainty in his voice. “They’ll go south through the Counties and wind up around Canterlot. That’s a long ways off.”

Everypony nodded, anxious to soothe their fears. The Counties formed the northern third of Equestria’s lands, wrapping up around the east side of the Old Kingdoms and stretching nearly to the Eyrie Mountains. That was where the dragons belonged, not here in this little village.

The old pony with the pipe had other thoughts. “What’s to stop them from flying over Shetland?”

“Why would they want to come over Shetland?” asked Lanky, but the seeds of doubt had been sewn. “I mean, wouldn’t they avoid the Shadow Wood? That place is...”

The scraggly farmer stopped short, ears perked. Heavy hooves tromped on the landing outside. All eyes turned to the entrance. Was the blacksmith coming in for a drink?

The clip-clopping stopped just outside. A moment later an armored stallion pushed his way inside, the thick-timbered door squealing on its hinges. Everypony froze, startled as if the newcomer was a constable come to enforce the silence. Even the innkeeper stopped polishing bottles and stared at the armored pony as if unsure of what to do.

The newcomer was tall, well-muscled and broad across the chest, his coat a healthy auburn. He wore dragonscale armor and intricately detailed greaves, all of it some kind of leather. Quilted barding was tied over his backside, dyed a bright pink on one flank and midnight blue on the other. The six patrons felt their guts tighten and instinctively clutched at their purses. Even a foal could recognize the royal colors.

Even more frightening was the longsword sheathed across the pony’s back. Its ruby pommel glittered in the square of sunlight that poured through the inn’s door. The stallion’s chiseled features and square snout gave him the appearance of a rough mercenary, offset only by his long golden mane and easy smile. He stood there for a moment, framed in the doorway as his gaze roamed over the room.

The stallion’s lively green eyes combed every detail in the inn in a heartbeat. Apparently satisfied, he stepped over the threshold and kicked the door shut behind himself before trotting up to the bar. The building shuddered.

“Good morning!” He nodded to the six ponies in the corner, stepping around the room’s only support beam. They all winced at the sound of his voice, loud and booming in the silence. One or two returned his friendly nod, unsure of what else to do.

The innkeeper jumped to attention at the stallion’s approach, suddenly remembering his job. He scrambled for a wooden mug before stopping himself and reaching instead for a bottle of wine. Still unsure, he cast a questioning eye to the imposing newcomer.

The stranger set down two bits, real gold bits that sparkled in the inn’s lamplight. He eyed the bottle of wine for a moment, then shook his head and pointed to the beer instead. The innkeeper nodded happily and pulled him a full mug. It scraped on old splinters across the bar.

With a roll of his shoulders the armored stallion shrugged his saddlebags to the floor. He took a seat, shifting his sword to one side to make room for himself. The saddlebags made a heavy thwump that everypony felt in their hooves. They winced. He just sat back with an air of unshakable confidence, looking completely at ease as he gulped from his mug.

The inn seemed to hold its breath while it waited for him to finish.

“Good beer,” he complimented, wiping foam from his chin. The mug was unnecessarily loud coming down on the counter. “Much better than the dreg in Everfree.”

“Everfree?” blurted Lanky from across the room. “What’s a pony from Everfree doing all the way out here?” His eyes narrowed, noticing the gleaming gold that trimmed the scabbard of the newcomer’s sword. It shone just as brightly as the two gold bits on the bar. Lanky had seen plenty of armed ponies in his time, but he’d never seen any of them rich enough to plate their scabbards with money.

The armored pony frowned, then returned to his easy-going smile. He had an affected, vainglorious baritone. “Well I’m not a tax collector, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I’m just passing through on my way to the Eyries.”

Another of the patrons whistled appreciatively. “Long way to the mountains, friend.” He didn’t mention the dragons. There was no sense in mentioning them when everypony with a lick of sense knew that dragons were thick as flies over the Eyries.

“Aye,” said another, chewing on his unlit pipe. “And you’re not exactly on the right road.”

“Pardon?” Red took another sip from his mug.

Lanky leaned forward over the table, pointing in the general direction of north. “You’re on the wrong road, friend. If you want to get to the Eyries you’d best start heading east. The road to Horn Tower’s the one you want.”

“I have no interest in going through the Counties,” Red sat his drink back on the bar with finality. “I’m cutting through Shetland.”

Silence rushed back into the inn like a cold wind, swallowing up every trace of warmth in the room. The patrons stared incredulously at the stranger.

“You can’t be serious,” marveled the youngest stallion.

Red frowned again. His smile didn’t return as quickly as it had before. “Do I look like the sort of pony to joke about that?” He didn’t. Nopony carried a sword as casually as he did without knowing how to use it. He still felt the need to stress the point. “Furthermore, I’m a knight. I can defend myself.”

He left out the part about being the Master Swordpony of Everfree. As much as he was proud of the title, his mother’s lectures on the wrongs of boasting were enough to hold his tongue. That, and he’d always felt contempt for nobles that used their titles to make other ponies feel inferior.

The young stallion at the table shut his mouth and went back to staring at his hooves. A few of the other patrons blinked. The stranger looked rich, and he certainly carried himself like a knight, but his accent was far from cultured. He sounded as if he’d been coached on proper speaking but had never gotten the hang of the clipped pronunciations used by the nobility. Besides, where was his shining plate armor? His trusty squire?

Lanky took a long draught from his mug. “Hate to tell you, stranger, but the colt’s right. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll turn around and head for Horn Tower. Nopony can go through Shetland.”

The swordpony scoffed. “Really now, it’s not as if I’m going straight through. I’ll be skirting around the edge. And besides, I’ve got the Princesses’ colors.” He pointed to the quilted cruppers on his flanks — one pink for Celestia, the other blue for Luna. “No barbarian would be stupid enough to attack me.”

The patrons shook their heads at the swordpony’s conceit. One of them rolled his eyes.

“Listen,” said the old buck with the unlit pipe. “We’re not stupid. I been in the Shadow Wood myself when I was younger. Foalish colts are always going in there trying to prove how brave they are. But that place ain’t natural. I seen it with my own two eyes.”

Red narrowed his eyes at the patron. “Just because a place is old and magical doesn’t mean it’s evil. Dangerous, sure, but I’m dangerous too.”

The old pony shook his head. Slowly, with the utmost focus, he lit a match on the rough grain of the table and lifted it to his pipe. A wisp of smoke curled out from the corncob bowl, wreathing his ears. He didn’t even shake the match out before tossing it on the table and grinding it beneath his hoof.

“When I was a foal,” he said gravely, staring at the black smear. “A little filly went missing from the village. Everypony was devastated. Spent weeks trying to find her. Scoured as deep into the Shadow Wood as anypony’d ever gone. Then three stallions out of the search party just disappeared. Right into thin air. One minute they were within shouting distance of my father, and the next they were gone. No trace. Just gone.”

His eyes grew distant, hard. “We stopped looking after that.” He turned back to the swordpony at the bar. “The Shadow Wood’s a bad place, stranger. It eats light, actually devours it. The trees don’t just have shadows, they make them. And the ponies that live there... they’re dangerous. Wild.” He gestured to his chest with both hooves. “They wear the skins of animals. They wear furs. They eat flesh.”

The other patrons were nodding, their faces serious. Even the innkeeper bobbed his head. But Red Pommel didn’t seem impressed.

“Really now,” the swordpony replied, draining his mug and setting it down on the bar. “I’ve come a long way from Everfree, and I was really hoping that you folk would be smarter than the idiots further south.”

He shook his head. “Guess I was wrong.”

Lanky turned red under his coat and opened his mouth to shoot back his own insult, but the stallion with the pipe cut him off.

“I’m trying to help you, stranger,” he said. “We’re not superstitious. I’m telling you from personal experience, don’t go into the Shadow Wood.”

“Give me three good reasons,” said the swordpony, his tone impatient.

The old stallion was puffing furiously on his pipe now, making enough smoke to cloud the room. He dropped his hoof onto the table with a loud thud. “I honestly don’t care about your well-being, stranger. And I certainly don’t care for your tone. If you’re set on getting yourself killed, be my guest. But don’t go insulting me or my friends.”

Red arched an eyebrow. There was iron in the old stallion’s voice. He wasn’t the kind to be scared by a long sword or a set of armor. Red could respect that. “Fair enough. I apologize if I was short with you.”

The pipe-smoking pony turned in his chair and ignored the apology. “Just spend what you’re going to spend and get out of my town.”

“Better if you spent everything you’ve got,” said Lanky, eyeing the shiny golden trim on the swordpony’s scabbard. “Your gold won’t be of much use in the Old Kingdoms. Some barbarian’ll just take it off you and make himself a couple of nice necklaces.”

Red snorted, half amused by the quip. “I’ll be on my way then.”

The swordpony bent back down to take up his saddlebags, only to be stopped when a heavy hoof draped itself over his shoulder. He turned his eyes up to meet the innkeeper’s.

“You sure you don’t want anything else, ser?” the unicorn asked quietly. “Two bits pays for a lot of drinks...”

For a moment Red just blinked. Then he threw his head back and let out a laugh, deep and loud enough to split the silence that had been accumulating in the corners of the room. He realized his mistake now - two bits went a lot further out here than they did in Everfree. These ponies paid in barter or iron pennies, not in gold. He’d probably just bought a barrel’s worth of beer.

“Tell you what,” he said, holding back his laughter. “I’ll take a couple bottles of your best wine, and you keep whatever’s left of the bits after that.”

The bartender gleamed, his smile threatening to split his wide face. He probably didn’t have the funds to break a golden bit anyway. He scurried into the back room, re-emerging with two dusty bottles floating over his head, one green and one red.

“What’s this?” Red looked over the latter, brushing some of the dust off with his leg. There was no label, but the glass was lightly engraved with what appeared to be a date.

“Fine Chambre d'Automne,” the unicorn proclaimed in his soft voice. “Seventy six years old if I’m a day. Straight from Prance.”

“Seventy six… Wasn’t that—”

“Yessir.”

“Huh. Good year…” Once upon a time, eight decades was a juvenile age for good wine. But there was the small matter of anything older than a century having turned to water. Some of the older bottles still bore polka dots. One in Everfree was labeled with Discord’s face, but it was kept under lock and key.

Red didn’t bother asking where the unicorn had gotten Chambre d’Automne. He nodded appreciatively. Such stuff was truly expensive and hard to come by, even in Everfree, especially when trade relations with the Old Kingdoms were still in their infancy. It was doubtful that the innkeeper would ever find someone willing to buy it. Such a wine was only brought out for a truly special celebration, and even then only so it could be shown off and summarily drained.

“And this other bottle?” Red asked, tapping the dull green one. It was smaller than the d'Automne.

“That,” the innkeeper said, frowning, “Is a vintage I’ve never had the pleasure of tasting. I’ve always wanted to know what it was. I don’t even know how old it is or where it came from.”

“Well,” said Red, his easy smile turning on the bottle. “How about we find out?”

The barkeep’s horn glowed as brightly as his smile. In a flash he produced a corkscrew from beneath the bar, snatching up the green bottle with his magic. Then he hesitated, but only for a moment. In the end, curiosity got the better of his trepidation, and without further ado he jerked out the cork.

“I hope it’s something good,” he muttered, pouring a glass for himself and another for Red. He chuckled quietly to himself and waited for the swordpony to take the first drink.

Red didn’t bother with ceremony. He threw back the glass as soon as it was in his hooves. He immediately regretted it and grimaced, the oily taste assaulting his mouth with all the subtlety of a warhammer.

The innkeeper’s eyes went wide, but quickly closed when he tried his own glass. He sighed and sprouted his widest smile yet.

“This stuff is nasty,” groused Red, setting his glass back on the bar. He reached for the Chambre d'Automne to wash the slime out of his mouth, then decided it wasn’t worth wasting such valuable wine.

“You just don’t have a taste for it,” replied the unicorn. He smiled and poured himself another glass. “This stuff isn’t wine. It’s brandy!”

The surly patrons in the corner looked up, ears rising. Lanky nearly jumped out of his chair. “Did somepony say brandy?”

Red pulled a face. “Ech... I don’t think brandy is my kind of drink. Do you have anything else?”

The unicorn shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Nothing to your tastes anyway, ser.”

“That’s bunk. I’m a pony of simple tastes.”

“In that case, would a bottle of sixty two Riesling do? It’s not too dry. Fairly sweet.”

“Sure thing,” he said. “I’ve always liked white wine.” He wasn’t enough of a wine expert to know if sixty two had been a good year, but he had a fairly good idea that Riesling was best when it came from the north-western parts of Equestria. And you didn’t get any further northwest than this.

In the corner, Lanky looked about ready to leap across the table to get at the bar. “I’m serious, did somepony say brandy?” He turned to the pony with the pipe. “Cob, did you hear...”

“Ayep, I heard,” Cob replied, still puffing on his pipe. The old stallion turned around in his chair to fix the innkeeper with a level stare. “Marley, have you been keeping brandy from us?”

The unicorn smiled sheepishly. “Well no, not exactly. I didn’t know I had any. It’s not free, mind you.” He wagged his hoof.

Lanky emptied his purse out on the table. It wasn’t much, just a few iron pennies and a bit of silver, but he looked ready to pay it all for a glass of whatever was in the green bottle. The other patrons appeared almost as enthusiastic, the innkeeper less so. If Red had to guess, he’d have said that Marley was looking forward to drinking some more of it himself.

“You know what?” said the swordpony, flicking his own purse up onto the bar with a swish of his tail. “I’ll pay for the brandy too. Half of it.”

Shouts of protest from the corner threatened to finally finish off the silence that had been creeping out of the room. Lanky actually stood up and made an insult that nearly curled the hairs on Red’s back. Marley blanched a shade of ghostly white underneath his coat.

“Aww, c’mon!” another stallion cried bitterly.

Red set a silver half-bit on the bar, but kept his hoof on it. “It’s not for me,” he said with a grin. “It’s just that my good friend Marley here looks thirsty.”

The inn fell silent.

Then the patrons broke into fits of laughter, the room booming with their amusement. Old Cob and several others ran to the bar, bursting from their chairs. Marley chuckled with relief and poured glasses for everpony as quickly as he could. There was more than enough to go around, even with only half a bottle. Lanky still grumbled, muttering something about having less to drink, but by now everypony was ignoring him.

“Thank you Ser,” the bartender said to Red, raising his glass in toast.

“One good turn deserves another, friend.” Red clapped the unicorn on the shoulder and tossed his saddlebags over his flanks. “I’m in the habit of rewarding integrity.”

It would have been easy for Marley to let the knight walk out, and keep the two gold bits for himself. But he hadn’t, and because of that simple exercise in honesty Red was glad to buy him a drink.

The swordpony left as quickly as he could, but not before buying a sack full of food for the road. The silver half-bit had been the smallest coin he’d carried, and it would have easily paid for the full bottle of brandy. It went a long way toward covering the cost of his supplies. Red had a feeling that Marley had discounted him, too.

Unfortunately, he didn’t have much money left to spend and he still needed a few more things before he left. With that in mind, he stopped by the blacksmith to have himself fitted for new horseshoes. The ones he’d worn back in Everfree weren’t exactly meant for long travel, and they were already hurting his hooves.

As it turned out, the stuffy little blacksmith knew his trade better than just about anypony in Everfree. When the swordpony walked out of the forge he did so on hooves shod with the finest iron. Unlike Marley, however, the blacksmith was not so keen on discounts, especially when he saw the royal colors on Red’s flanks. Red couldn’t blame him. Money was tight in these parts.

His purse significantly lighter, Red Pommel shouldered his sword and set off down the road. There was a spring in his step and a smile on his face.

It had been a long two hundred miles since Everfree, but the swordpony couldn’t have felt more excited to keep going. He’d made good time and felt none the worse for the wear. With good luck and a swift trot, he expected to put another twenty or so miles behind him before nightfall. It felt like he was coming around a bend and seeing the straight-away, even if he was still only on the first leg of his journey.

The smile only spread on Red Pommel’s face as he trotted his way down the path. For the first time in years he was finally on a real quest, sword across his back, saddlebags heavy with provisions. He couldn’t have been happier if he’d been dueling on a swinging chandelier—not that he cared to repeat that little incident, of course, but it was nice to feel alive and fully in his element again.

In the distance sprawled the next phase of his journey. The Shadow Wood. It was a massive forest, grey and immense with untold centuries of growth. The hills beneath the woods swelled up above the rest of the land by hundreds of feet. Even at a distance it was menacing. But it was a ways off yet, and he had his sword. He had the colors of the Princesses, too. Even skin-wearing barbarians would fear the heraldry of Equestria.

Not that he’d see any barbarians. After all, he’d be skirting the edge of the forest.

The path was better traveled than Red would have expected, even if it was still in the process of being devoured by hungry grass and weeds. As such, it was little surprise when he discovered that the track led to a pond nestled in the saddle between two small hills.

Ponies from the village he’d left behind were doubtlessly fond of this pool, probably using it as a swimming hole. Thick bushes grew around most of the pond’s circumference, the water itself clear and free of fish.

No, it was not at all surprising to find a swimming hole. The surprise came when Red saw the cart.

The thing was parked in the grass next to the pond, sheltering under a willow tree. He stopped short when he spotted it. This was no regular cart. The wheels were rimmed with well-worn iron and painted a variety of warm colors. The body of the cart itself was covered, and bulging with all manner of bundles, boxes and sacks.

The swordpony trotted closer, wondering what a rich looking cart was doing all the way out here at the edge of civilization. A familiar hammer was painted on the wooden sideboards, angled so that it appeared to be striking a painting of a rusty frying pan. It was peeling and faded from long years in the sun.

Red knew that sign. This was a tinker’s cart.

Looking around, Red felt his heart flutter with excitement. He couldn’t help it. He’d been conditioned ever since he was a foal to jump with joy whenever a tinker came to town. Tinkers meant stories and valuable goods that couldn’t be found anywhere else. They meant good harvests and happy parents and new toys. Most of all they lent a sense of significance to his journey. Every good adventure story had a tinker in it.

Besides, tinkers were good luck. A questing knight could never turn down free luck.

“Hello?” he asked, seeing nopony. He checked under the wagon, but found only a tangle of dead weeds wrapped around the axle.

A rustling sound caught his ear, and he looked up, stepping around the corner of the wagon.

“Hmm? Who’s there?” came a husky voice from the bushes surrounding the pond. The bushes rustled again, and a moment later there emerged a squat little equine carrying a sack full of blueberries.

The tinker was somewhat young considering his occupation and the age of his cart. Enormous pointed ears poked through a sagging straw hat, and a slender tail swished in the bushes like a whip. His eyes blinked behind round spectacles when they alighted on Red’s armor. He nearly dropped the sack of berries.

“Ah, hello!” he said, seemingly surprised. He stammered something more, before clamping his mouth shut and giving a warm smile.

“Good morning,” replied Red with a smile of his own. He gave the tinker a closer look and was surprised to see that no cutie mark adorned his brown flank.

Red had seen donkeys before, but it was still hard to wrap his head around the concept of equines without symbols on their hindquarters. He’d grown accustomed to measuring ponies by their cutie marks. Back in Everfree that had been all too easy. Most nobles wound up with something extravagant or glittering on their backsides. But, he supposed, it was fitting for a tinker to have no cutie mark. Tinkers were good at a little of everything.

The tinker cleared his throat and straightened his hat with a gangly foreleg. Despite his spectacles and potbelly, he was a fairly robust little donkey. Red guessed by the gray tufts crowning his ears that he was just beginning to approach middle-aged. In the grand scheme of things, he was fairly young for a tinker… and still old enough to have grown children.

“I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time, son,” said the tinker, trotting to his wagon and depositing the sack of blueberries. “Wasn’t expecting anypony to follow me out here.”

“What are you doing out here in the first place?” asked Red. “You on your way to the village?”

“Just came from there, actually.” The tinker raised a well-shod hoof. The iron of a new horseshoe gleamed in the sun. “Thought I’d come out here and see if the berries were as good as I remembered. Maybe go back through the village later this evening. Ponies is always forgetting to buy something when the tinker first passes through.”

“Are they?” Red shot a glance at the blueberry sack. Hunger tickled his belly, and he realized he hadn’t bothered to eat breakfast. “As good as you remembered, I mean?”

The tinker’s smile had a distinctly paternal quality about it, all fondness and somber knowing. “Nothing can compare to childhood memories, I’m afraid.”

Red blinked. That sounded like something his father would have said. “Isn’t that the truth.”

“What about you?” asked the little donkey, popping a few of the berries into his mouth. “What are you doing out here? You look as surprised to find company as I am.”

The swordpony gestured to the pink and blue barding on his flanks. “I’m on a quest for the Princesses. Well, more of an errand...”

“An Everfree pony?” probed the tinker, leaning against his wagon. “I would have pegged you for a shirepony by your accent.”

“Well, truth is, I am. Red Pommel at your service, Master Swordpony to the Princesses. Grew up in a shire and never could shake the burr.”

The tinker whistled. “Impressive. Can’t say as I’ve ever heard of you, I’m afraid. But meeting a Master Swordpony in the flesh... well, I’m honored. Out of curiosity, is it ‘ser’ or ‘my lord’?”

Red chuckled. “Just ‘Red’ will do fine. The novelty of titles wore off years ago.”

In all honesty he would have preferred ‘my lord,’ but that kind of behavior around a tinker was inexcusable.

“How humble of you.” The tinker reached into his cart and tapped a wooden box. “Might I interest you in a little trade? Master Tinker at your service. I have baubles, trinkets, oddities and commodities, a few broken puzzle pieces and... well, I’m sure I’ve got something useful in this old cart...”

Red frowned despite the tinker’s gentle mocking and sing-song voice. “I haven’t got much to spare save coin. And I’m short even on that. Got anything interesting?”

A laugh bubbled out of the donkey’s throat. He adjusted his glasses and started rummaging. “Balms for what ails you, repairs for all your tools, fancy odds and ends from all over the world... and, of course, stories.”

“Anything specific?”

“Well, let’s see. I’ve got some good, strong rope. Questing, err, errand ponies is always in need of some rope. Never know when it’ll come in handy.” He tossed a few bits of junk back into the pile and sorted through the contents of a chest. “I’ve got a good whetstone here for your sword... lovely sword, by the way.”

“Thank you, but I’ve already got my own whetstone,” apologized the swordpony.

“Hmm. Well, I’ve got some fancy lace from Prance that I picked up earlier this year. Don’t suppose you’ve any use for a wedding veil?” The tinker’s face somehow stayed deadpan serious.

“Perhaps something a bit more... practical?” Red smiled and dropped his saddlebags to the grass. “Say, an early lunch?”

The tinker raised an eyebrow and cast one eye to the sun. “Hmm. Well, I suppose. It’s a bit early for lunch, but I still haven’t had breakfast, so why not?”

They deposited themselves beneath the willow tree, glad for the shade. The tinker nibbled at some of the lush grass and continued popping blueberries into his mouth. Red dug out the last of the provisions he’d brought from Everfree. He’d scarcely gotten two bites in before the tinker nudged him in the ribs.

“Say, Red. Shouldn’t you be wearing some sort of fancy armor? Maybe some shining steel, perhaps a little chainmail? Or was it too heavy?”

Red looked down at his lamellar vest and vambraces. “Well, no... Plate’s not that heavy. Hard to maintain, really. I just thought some traveling leathers would be better for the road, ‘s all. Looks kind of ‘mercenary,’ you know?”

The tinker raised another eyebrow. “Hmm. I’d have expected a little more gold filigree.”

Red chuckled. “My armorer was furious when I picked this out. Not enough gold trim, she said. Not enough sparkly bits. But it’s awfully light, so I think it’s just fine.”

“Must be nice having attendants like that.”

“Eh, it’s okay,” Red said lamely. He didn’t want to admit it, but for all the awkwardness of having somepony to dress him every morning, it was awfully convenient. He especially enjoyed sending the young pages on wild goose chases around the citadel.

There was a minute’s pause, both pony and donkey chewing thoughtfully. There was an air of procrastination about them, neither really wanting to leave, but not quite willing to work up a conversation either. Red found himself wishing he could pass his saddlebags to a servant and have them carry on the journey while he himself sat in the shade of the willow tree. He was well aware of the fact that the tinker might be the last friendly face he would see for over three hundred miles.

Three hundred miles. Was it really that far? The taste of bread went sour in Red’s mouth.

“What exactly is this errand you’re running for the Princesses?” asked the tinker, interrupting the swordpony’s train of thought. “That is, if it’s not some terrible secret and you don’t mind me asking.”

The question had been inevitable, Red supposed. He’d honestly gotten sick of answering it around the time he’d reached his third roadside inn. Still, he puffed his chest out a bit and tried to sound amiable.

“Well,” he began. “It’s about the dragons.”

The tinker nodded but didn’t appear very interested.

“And the griffons,” Red went on. “They’re supposed to stop the dragons from crossing the Eyries, you know.”

“Quite a job,” the tinker remarked dryly.

“Yeah. Quite. Well, anyway, Celestia wants to know why they’re slacking off.”

“So she sent you? Why?”

“Well, to deliver a letter. A Dictum.”

The tinker frowned and looked down at the grass. He muttered something, but before Red could ask what he’d said, the donkey looked back up and stared him in the eye.

“If you’re going to the Eyries, then why the hay are you here?”

“Pardon?” Red felt a familiar irritation building somewhere inside himself.

The tinker gave him a flat look. “I should have known. You’re going into the Shadow Wood.”

“Yes,” the swordpony replied, trying in vain to keep a smile on his face. “And?”

The tinker shook his head and closed his eyes. “Tell me, Red Pommel. Have you ever heard about the Shetlanders?”

“Yes. I have.”

“They wear animal skins. They wear furs. Some even say they wear the skins of other ponies. And do you know why they wear these things?”

Red returned the tinker’s level gaze and didn’t answer. He was tempted to say ‘that’s a bunch of horse apples.’

The tinker continued anyway. “It’s because they’re vicious killers, my good Master Whatever. They have to be. If they weren’t, the Shadow Wood would have wiped them out by now. Everything in that forest wants to kill them.”

“How exactly would you know this?” asked Red. Because you obviously haven’t seen it firsthoof.

The tinker’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “I’ve been to Germaneigh, son. I’ve been through bits and pieces of the Shadow Wood. Hay, when I was a colt my papa made camp right here under this very tree. And you know what the first thing I did was?”

“You went into the forest.”

“I went into the forest. I went exactly twenty steps in before I got scared and came back. But you know what I realized? Even though I retraced my path exactly, it took thirty steps to get back out. And most of my hoofprints had already been erased.”

“It’s a magical forest. Such things are to be expected.”

“Then why are you going in there?”

Red’s gaze shifted, just for a moment. He found himself staring at the sunlight glittering off the pond before he turned his eyes back to the tinker. “Look, it’s none of your concern. I’m going through Shetland, and that’s that.”

For a moment the donkey seemed to size him up. “You know,” he said, “I thought I had the measure of you. But I see now that I didn’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Red asked through clenched teeth. Deep breaths, Red. Now is not the time for a temper tantrum.

“You’re taking the hardest road possible because you want adventure. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why you’re going into Shetland. You think you’ll swashbuckle your way through and come out on the other side with a heroic tale under your belt.”

Red blinked. That had cut a little too close to the mark.

Again the tinker’s eyes narrowed. He was almost glaring at the swordpony now. “Well Red, let me save you the trouble of finding out for yourself. Your precious Everfree Forest is nothing. For all its magic and mystery, the Everfree can’t even begin to compare to the Shadow Wood. It’s too tame, too lived in.”

“You’ve obviously never seen the monsters that live there.”

“I’ve slept in an Ursa Major’s cave, Red. I’ve been chased by Manticores and nearly been made an ogre’s pet. And for all that, I’d still rather be lost in the Everfree than spend one more minute in the Shadow Wood.”

He gestured with his hoof in the direction of north. “That place is old. So old it predates even the historical records on the origins of Hearth’s Warming Eve.”

Historical records? Red almost scoffed out loud. “Hearth’s Warming Eve is just a story. It’s an old mare’s tale.”

The tinker shook his hoof in the swordpony’s face. “There’s truth in old mare’s tales,” he said, his patience obviously beginning to wear thin. “Little specks of it. Myths accumulate around these little truths, like an oyster forming a pearl from a grain of sand. Some myths have more truth in them than others. Some stories actually happened.”

The metaphor was lost on Red, who knew nothing of pearls. He’d always assumed that the little balls were formed in the earth like gemstones. Regardless, he still felt irritated and was beginning to piece together a verbal tirade when the tinker held up a hoof.

“I know what you’re doing out here, Red. You’re walking into dark forests and ignoring reason. I can see your new horseshoes, so I know you talked to the townsfolk. And if you talked to them, they probably warned you about the Shadow Wood. So why do you insist on trying to pass through it?”

“Because,” said the swordpony between gritted teeth. He’d heard this argument a dozen times since he’d started his journey. “It’s just a forest. Sure, it’s old and magical. Dangerous even. But I’m dangerous too. I can handle it.”

The tinker just shook his head and made a wave of his hoof. “Don’t go ignoring the warnings and stories of the smallfolk. They’ve survived out here on the fringes because they know things most ponies don’t. They know how to raise crops from the sorriest soil. They know to lock their doors at night and light a candle when the full moon’s out. They know how the world’s shaped.”

“Shape of the world?” sputtered Red. “What in the hay are you going on about?”

He would have said more, but the tinker brought his hoof down. It was enough to give him pause. The look in the little donkey’s eye was eerily similar to the one the swordpony’s father had used to end arguments.

“I will say it one more time. The Everfree is nothing like the Shadow Wood. Two different breeds.”

He paused for a moment, chewing his lip. When he went on, it was with slow, carefully chosen words.

“My papa once told me about maps. He said that places like the Shadow Wood are off the edge of the map.”

“That’s not true. The Shadow Wood is on plenty of maps.”

The tinker shook his head. “Maps don’t just have outside edges. They have inside edges. Holes. Folk like to pretend they know everything about the world. Rich folk especially.” At this he gave Red a pointed stare. “That’s why we have maps in the first place.”

He scraped a patch of dirt smooth with one hoof and drew a line in it. “Say this is a map. On this side of the line is Baron Tralee’s land, on that side is Count Taxtwice’s land.”

Slowly, carefully, he made a circle in the middle of the crude dirt map. “And this is a forest. A blank spot. You can’t have blanks on your maps, so the folks who make them draw a few tiny trees, shade in the blank, and write, ‘The Shadow Wood.’” He spat in it. “You might as well burn a hole right through the map for all the good that does. That forest is big as Shetland. For all intents and purposes it is Shetland, or at least most of it. But nobody owns it. You head off in the wrong direction, you’ll walk a hundred miles and never see a road, let alone a house or plowed field.”

Red looked up. He could see the edge of the Shadow Wood in the near distance. It was a blue-grey line just over the edge of the next row of hills. Clouds hung heavy over it.

The tinker went on, turning to touch the bark of the willow tree. “Most forests are tame. Domesticated. The Everfree too, or at least parts of it, and it’s been a hard road, trust me. But not the Shadow Wood. It’s older, wilder. It doesn’t care one wit for you. It’ll swallow you whole.”

He paused, staring at the grey line in the distance. “There are parts of that forest that have never felt the touch of a pony’s hoof,” he muttered. “Never even been glimpsed from afar. Go deep enough and you’ll find monsters the likes of which you’ve never even imagined.”

He turned back to the swordpony and fixed him with a cold, hard stare. “If something in there gets the jump on you, it’ll kill you, and they won’t even need to bury you. You’ll lie there for a hundred years, two hundred, and nobody will ever come close to stumbling across your bones.”

Red’s gaze returned to the forest, to the rise and fall of the land. The endless ranks of trees seemed to press forward like a vast army, dark and mysterious. But he didn’t feel fear. Instead he felt the forest call to him, beckoning him to explore its mysteries. He sighed and packed away his lunch before rising to his hooves.

“I’m sorry, tinker,” he said. “It was nice talking to you.”

The tinker harrumphed and went back to nibbling grass.

Red turned to leave, his gut sour with the thought of being rude to a tinker. He wondered what his father would have said about the conversation. Don’t ignore the warnings of a tinker, you idjit, came to mind.

An idea occurred to him. He almost kicked himself for not thinking of it sooner.

“Say, tinker,” he said, turning back around. “Would you like some sixty two Riesling?”

“Never been much for white wine,” was the disinterested reply.

“How about a bottle of Chambre d’Automne?”

The tinker’s glasses nearly fell off of his nose. “You have a bottle of d’Automne?”

Red flipped open his saddlebag and produced the red bottle. It fit nicely into the crook of his elbow, so he swished it around a little for show. He could almost see the gold bits appear in the tinker’s eyes. Really though, he just saw the reflection of dark clouds.

The donkey seemed to consider his options for a minute. “And you’re sure you’re willing to part with it?”

“I didn’t know I’d find somepony as fond of the stuff as I am.” Red brushed at one of the willow’s hanging limbs with the bottle. “Anything you’d like to trade for it?”

“I have for you three things.” The tinker’s paternal smile returned. The sight of it filled Red with a sense of worth and appreciation. “A word, a story... and a curse.”

Red laughed. “That’s a bit too storybook for my tastes.”

The tinker kept smiling.

It took a minute for the swordpony to realize that the tinker was being serious. His eyes widened. “You mean...”

The tinker nodded his head. “What kind of tinker would I be without three mysteries in a box?” He rose and trotted to his cart. “A bad one,” he said over his shoulder. “That’s what.”

He returned with a small lockbox, placing it reverently in the grass. It sat, a dull lump of black iron, battered and without any eye-catching qualities. Red found himself fascinated with it.

“I like to bring this out from time to time,” the tinker continued, tapping the lock with his hoof. “It’s not often I get the chance to show it to adventurers, though.” He looked up from under the wide brim of his hat.

“All for a bottle of wine?” breathed Red.

“D’Chambre is my favorite wine.”

Red chewed his lip. The three mysteries in a box were as common in folktales as damsels in distress and plucky village heroes. They were always different for every tinker and you could only choose one of the three. Sometimes the tinker would provide the hero with a weapon or a special amulet that made them impervious to certain dangers. Other times they simply gave words of advice, though the advice invariably saved the hero’s life if they remembered it in time.

He’d never thought real tinkers actually carried around such things. Now he was confronted with the reality, and he actually had to choose between them.

“I don’t suppose you could give me a hint as to what each of those are?” Red asked without a shred of hope.

The tinker’s smile brightened. “I’m afraid it doesn’t work that way, son.”

Red kept chewing at his lip. He could rule out the curse immediately. Nothing good came from curses. Ponies who chose the tinker’s curse always wound up learning harsh lessons on the disadvantages of curiosity.

Unfortunately, the word and the story gave him far more trouble. He wondered if he should flip a coin. If he chose the word then the tinker might give him a secret password that opened some hidden door. But if he chose the...

Red nearly smacked himself. Really? he asked himself. That’s bunk. There are no secret doors between here and the Eyries. It’s all just forest.

“I’ll take the story,” he said without further deliberation, still berating himself for nearly getting lost in storybook nonsense.

The tinker smiled. Red couldn’t help but feel that he’d made the right choice.

“Very well then. I won’t need to open my lockbox if that’s the case.”

The swordpony tried to hide his disappointment. It felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. All that deliberation, and he didn’t even get to see what was inside the tinker’s box of mysteries? Then again, it was probably empty. Words, stories, curses, none of them had material form. The thought gave him pause and for a moment he wondered if the tinker was just pulling his leg.

The little donkey looked the swordpony straight in the eye before he began. “Let me tell you,” he said, “Of the questing knight who ignored the warnings of wiser ponies.”

Red felt his eyebrows knit. Judging by the mild irritation creeping up the back of his neck, he had a fairly good idea of where this was going.

The tinker tossed another blueberry into his mouth. “For generations, strong stories will be passed down from one pony to another. They will spread, multiplying. They start off true. They start off with meaning. But as time goes on, these things are diluted. Little by little, stories lose their value. After a few generations, they get to the point where they hold little to no meaning at all. And when that happens, ponies take to ignoring them. Forgetting them. Losing them.”

Here he leaned in close. “But stories are told for a purpose. The strongest stories will last for a thousand years, changing little by little until nopony remembers them for what they were. But wise ponies will still pay them heed. They see the purpose of the stories.”

“And what were they?” Red felt confused. The tinker was talking in circles here. What did all of this talk of the nature of stories have to do with him?

“Warnings. Warnings and messages from another time. They pass down through the ages in folklore and myths. Some become songs. Others fade away. A few float about here and there, still vaguely remembered.”

The donkey chewed another blueberry before continuing. “I tell you these things because you obviously don’t respect old stories. You don’t even recognize them when they’re biting you on the nose.”

Red frowned, gritting his teeth. He’d been expecting this. “What in the hay are you talking about, tinker?” he asked, even though he knew exactly what the tinker meant.

“You’re on the road to Shetland, Red. Of the two paths laid out for you, you chose the hardest. I know you won’t turn back now, but out of the decency of my heart, I’m trying to warn you off anyway.”

The swordpony allowed himself a deep sigh. “Sorry, tinker. But you’re not going to convince me.”

The donkey shrugged. “I didn’t expect that I would. Still, might as well try.” He held his hoof out and Red reluctantly gave him the d’Automne. A deal was a deal.

“Good luck in your travels, tinker,” said the swordpony, turning to leave. He felt cheated.

“Sure you don’t want anything else?” asked the graying donkey. “You can have this rope for free. Take it, you’ll probably need it at some point or another.”

Red might have listened to common sense if he hadn’t been repressing the urge to shout and kick a tree. He actually might have taken the rope. A small part of him wiggled in the back of his mind, pleading for him to respect the tinker’s wishes. Unfortunately, that was the same part of his mind that had been telling him to turn back. Common sense was stubbornly ignored.

“No, tinker,” he said, his voice sharp, his patience gone. “I don’t want any rope.”

“It’s not too late, you know!” the tinker shouted after him. “I’m going north too, up into the Counties! We could travel together for a time...”

It was no use.