Blackacre

by Princess Woona

Discharged

28 June, Y.C. 970
Blackacre

“Did you know,” mused Chal with an absently raised eyebrow, “that the only named syndicate in the region is Poitot?”

“Oh,” said Flax with the most deadpan and utterly unimpressed tone she could muster, “I was not aware. Do regale me with your tales of hardship and adventure.”

“Oh c’mon.”

“It’s not like this would be the fifth time or anything,” she shot back with an impressive roll of her eyes. “I swear, did you do anything else before signing up?”

“Sure I did,” said Chal with an easy laugh, brushing the green and black crest hastily stitched to his chest. “But sometimes when an opportunity shows up… you just can’t say no.”

“Or you make that opportunity show up,” she corrected.

“Or that,” he conceded. “Same deal, right?”

“Pretty good one for you. Not that fighting Canterlot changes much. How many warrants did they have out for your arrest? Two?”

“Three, I like to think,” he said with a sort of pride. “The misdemeanor in White Tail won’t stick, but it’s still on the books. The books that count, that is. They know who I am.”

“Oh good,” she said, rolling her eyes again. “If there’s one thing I love more than sitting around waiting for Beatrix-knows-what, it’s sitting around next to a wanted colt.”

“Hush,” he snorted.

“No, seriously,” she continued. “Look, if they start shooting at us — however like that is, because we’re what, a mile from the line? Mile and a half? — if they start shooting at us, I’d rather not be next to a high-profile —”

“Quiet,” he said again.

She laughed. “What, because they’ll hear me instead of seeing you?”

“Because I’m trying to hear them,” he snapped. “Listen.”

She did — and heard nothing.

“What…?”

Again, nothing. Then….

“The hell is that?”

“That…” he started, scanning the sky through the tree line, “is the sound of us finding the pony in charge here. What’s-his-hoof. Kirkland”

“Something like that,” she breathed.

A pause. Off in the distance, the sky was starting to glow.

“We should go,” said Chal, not entirely sounding as if he understood what he was saying.

She blinked, and the faintest whiff of sulphur snapped her back to the reality of the fast-approaching firestorm.

“Now!”

The foxhole had been designed to weather a frontal assault; at five feet deep and with a half-trench to either side, it was a decent fortification for light infantry. It might even afford them some measure of protection against an aerial attack, but neither of them was even going to consider taking that chance: they shot out of the foxhole like a rocket sled on rails, charging towards the back lines without the slightest heed to their exposure.

Voices shouted at them from either side, but as they passed the shouts of confusion turned to terror as the other ponies in the trenches realized exactly what they were running from.

“Kurland here,” thundered a voice over the trenches as a stallion in full battle armor appeared over the rear crest. “Get back to the line!”

“Listen to me, Kirkland,” said Chal, stumbling to a stop in front of the officer. “We need to get out of here.”

“Kurland,” corrected the stallion icily. “We’re going to hold this line.”

“Whatever,” said the colt quickly. “Look. I have spent the majority of my adult life trying to hurt other ponies, and a big part of that involves knowing when to run.” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter how brave you are if you’re dead.”

“Are you telling me —”

“We can’t stop that,” he shot, stabbing a hoof back at the decidedly orange sky to the west. “And we’re no use to anypony if we’re dead.”

As if to emphasize the point, they heard the faintest of detonations as one of the farthest trees burst into an eerie pinkish flame.

Kurland’s lips thinned. He didn’t like where this was going, and certainly didn’t like the idea of running away on the advice of a sellhoof, but the whelp had a point.

“We’ll be talking later,” he promised before turning back to address the trenches, where a hundred ponies hung on his every word.

“Tactical retreat!” he boomed. “By fours! Keep it orderly and we meet up at forward command!”

He tried to say more but it didn’t matter any more; they were gone, a hundred ponies running for what was all too likely their lives.

“Come on,” said Chal, grabbing at Flax. “We’ve got to go.”

She started off in the general direction of the herd but Chal collared her, hustling her off in an entirely different direction

“Aren’t we supposed to be going that way?”

“Sure we are,” said the colt, breaking into a run. “They all are. I’m good at this staying alive business, and let me tell you that sticking with a hundred targets is not the way to do it.”

“But —” she started, darting over a log. “What about them?”

“Captain Pretentious seems to be doing fine,” he snorted. “Besides, I know we’ll be fine.”

They dodged another fallen trunk; this was decidedly not a path. At least, not one that had been cleared any time in the past ten years; they seemed to be heading straight into a thicker part of forest. They could no longer see the sky glowing off to one side, but they could certainly still hear… something. Growing closer.

“Where are we going?”

“Firestorm, right?” he asked, breathing heavily. “Solution, water.”

They rounded a boulder and drew up short as the earthy loam gave way to a soggy mess.

“You call this water?”

“Bog, swamp, whatever you want to call it,” said Chal, wading into the marsh, “it’s full of water.”

“And bugs,” said Flax, tail working furiously to swat at them.

“Yeah, well.” He glanced up at the sky, which was no longer a shade recognizable as blue. “Better than the alternative.”

“Isn’t it always,” she said, tearing off a strip of her uniform and binding it around her muzzle like a bandana. “Looks like smoke.”

It took them a minute or two to find the deepest part of the bog; by the time they did, the forest to the east was flickering. And not with the morning sun, either; that was long gone, replaced by a persistent haze that seemed to start just above the treetop line.
Chal and Flax glanced at each other, heads just above the water. The bog itself leaned a bit too much on the far side of cool for comfort. They could feel the silt seeping under their coats, and could well imagine that leeches would turn up quickly enough, but neither was even considering exiting — the air was already warm, and they could feel a thickness in it, even though the moistened fabric.

The sounds of the forest had muted alongside the sun; an unnatural glow lit up the trees from all angles, dangerous colors sparkling off the water. Off in the distance there were faint shouts and cries, but they couldn’t say from whom or where.

Abstractly they knew the morning had been a clear one, but by this point it almost felt like twilight. Neither of them dared say a word; they didn’t know who might be listening or watching, muffled though the observation would be. Certainly there was no sign of anypony from their company, and while a timberwolf rider wasn’t out of the question, they knew better than to expect a cinematic rescue.

All was silent, save for an increasingly disconcerting dull roar from the bank that she was fairly certain lay to the east and a faint whistling that she just now noticed —

The tree closest to the bog exploded in a burst of shrapnel. A burning sensation streaked over Flax’ cheek; she spun into the water, frantically pawing at her face. Her hoof came back with a slab of bark, one serrated edge tinged with red: not much, but definitely not part of the tree’s natural extrusions.

She risked a glance back at the tree only to see that it… was still exploding? Showers of green and pink sparks flew off, tiny discharges snapping from branch to branch. One smacked into the water, sending a filigree of energy snaking across the water towards her. It veered off into a patch of colttails, which promptly shuddered… and started rocking back and forth.

The tree was starting to slow down now, shedding more smoke than light. The exposed trunk was charred through, but it smoldered in an eerie blue glow, little specks swimming around in the ash, throwing off sparks all the while.

“The hell is that?” mumbled Chal through his bandana.

In response, the colttails… sped up. They waved back and forth quickly, now jerking from one side to another, swaying with the shower of sparks and ash and bark from what was left of the tree’s core. For one last moment, the tree shuddered, struggling to stay alive, before giving up and settling back into a burst of sickly green flame, fire marching up the trunk and out the branches.

The tree might have given up, but the branches were another thing entirely. As the tongues approached each branch, it almost looked as if they shuddered, writhing away from their inevitable fate.

Wait a moment; they were writhing. The branches themselves were actually moving, trying to spread their leaves as far from the flame as possible. The leaves for their part weren’t idle; they rustled, stretching away from the heat and warmth, stretching….

One of the leaves separated, fluttering down — and then up again, its little green surface flapping as fast as it could go. Another leaf left, then a third. Suddenly, the entire tree took flight, a cloud of greenery abandoning ship. Sensing the escpe, the tongues of flame licked higher, and though they caught a few and singed many, the bulk of the leaves made it out. With a satisfied snap, the tree’s heartwood splintered down the middle, throwing ash all around it; a few seconds more and its magical energy was entirely discharged into the air and ground.

All around them, the wildfire was chasing after trees, eager to wreak its own special brand of hell on the wooded targets. Most went up like tissue paper, but a few put up a fight. One tree generated itself an emerald shield, another started dripping water, a third ripped itself out of the ground and started shuffling away on loamy roots.

For their part, Chal and Flax got as low as they could in the water and stood as quiet as they could, thoroughly confused and entirely terrified.

Valiant though their struggle may have been, the trees didn’t get far. The shielded tree flickered, and though the sphere popped right back up, there was already fire on the inside. The dripping tree went up in a puff of steam; the running tree tripped on one of its charred comrades, likewise falling prey to the wildfire in a vicious purplish smoke.

Near the exposed soil where the running tree had uprooted itself, a large mass of fur popped up, sniffed the air, and took off in a northerly direction. Though it looked very much like an oversized mole, it definitely had six legs. Leaves flapped about, the colttails were waving to themselves; everything was chaos, and most of it was on fire.

“The hell,” whispered Chal, poking her in the shoulder, “is going on.”

Flax would have responded, but something caught in her throat; she erupted in a hacking cough instead. Damned ash —

Why had the colttails stopped? As one, the field of reeds in the bog sank down, descending under the water.

“Did… did they hear you?” muttered Chal.

“No clue,” said Flax, smacking her chest to try and clear out some of the ash that had snuck in. It burned her throat, but the alternative wasn’t looking too good right about now. She replaced her hoof under the water, but stepped on something pointy.

“Ow?” she asked.

Chal frowned, but after a moment a look of surprise crossed his face too.

“I thought this was a sandy bottom,” he said, lifting up a hoof and plucking a reed from it. “Didn’t see any rocks.”

“Weren’t any,” said Flax. “At least — hey!”

Now that was definitely something poking her; it felt not unlike a light tap in the flank. It certainly didn’t hurt her, but she wasn’t expecting anything to be swimming in the bog, much less anything that was interested in her. Maybe a leech? She swung an arm down at the offending spot, coming up with… a handful of colttail?

“What?” she asked absently, staring at the small bundle of reeds. It twitched a few times at her, then fell limp, slipping back into the water.

Something else poked at her other flank. Then another tug at her tail, a nudge on her forehoof — and a sharp pinch on her neck.

“Hey!” she shouted, stepping back onto another reed that bit back. “Chal, what….”

She trailed off as her eye caught the pony next to her — a colt slumped over, face-down in the water as a crimson thread trailed with the current. Ignoring her own pricks and jabs she was at his side in a flash, holding his head up, smacking his back to get the water out.

Chal choked, sputtering water; he said something, but she couldn’t quite make him out. She swatted away another reed, though it didn’t go anywhere.

“What?”

His lips were moving, but no sound was coming out. She couldn’t hear much of anything at this point; the forest was suspiciously quiet. It was also floating up. Or was that her staggering down?

“The hell,” she whispered, smacking her flank as a colttail tore off a ragged patch of her coat, taking a bit of skin with it. But she didn’t feel it — didn’t feel any of it. There was too much blood already in the water, too much of it out there and not enough in her to process what was happening.

All along the shore, magic sparked off between trees and the firestorm, little bolts and discharges flying every which way. None of what Flax saw made any sense. None of it… but that wasn’t her problem any more.

A prick at her side but she ignored it, suddenly tired. The water didn’t seem so bad. A bit reddish, but probably comfortable. And it was right there, too. She would stand up again and get out after a second. Just a second… a few seconds more….