The Age of Wings and Steel

by DSNesmith

24. Ponies of the North

The fighting lasted well into the evening. Rye, Cranberry, and Inger watched from their position on the ridge as the Nordponies below fought and bled and died, crashing against each other again and again.

“This is our army?” Rye’s voice was filled with disgust. “Unbelievable. We come all this way to find them killing each other. We need warriors, not corpses.”

“Th-th-they’re a v-violent p-people, Rye. That’s why we w-wanted their help in the f-first p-p-place, remember?” Cranberry’s eyes were shut tight. She was curled against the cold, trying in vain to hide behind Inger’s broad wings from the wind.

“We have to get down to one of their camps,” said Inger. “It can’t be far.”

“If we walk down there right now we’re likely to get a blade through the throat.”

“R-Rye’s r-right, we n-need to w-wait for the b-b-battle to end before we ap-p-proach.”

Inger exhaled angrily. “Miss Cranberry, we need to get you to warmth, and fast. We don’t have time to wait.” The fear in his eyes belied his anger.

“I’ve m-made it this f-far, I’m not g-going to g-g-give up now.” Cranberry flinched as a gust swept past them.

The minutes crept by. With nothing else to do, Rye stared down at the Nordponies below. It was chaos and death on a scale he’d never seen. A dizzying array of banners flew around the field, carrying varied emblems and sigils, but two banners seemed predominant: the army that had come from the east carried the mark of a raven, and the forces from the west were led by a crest of two great elk antlers. When the wind swept by, Rye could sometimes catch the faint calls of the fighters. The sunlight began to disappear.

As the evening wore on, it gradually became apparent that one of the groups below was winning. The flags of the raven pushed the elk further and further back westward across the field, leaving behind piles of bodies and broken shields. In the last few vestiges of the light, a loud horn sounded, and the defeated army beat a hasty retreat. The winners let them flee, and the calls of more horns sang their victory to the tundra.

“We need to follow them back to their camp,” said Inger. “They’re bound to have fire and food there.” He looked down at Cranberry with barely-contained terror. “We should go now.”

Rye agreed, but Cranberry wouldn’t budge. “Hey, ‘Berry. It’s time to go. Let’s get a move on.” She gave no response. “Cranberry. Cranberry.” There was little pink left in her once-bright coat; she looked as pale as the tundra snow. The tips of her ears had turned black. She wasn’t moving.

His heart leapt into his chest. No, no no no no. Not now, not when we’re so close! Inger leaned down beside the little pink earth pony and held his breath. A slight puff of steam wandered from Cranberry’s mouth, and the two stallions sighed with momentary relief. Inger nudged his head underneath her. “Come on, help me carry her. We can still make it in time.”

Rye helped drag Cranberry across Inger’s back, and the sturdy pegasus lifted her with a grunt. “She’s heavier than she looks,” said Inger, but the stab at levity hung dead in the air. He stared down the ridge at the Nordponies below, who were turning and marching back east. “Come on, let’s follow them.”

They walked as quickly as they could, urging their stiff joints onward. Cranberry bumped up and down on Inger’s back, making no movements of her own. Eventually they found themselves wandering in the trail of the Nordponies, stepping through the vast tracks of hoofprints left behind by the army. The Nordponies were distantly visible ahead, but they were beginning to disappear from sight.

“Come on, Inger,” said Rye. He couldn’t feel his legs anymore. His eyelids seemed to droop of their own accord. “We have to hurry or we’ll never catch them.”

“Right,” said Inger, sounding as tired as Rye felt. They quickened their pace, setting off at a light run. Cranberry’s head bounced rhythmically. The Nordponies were starting to vanish from view in the failing daylight. Rye raced ahead, and began shouting hoarsely.

“Hey! Hey! Help us! Wait!” The Nordponies were too far to hear him. He ran onward, trying to close the gap. Inger followed, still carrying his burden.

“Wait up!” Rye pulled closer, his hooves thudding on the hard ground. He was close enough now to see the banners again. The ravens seemed to stare balefully at him. He yelled out again. “Hey!”
He was gratified to see a small group of Nordponies break away from the main army and begin circling back. They never slowed their pace, galloping like the wind. Rye began to falter, his energy spent. Inger pulled up next to him. “Hold up, Inger. They’re coming to us.”

Indeed they were. Rather rapidly. The Nordponies were on them in a minute, running right past without a look. Rye yelled “Hey!”, but the northerners broke their charge and turned to encircle the three Equestrians. There were about a dozen of them.

Some dim part of Rye’s brain noted with curiosity that they were all shades of brown and gray, ochres and earth-tones blending together in their plain coats. None of the vibrant colors of the Equestrian ponies could be found. There were other differences, as well. The northerners were tall to a pony, even the shortest of them standing equal to Inger. They were all thickly built as well, dwarfing even the largest chargers Rye had ever seen in Canterlot tournaments. Their coats and manes were long and shaggy, rough blonde curls falling freely from their heads.

Each of the Nordponies was clad in a kind of armor Rye had never seen before. It looked like chainmail, but instead of metal links it was made of scales sewn into cloth. The scales were the color of faded blue steel, dull and unreflective. The mail covered their breasts, necks, and backs, and their upper legs were armored with boiled leather. All of them wore heavy fur-lined cloaks, pulled tightly around their backs and fastened in front with a raven-shaped clasp. Their helmets were made of crudely wrought iron, covering the tops of their heads but leaving the eyes and muzzle exposed. From underneath their helmets they stared at Rye. Their eyes were all the same bright, piercing blue.

The Nordponies were armed to the teeth. A few wore hoof-maces like Rye had seen before in Canterlot, but most were armed with more exotic weapons. In their teeth they gripped axes and a few hammers with short tassels hanging from the hafts, but the most impressive of all was the pony who wore a sword sheathed at his side.

Axes and hammers took great strength of the neck to wield effectively, but a sword was something else altogether. Ponies did not have the natural ability to wield a blade that griffons did. Without any way to grip a sword except their mouths, most found it simpler to use their natural hooves or simple spears as weaponry. Those who did dedicate themselves to mastering the difficult art of swordsponyship were individuals of exceptional dedication and skill. Rye knew this pony must be their leader.

Sure enough, the pony wearing the sword stepped forward. He studied the three Equestrians before him without expression. Rye looked around nervously. The other Nordponies had their weapons drawn, and were clearly ready to use them. He stared back at the leader, trying to come up with something—anything—to say.

“Hyaal jyk var?” queried the Nordpony. He stared curiously at Rye, who suddenly felt acutely aware of his tiny wings and miniscule frame.

“Look… my friend, she’s hurt—we need fire, food, water. Please, can you help us?”

“Jarveil, seijvar ya vilduin.” The sword-bearer’s eyes narrowed. A sudden gust of wind took them, and Rye’s hair flew backwards to reveal his horn. The Nordponies reared back. “Volsijeh!” The sword-bearer swept his head back and in one swift motion drew his weapon, bringing it instantly level with Rye’s face. In contrast to the rough iron axes held by the others, the sword was made of fine steel. It was still stained with blood from the earlier battle.

“Whoa, whoa! Hold on!” Rye looked back and forth, panicking.

Behind him, Inger breathed deeply. “Rye, this is not a fight we can win.”

“I don’t want to fight them at all!”

The lead Nordpony watched the interplay in silence. His gaze was locked on Rye’s horn, as if waiting for it to explode. The Nordpony’s eyes flicked between Rye’s wings and horn, and his forehead creased in puzzlement. He edged his sword handle to the side of his mouth, speaking around it with the ease of one long-accustomed to doing so. “Breivikk?”

“What?” Rye felt a bead of sweat drip down his neck before freezing. “’Bray-vik’?”
The Nordpony seemed to struggle for a moment, before saying “You… You nih…” His brows furrowed. “You-nih-corn?”

Rye shook his head frantically. “No! No, not a unicorn. I have a horn, but no magic, see?” He gave a sickly grin. The Nordpony stared at him with distrust, but to Rye’s vast relief he sheathed his blade once more. The rest of the warriors stood down as well, letting their axes and hammers hang from their sides by the tassels.

The leader spoke haltingly. “You… Equestrian?” His voice was thickly accented.

“Yes, yes, Equestria! To the south.” Rye pointed a hoof at the distant mountains. “We came to talk to you.”

“My speak… little Equestrian.”

“A little’s better than none. Look, please, we need your help. Do you have any fire? Warmth? Uh...” Rye thought for a moment, then plunged his hoof into the thin layer of snow on the tundra’s icy ground. He sketched a rough campfire, before looking up at the Nordpony. The northerner’s eyebrows rose in understanding.

“Fieyra.” He broke into a laugh. “Na fieyrar, na skeivar—Equestriar sik valund dir je rovund!” His warriors laughed with him.

Rye had long ago become keenly attuned to all forms of insult, both subtle and overt. He had just spent three long and harrowing days living on pure adrenaline, without eating or drinking or getting a good night’s sleep, and now these foreigners were mocking him and his friends for the crime of freezing to death. Something inside him snapped.

“You hairy imbeciles. We’ve been through a nightmare over the last three days. We’ve lost our food, our supplies, our clothing, and our way. We came here to ask for your help, and instead you’re spitting in our faces and laughing. Damn your laughter. My friend is going to die if you don’t help us.”

He doubted the Nordpony had understood five words of his ranting. But his tone was clear enough, and the noises of their mirth died. The leader tilted his head to look at Rye, then at Cranberry’s pale form. His eyes softened. He nodded to three of his warriors. “Forsete, Erling, Hadle; vash ter skeivar a je Equestriar.”

The three warriors grumbled with displeasure, but unfastened their heavy cloaks. Inger gratefully set Cranberry down and snatched one of the furs. He wrapped the pale white earth pony in the heavy cloak, covering her from her ears to her hooves. He put on the second himself, before hoisting Cranberry over his shoulders like a little filly. As he worked, Inger muttered under his breath, casting worried glances at her unmoving features. Rye watched with concern as he clasped his own borrowed cloak around his neck.

The cloak was warm and thick and wonderful. Rye wanted to bury himself in it and sleep for days. The inside smelled of actual leather—not like the artificially sewn furs of Equestria. He supposed he ought to be horrified at the idea of wearing another creature’s skin, but the harsh north left little room for sentiment. After a day and a half of wandering the frozen wastes he was more than willing to accept the gift. He again resisted the urge to fall to the ground and snuggle under the warm cloak until the sun set and rose again.

He turned to the Nordpony leader and bowed. “Thank you. Please, take us to your camp. We haven’t eaten in days.”

The Nordpony barked orders, and the group moved onward. The Nordponies escorted the Equestrians in a circle, providing a small buffer against the wind—and preventing any attempts to stray from their course.

* * *

The sun was completely gone by the time they reached the camp. The glow of fires beckoned, promising warmth and food. The ponies approached the outer limits of the camp, where they were met by an advance guard of another dozen Nordponies.

The guards exchanged a few words with the pony who held the sword, before nodding and allowing the group to pass. The one with the sword motioned for Rye and Inger to follow, and led them deeper into the camp. They passed by dozens of tents, keenly aware of the suspicious eyes of the Nordponies. The standard of the raven fluttered from every tent, the bird’s eye glaring down at the Equestrians. Rye tried not to imagine the howl of the wind as the raven screeching.

Eventually, they came to one of the largest and longest tents in the camp, big enough for nearly forty ponies to stand shoulder-to-shoulder inside. Ducking into the flap of the tent, they found themselves in what was clearly the infirmary. Cots and tables spread from one end of the tent to the other, filled with injured soldiers. Moans and cries rose from the wounded, as several ponies rushed back and forth tending to their injuries. The smell was terrible. Rye heard a frenzied whinny from the far side of the tent, then a squelching noise and silence. He shuddered underneath his cloak.

The pony with the sword led them to the end of the row of cots, gesturing to one of the empty ones. Inger laid Cranberry down on it, carefully tucking her cloak back over her ears. She looked very small. She shivered, and one of her ears twitched.

A grim Nordpony holding a crude saw rushed past Rye, headed down the line of cots to one of the tables. The soldier lying on the table began screaming in unintelligible Sleipnordic as two others held him down.

Rye couldn’t take any more of the tent. He fled from the stench of blood, bursting out of the infirmary and into the clean snow. He stood, gasping for air, trying not to hear the sounds of the dying behind him. He heaved, but it had been three days since his last meal, and nothing came up. Utterly miserable, he curled up beside the tent’s entrance, huddling under his cloak.

A few minutes later, Inger and the swordspony emerged. The Nordpony gestured firmly at the ground with a hoof, then turned and went deeper into the camp. Inger sat down beside Rye.

“She’ll live, I think.” Inger dour tone sounded almost cheerful, for him. “I couldn’t understand what they were saying, but the… nurseponies? Whatever the Nordpony equivalent is, they didn’t seem very concerned.” He looked at Rye again. “Are you feeling all right?”

“I’ve been better.” Rye sat upright. “Where’d our friend go?”

“I think he went to find a translator.” Inger looked off in the direction the swordspony had gone in. “I can’t be sure, but I think these are the ponies of Saddlestead.”

“Cranberry would know.” Rye looked back at the tent. “She’ll live. She has to.”

“Here comes our friend with the sword,” said Inger.

The swordspony trotted up to them, accompanied by another Nordpony. The newcomer was short for a northerner, barely a head taller than Rye. His coat was drab gray, and his mane and eyes were the same blonde and blue as all the other Nordponies they had encountered.

He sized the two Equestrians up, then said “Hmm.” He looked at the pony with the sword, who nodded. Turning back to Rye and Inger, he said, “Greetings. I am Vasijeil, son of Hafnr, son of Skierran. What are your names?”

“Uh, I’m Rye Strudel… er, son of Apricot.”

“And your companion?” The translator looked over at Inger.

“Inger. Just… Inger.” The pegasus looked uncomfortable, but the Nordpony didn’t press further.

“You come from Equestria?”

Rye nodded. “We’re here on behalf of Princess Celestia.” He reached under his cloak, struggling to unclasp his saddlebag. “We’ve brought-“

The translator forestalled him with a hoof. “Not now. We can discuss your business here after you’ve eaten and rested.” He spoke a few words in Sleipnordic to the swordspony, who replied in kind. “Eberhardt says that you may sleep in his tent tonight. You are to be afforded the same courtesy as if you were in the thane’s hall itself.”

Rye’s eyes widened. “You mean he—Eberhardt—he’s the thane?”

The translator laughed. “No, the thane is not on the field today. Pressing matters demanded his attention in Saddlestead. Eberhardt Snowmane, son of Heimfarr, son of Dalf, is his chief Huskarl. Have no fear; you will be safe in his care.”

Eberhardt said something to the translator. “But we have spoken long enough. You must be tired, and hungry. Most of the soldiers have already eaten, but there is still some soup in the pot.” The translator and Eberhardt beckoned and walked away, and Rye and Inger followed.

They came to one of the fires near the center of the camp, where a great cast iron pot hung over the flames. At Eberhardt’s request, one of the Nordponies dipped a ladle into the pot and filled three bowls. Eberhardt and Inger dug in, but Rye sniffed the soup apprehensively.

“Wha’s wron’?” asked Inger, between gulps.

“That smells foul,” said Rye, eyeing the soup warily. “How can you eat that?”

“I’ve had worse,” said Inger. “And I’m hungry enough to eat a—well.” He took another sip.

Rye looked at the translator. “Could I have a look at the cooking facilities around here?”

The Nordpony barked a laugh. “We don’t have any ‘facilities’, Equestrian. This is a war camp. We have to feed two thousand ponies three times a day. There’s no room for fancy meals, just hay, soup, and porridge.”

“Can you at least let me talk to the cook?” The translator spoke to Eberhardt, who shrugged and nodded.

“Very well,” said the translator, amused. “Come, I’ll take you to Yarvisteil. I warn you, don’t insult his cooking. It would reflect badly on me if I were to bring you back… less than intact.”

They wandered into the camp, eventually coming to a bulky tent that smelled faintly of cooked vegetables. Rye poked a head inside, bumping into the chest of an immense Nordpony. He craned his neck up at the looming stallion, feeling his stomach drop.

Behind him, the translator spoke. “Yarvisteil, valyir ha. Ver sik Rye se Equestria.” He said to Rye, “This is Yarvisteil, son of Hafnr. No relation.”

“P-pleased to meet you,” said Rye, still looking up at the glaring cook. The Nordpony had to be at least two meters tall. A tiny apron hung around his neck. It would have been comical if the pony wearing it hadn’t looked like a terrifying, full-blown warhorse.

The cook said something angrily in Sleipnordic. The translator snickered. “He wants to know why an Equestrian dirt-eater is in his storeroom.”

“Dirt-eater?” Rye huffed indignantly. These Nordponies clearly couldn’t cook to save their lives. How dare they call him a- “Tell him my soft Equestrian stomach can’t handle his northern gruel. I need some supplies to make food that’s fit for eating.”

The translator winced and said something to the cook. Yarvisteil’s mouth curled down. The translator said something else, and Rye caught the word ‘Eberhardt’. The cook snorted, and shook his head. He grumbled something in disgust and pushed past Rye to leave the tent.

“He says that he’ll respect his commander’s wishes, but his tolerance for southerner foolishness is low. I suggest you hurry up and get your supplies.”

Rye looked around the tent. Several makeshift shelves held various jars of ingredients. The entire setup was clearly designed to be moved on a moment’s notice. Rye picked through the jars, looking for the right vegetables.

“What kind of organizational—can’t find anything in this mess…” Rye muttered to himself. He sorted through the shelves, complaining merrily. He laid aside some carrots and onions on a piece of cloth. “No peppers… Well, we’ll have to make do…” He felt like he was back at home in the bakery’s kitchen, helping his father prepare dinner. As he laid out some seasoning, he remembered the delicious smells as his father danced about the kitchen, working his magic. Apricot Strudel’s bread was famous, but he was a fantastic cook in every respect. Rye missed him more than he’d realized.

“Aha!” He reached his head over the shelf and snagged a jar. He unscrewed the lid and shook out a few of the vegetables inside. “Beets!” he said brightly. He replaced the lid and the jar, then gathered up all his ingredients in the cloth. “Not perfect, but it should do.” He trotted outside and nodded at the translator.

They returned to the dying campfire, where Inger waited. “Hope you don’t mind, Rye, I finished off your soup for you.”

Rye shuddered. Inger had a poor definition of edible. He looked into the pot. Most of the so-called “soup” had already been eaten by the Nordponies. The pot had cooled enough to touch. Rye tilted it with a hoof, pouring out what little remained inside. He stirred the fire a bit, hoping to rekindle the flames.

Eberhardt grunted, then pointed to a pile of logs behind a nearby tent. Rye threw some wood on the fire, basking in the warmth. “Oh, that’s nice.” He took a moment to let the heat dance on his face and melt away the nightmarish cold of the day before. He scooped up some snow and threw it into the pot to boil.

As the snow melted, the translator spoke. “Now that you have settled, Eberhardt wishes to hear how three Equestrians managed to find themselves in the middle of the tundra without so much as a flint and tinder.”

Rye looked at Inger, who nodded, and began the tale. “It all started down in Canterlot, two weeks ago…”

* * *

Rye and Inger took turns describing the events that had led them to Eberhardt’s camp. They told the Nordpony about the griffon attack, the meeting with the Princess, their run-in with Cranberry, the darkness of the forest, and the horrors of the underworld beneath the mountains. When they finished, Eberhardt sat silently.

«So,» he said at last, his words passing through the translator. «You have come to Sleipnord to find aid against your foes in the south.» He frowned. «I doubt you will find any help in the northlands, Equestrians. We have troubles of our own.»

“The Nordponies helped us defeat the old Gryphan Empire six hundred years ago,” said Rye, smothering his anger. “Your ancestors swore to aid us should they ever rise again. Well, the day has come. We need your help.”

Eberhardt shook his head. «The griffons are fierce enemies, but they threaten your homeland, not ours. We fight a more personal foe, here.» He looked out over the tundra, gesturing with a hoof. «Sleipnord has no ruler, no Princess, as you do. The thanes are not kings. For the help you request, you would need the support of all three of the major halls. And that, I fear you will not find.

«There is war in the land of Sleipnord, as there has always been. Thane Yorel Rimebeard of Aenir is dead, and his son Erik now leads their warriors. He seeks to take the Blood Fields, sending his armies endlessly against our own.»

“The Blood Fields?”

«You sit upon them as we speak. Between Saddlestead, Aenir, and Hoofnjord lies a vast stretch of land. Though it is already frozen for the winter, in the spring and summer months this plain yields fertile soil. Farmland is a rare commodity in the north. Much blood has been spilled in the past over this land, and ours is likely not to be the last.

«With the death of the Thane Yorel, Erik has become more aggressive in his attempts to hold the fields. Four months ago, his warriors attacked the peasants under our protection, slaughtering our vassals and burning their homesteads. Thane Braki sent me and two thousand of his warriors to crush his army and defend our land, but the months have passed and the fighting grows only fiercer. Today we struck Erik a heavy blow, but he commands forces more numerous than I, and he will soon recover. My men and I return to Saddlestead tomorrow, to celebrate our victory and prepare for the next battle.»

Rye mulled over everything Eberhardt had said. “So the other ponies today, the ones with the elk sigils?”

«Erik’s warriors. The elk is the symbol of his line.» Eberhardt scowled. «The Rimebeards’ sigil is a mark of shame, yet they wear it proudly.»

“Why are elk horns a mark of shame?”

«Long ago, the Rimebeards joined themselves with the elk. They used foul magic to dominate the other houses, subjugating our ancestors to their rule. Even today, elk blood runs in their line. The taint of magic is strong about them. They are not truly ponies any longer.» Eberhardt looked at Rye’s horn. «And tell me, Rye Strudel, son of Apricot, what exactly are you?»

“I’m not a full unicorn,” said Rye, fully aware of where this conversation was leading. “I can’t do magic. It’s just a horn.”

Eberhardt frowned. «So you say. I won’t permit any of the Equestrian black arts in my camp. If I catch one whiff of magic…»

“Don’t worry,” said Rye. “I’m harmless.” He nudged his bowl of soup. “Care to try some of this before I go?”

«Go? You’ll be staying here tonight,» said Eberhardt.

“Yes,” said Rye, “but first I’d like to take a bowl of this to Cranberry. My father always made this for me when I had a cold… maybe it’ll warm her up again.”

Eberhardt nodded in understanding. «Very well. I admit, I am curious. I shall taste your Equestrian food.» He took a sip. His eyes widened. «That is…» Rye winced in anticipation. «Delicious. What is in this?»

Relaxing, Rye smiled. “Oh, a little of this and a little of that. It’s a Strudel family secret recipe.” He thought for a moment. “Well, it would be, if they’d had any pepper.”

“I’ll try some of that,” said the translator, his curiosity piqued by Eberhardt’s reaction. He took a sip and hummed with surprise. “That’s quite good.”

Inger looked regretfully at the steaming pot, then gave a little moan and held his stomach. Rye gave him a smug smile. “Care to try some?”

“No… I’m feeling a bit ill, truth be told.”

“Well, well. Perhaps you’ll think twice before you gobble up that disgusting sludge next time.” He restrained himself from an I told you so. He swished his tail and trotted off, carrying a hot bowl in the direction of the tent where Cranberry lay.

He reached the infirmary and paused at the entrance, bracing himself for the unpleasantness within. He pushed through with his bowl of soup, expecting to hear the screams and howls of the injured again, but found to his quiet gratitude that all was silent within. The injured lay sleeping, their wounds beginning to heal from the battle with the Aenir ponies.

Deeper inside, he found Cranberry. She was still lying on the cot, though her cloak had shifted off her head. Rye whispered “Hey.” He nudged her, but Cranberry didn’t respond. “Cranberry, you in there?”

Cranberry’s lips moved. She murmured something again as Rye leaned closer. “Mom…?”

“No, Cranberry, it’s me. Rye.” He smiled sadly. “Come on, drink up.” He spooned a ladle of soup into Cranberry’s mouth. The earth pony mumbled a bit, and turned over. A little pink flushed back into her pale face. “Wake up soon, Cranberry. We’re going to need your help to get this all sorted out.”

Comments

[PaulAsaran]

What, only three thanes? I was expecting, like a dozen. Then again, that would probably prolong this story to needless proportions.

I like how you've given the Sleipnords their own history and purpose. It's what I expected, considering the rest of the story so far, but the fact that it's so much more than most authors would do just makes it that much more noteworthy. Frankly, it makes my stories feel underplanned. Tell me, did you create a nordic language or use a known, real-world language for them?

[psychosis]

So is this going to be more Norse, or Anglo-Saxon? Of course, they are close enough to mix and match.

[Golden Fang Ryu Shenron]

Cranberry’s lips moved. She murmured something again as Rye leaned closer. “Mom…?”

Did anyone else feel their heads ache a bit?