Fort Updraft (Part II)
“Come on, you guys.” Finder looked back to Carver, Dawn, Summer, and Windshear with a broad, excited smile. “We’re almost to the lake!”
“Easy, Finder.” Carver laughed, adjusting the food-stuffed haversack that hung from his side. “We’ve got two whole days to relax! What’s the rush?”
Finder leapt at Carver, his hooves on the older pony’s shoulders. He leaned close enough that their snouts were almost touching before he spoke. “‘Cause we only have two days! Then it’s back to marching and flying patrol and fighting and getting yelled at! We gotta make the most of this while it lasts!”
“As they say in Nimbus: life is short, then you die,” Summer said with an easy smile and a slight shrug of her shoulders.
Windshear let out a conspicuous cough into his hoof. “Well, aren’t you ponies a morbid lot.”
“Not at all,” Dawn answered, shooting a glare at Windshear. “We’re actually a very optimistic bunch.”
“How so?” Windshear asked, scratching at his brow with a hoof.“ I mean, every Nimban talks about a glorious death in battle.”
“Far better to die fighting for what you believe in than to live a coward's life,” Summer said, playfully punching Windshear’s shoulder.
“I don’t know,” Carver mused, his gaze drifting up to the clear blue skies. “I wouldn’t mind being a coward with a bunch of grandfoals running around.”
“It’s true that a coward would probably survive to see another sunrise,” Summer agreed, trotting closer to Carver. “But what worth is there to a pony who isn’t willing to sacrifice everything for their cause?”
“Sure, you’ll get a powerful group if you all are willing to die for your cause, but what about when you’re beaten? Then everypony willing to take it that far will be dead and so is that cause they were fighting for.” Carver’s hoof gestured through the air in front of him as he locked eyes with Summer. “I mean, I suppose it is a noble and honorable thing to sacrifice your life for a cause. However, last I heard, the dead don’t talk, which means they can’t carry on the mission. So, does it not stand to reason that perhaps a coward or two should survive? If, at least, for no other reason than to keep the cause alive?”
Summer scoffed, elbowing Carver’s ribs playfully. “You sound like a politician. My father would like you.”
“My dad loves a good debate,” Carver said, taking the hit in stride and smiling. “Every week when I was small, he’d invite over a group of friends for dinner and hours of ‘learned discussion’ over wine.”
“Definitely sounds like my father,” Summer laughed. “Always inviting over other politicians and their families to work out a deal or discuss legislation. Gods, it was so boring.”
“Well color me surprised, Summer,” Windshear began, trotting alongside her and Carver. “I’d would’ve thought Nimban politics ended with a knife in the back.”
“Nooo,” Summer drawled, waving a dismissive hoof at the idea. “We don’t stab ponies in the back, that’s for Cirran politicians. Nimban politicians look you in the eye and stab you in the heart.” A genteel smile pulled at the corners of Summer’s mouth. “Like civilized ponies.”
Pathfinder looked over his shoulder at the comment, a concerned look dominating his expression. Trotting beside him, Dawn shook her head and smiled, nudging his side with her wing.
“She’s kidding,” Dawn said, keeping her voice down, “We really don’t run around stabbing each other to solve a problems.”
Finder let out a sheepish laugh, his right hoof combing through his mane. “I didn’t think so, but with Summer I never know…”
Dawn shrugged her shoulders. “She likes to tease, but she’s a good mare. You’ll get used to her eventually.”
“How did you two meet?” he asked, motioning back to the older mare with a tilt of his head.
“Summer and me? Oh, we’ve been thick as thieves since we were fillies,” Dawn explained with an easy smile. “Our dads were old friends, and we spent a lot of time together growing up.”
“Really? What did your dads do?” Finder asked.
“Politics, politics, politics.” Dawn gagged, letting her tongue hang out of her mouth. “My dad stayed local, her dad got appointed to represent Nimbus in the Imperial Senate.”
Finder nodded, casually stepping over the decaying trunk of a fallen tree and offering a helping hoof to Dawn. She arched an eyebrow at the colt, her confusion disappearing into a polite smile. Taking his hoof, she stepped over the log and drew close to Finder.
“Why thank you, kind sir,” she said, her eyes locked with his.
The familiar burn climbed up Finder’s neck and into his face as he gave Dawn a lopsided, nervous smile and nodded. They remained still for a moment, Finder unsure what to do next, and Dawn patiently watching him. After a few seconds, Dawn looked to her hoof, still held by Finder’s smaller fetlock.
“I’m gonna need that hoof back,” she said with a tone of amusement.
Finder’s ears folded back, the burn in his cheeks turning into a small inferno. “Oh, right!” he said, releasing her hoof as gently as he had taken it. “Sorry.”
Dawn’s lilting laughter danced through the morning breeze and through Finder’s ears. The sound made his stomach flutter and his mouth go dry. She stretched out her left wing, her soft primaries tickling his side and making him shiver. “It’s fine, really. It’s actually pretty cute. Now come on, we’ve got a lake to get to!”
Trotting past Finder, Dawn’s long tail flicked his nose. He stood there for a moment, his mind processing what had just happened. With a quick shake of his head to clear his thoughts, Finder trotted after her, only marginally hearing the political conversation that Carver and Summer had become engrossed with.
Windshear, on the other hoof, couldn’t help feeling like a foal that brought a wooden spoon to a wingblade fight. He knew almost nothing about politics or philosophy, and he cared about it even less. Summer and Carver had seemingly forgotten the world around them in their spirited discussion. As far as Windshear was concerned, it was a minor miracle they hadn’t stopped walking in order to better argue the merits of the Nimban and Cirran governing attitudes.
Small victories, he supposed.
“Of course it’s nice that Cirran citizens have elected representatives to plead their interests at a national scale,” Summer said, waving a hoof in the air to emphasize her point. “But when you look at the totality of problems that are left over, it’s just inarguable that the Nimban system is more efficient.”
“The Nimban system is an archaic remnant of the times before the empire!” Carver stomped a hoof into the grass. “The noble houses of today were just the chief vassals of Warlord Fire Rain from four-hundred years ago. Sure you can get a lot of things done, and quickly, but Nimbus is just one city! If the whole empire was run by the old ways,” Carver hesitated, thinking of the best way to phrase his thoughts. “Well, there wouldn’t be an empire today, just a few city-states locked in a perpetual war. That’s no way to live.”
“But Nimbus thrived during the tribal wars against the other warchiefs to the west, and the griffons from the east.” Summer gestured with her wings, her full attention on Carver. “We bred the mightiest soldiers in the history of the world, and Clan Rain’s system of managing the warlords was a resounding success. You can’t dispute that fact.”
“That still doesn’t change the fact that the Cirran tribe, under the leadership of Emperor Roamulus, was able to build a larger empire, with a stronger economy, better infrastructure, and social flexibility that was impossible under the Nimban system,” Carver argued, counting off his points with his primary feathers. “It’s why Nimbus joined Cirra during the unification wars.”
“You’re forgetting though,” Summer interrupted, her wing briefly draping over Carver’s back. “Warlord Fire Rain rescued Roamulus’ army just when they were about to be crushed. Nimbus was able to integrate into the Cirran empire while retaining the majority of our autonomy. Especially in regards to our culture and military.”
“Yes, and nopony is disputing that Nimbus is the heart and soul of the Cirran Legion,” Carver agreed, nodding his head once. “But even Nimbus has evolved over the last four centuries. Hence why the vassal warlords now form the noble families and nimbus politics increasingly look like a smaller scale version of the imperial senate in Stratopolis.”
“But under—Whoa!” Summer yelped, having failed to notice the fallen tree until she had tripped over it. Her face met the ground with a muted thud, and for a moment she remained there, silent and utterly still.
Windshear burst out laughing.
Stepping over the log, Carver nudged her side. “You okay?”
“I think I broke my pride,” Summer mumbled into the grass.
“There’s a metaphor in this, somewhere,” Carver said, rubbing his chin with a hoof and snickering.
“Oh, shut up,” Summer pouted, hefting herself up and brushing the dirt off her coat.
The lake had been a popular choice for many of the platoon’s recruits to spend their time off. Small groups, usually numbering between four to ten, laid claim for various spots along the shoreline. Many splashed around in the cool, shallow waters, giggling like foals all the while. Some practiced dueling with fallen tree branches in lieu of their swords. Still others had been contented to simply find a soft patch of grass under the shade of trees where they fell into deep, peaceful, sleep.
Finder, Dawn, Carver, Summer, and Windshear spent nearly an hour hiking the trails around the lake before finding a quiet spot. Carver and Windshear set two haversacks against a tree, each stuffed to the brim with food, while Dawn rolled out a blanket she had “borrowed” from one of First Platoon’s recruits.
Finder was stunned by the veritable smorgasbord the older stallions had acquired: pastries, fruits, vegetables, cheeses, sandwiches, and more. Finder, Dawn, and Summer all cast an incredulous look at their friends.
“How in the world did you guys get this?” Finder asked.
“This looks like stuff from the officer’s mess,” Summer noted, inspecting one of the sandwiches.
“Yup,” Windshear said, looking quite pleased with himself. “They weren’t gonna miss it.”
“How the hell did you get Chef to give you these?” Dawn asked, even as she sat on the pilfered blanket and reached for a sweetroll.
Windshear blinked once, staring at Dawn with a dumbfounded expression. “Uh, I bribed him. I mean, really. What did you think I’d do, steal them?” He pointed a hoof at Finder. “I’d make Pipsqueak there do that before I would.”
Finder voiced his irritation with a grunt, closing his eyes and taking a big bite from his sandwich.
“So,” Windshear started, flopping onto his right side and snagging an apple from the pile. “You all excited for the tournament tomorrow?”
“The medics aren’t allowed to participate,” Summer answered, her lips pursed in a disappointed pout. “We just get to watch.”
The comment drew Finder’s attention to Summer. “Why don’t you get to participate?”
Dawn answered while Summer ate. “They don’t want to risk injuring a platoon medic for something like that.” She offered the stallions a sympathetic smile. “No offense, boys, but we’re harder to replace than you are.”
“Alas, you’ll miss out on all the fun, such a pity.” Windshear looked to Summer. “And there I was, all excited to see how a Nimban mare fights.”
Summer snorted. “Well, I know that the Eighth Legion is deployed in Nimbus. So, since that’s our legion, we’ll be sent there to reinforce them.” She smiled to Windshear. “You’ll get plenty of chances to see Nimbans in battle. Think you can keep up?”
“I’ll certainly have fun trying,” Windshear answered.
“That’s the spirit!” Summer cheered.
After a moment of eating in silence, Carver spoke again. “Are any of you scared? Of the griffons, I mean.”
Pathfinder flinched, the specter of his nightmare flashing in his mind, like lightning in the dark.
He looked back to his mother, only to find her gone. In her place, a massive griffon stood, its feathers black as coal and claws that seeped blood in thick rivulets. It smiled at him with it’s wickedly hooked beak. With a terrible screech, he fell.
“No, no way!” Finder lied, forcing the memory from his mind.
“They’re big, aggressive, and one-on-one they’re very dangerous,” Summer began with a nod of her head. “But they’re nothing to be afraid of.”
“I’m afraid of Summer,” Windshear said, pointing a hoof at the mare.
“Aww, such a flatterer,” Summer replied in a singsong voice, waving her hoof at Windshear.
“They’re ugly, mean, and very dumb. The Legion will eat them for breakfast, at least if the Nimban militias don’t do that first.” Dawn puffed her chest out. “So, no, I don’t think there’s anything to be scared of.”
Carver’s gaze drifted to the sky, the glittering stars filling his vision. “Really? I’m terrified.”
A smirk tugged at the corner of Summer’s mouth. “A big colt like you scared? I never thought I’d see the day.”
Carver flopped against Summer, his hooves hanging loosely around her neck. “Protect me, Summer!”
She elbowed him in the ribs, shoving him off like a wet cloak. “I’m a medic, not a whorse.”
“In that case, I’ve got a little problem down there.” Carver smiled, motioning with a hoof to his groin. “Wanna take a look at it for me?”
Summer smiled, extending her left wing and using her primary feathers to tease Carver’s thigh. “One amputation, coming right up.”
Carver’s front hooves shot between his legs as he quickly scooted away from her. She winked and blew him a playful kiss as Finder, Dawn and Windshear laughed.
After finishing their lunch, Windshear stood up with a grunt, shaking out the wing he had been laying on.
“Come on, you lot.” He grinned at them. “Let’s have some fun!”
With a whooping cry, Windshear leapt into the air. Three powerful flaps of his wings got him over the placid waters of the lake, its surface reflecting the world like a mirror. Tucking his wings in, Windshear curled into a ball and fell, his body splashing into the depths and sending a fair-sized spray of water into the air.
He surfaced after a minute, sucking in a lungful of air and grinning at his friends. “Come on, the water’s great!”
“You really shouldn’t swim so soon after eating,” Summer called back to him. “You’ll get a stomach ache!”
“It’s good for you; it builds character!” Windshear shouted, splashing about like a foal.
“You say that about everything!” Summer shot back.
“Cause it’s true,” Windshear answered in a sing-song manner.
Summer groaned, rubbing her forehead with a hoof. She failed to notice Carver sneaking up behind her until his forelegs had wrapped around her torso and he lifted her into the air. Summer yelped, her hooves flailing in search of solid ground and her wings pinned to her sides by Carver’s forelegs.
“Damn it, Carver, let me go!”
“Are you sure about that?” He asked, grinning wildly.
“Let me go, or I swear I’m gonna kick your plot from here to Nimbus!”
“If you insist,” he tittered, tossing her directly into the lake.
Dawn’s hooves shot to cover her mouth, it was all she could do not to burst out laughing. Finder, meanwhile, hoped his friend hadn’t just dug his own grave. Carver hovered above the water, grinning victoriously and careful to be out of reach.
Like a crocodile on the prowl, Summer’s head slowly rose above the surface of the water. She said nothing, only her nostrils broke the surface. Instead she scanned the skies until her eyes found Carver.
“Hey Summer! How’s the water?” he asked in a cheeky tone; a nervous grin pulling at his lips.
The mare did not answer. Instead, she shot Dawn a surreptitious glance. The look went unnoticed by Carver, though Finder certainly noticed it.
Dawn leapt into action instantly, nearly knocking Finder over as she leapt into the sky. Carver never had a chance to dodge as the smaller mare tackled him out of the sky with a gleeful howl.
“For the glory of Nimbus!” she cheered before they both crashed into the lake.
Dawn dragged Carver under almost eight feet before she lost her grip. He scrambled for the surface, his powerful wings propelling him through the water with little trouble. Summer was waiting for him when he surfaced.
Dawn giggled, a puff of bubbles escaping her muzzle. She remained under for a moment longer, her eyes studying the ripples of light that danced over the surface of the water. Flapping her wings for a quick burst of momentum, Dawn shot to the surface, gulping air to relieve the burning in her lungs.
She quickly wiped her eyes across her foreleg, just in time to see Summer tackle Carver from behind, splashing him back under the water. The two wrestled for several minutes before Carver looked to Windshear, who had been laughing hysterically the whole time.
“Come on, Windshear! Help a Cirran out!” Carver all but begged.
“I would, but then she’d try to drown me,” he answered through his laughter.
“Where’s,” Carver’s words were lost to a mouthful of water, Summer again trying to pull him under. He shoved her off, splashing water with his hooves to keep her at bay. “Where’s your Cirran pride?!”
“Oh, fine,” Windshear acquiesced, lunging at Summer with a loud war cry. “For Cirra!”
Summer yelped, taken off-guard by the sudden intervention. Windshear hooked his forelegs under hers, lifting his forelegs vertically and disabling her ability to grapple Carver anymore.
“Cirran treachery!” she shouted, her back legs kicking wildly. The pretense of anger wiped away by the broad grin that split her face.
Windshear grunted, struggling to keep his grip on the flailing mare. “Get her, Carver!”
“Payback ti—” Carver gurgled an unexpected mouthful of water as Dawn leapt upon his back and dunked his head into the water.
“Surrender, Cirrans! You’re outmatched!” Dawn said with a haughty laugh.
Carver rolled in the water, forcing Dawn under so he could get a breath. “Finder! Back us up here!”
“Screw them, back the winners, kid!” Summer shouted, having wormed her way out of Windshear’s grasp momentarily.
“Family before friends, right little brother?” Carver asked with a knowing wink.
Finder’s heart skipped a beat, the all too familiar sense of longing making its presence known. If Longbow had been there, Finder would’ve tripped over himself to keep up. However, Carver wasn’t his brother, and he was very different than Longbow.
Yet Finder couldn’t deny Carver had treated him just like a brother since they had joined. They could talk frankly about their interests, their homes and families, and the latest horror Skyhammer had foisted upon the recruits.
Perhaps, just for the day, Finder could allow himself to pretend Carver was the brother he had run away to protect.
His decision made, Finder rose to his hooves and charged into the waterlogged fray.
Skyhammer sat at perfect attention, his back against the wall and his eyes facing forward. The office around him was sparsely furnished, with only the banner of the eighth legion and a pair of crossed spears to decorate the heavy oaken walls. Skyhammer liked it that way. Simple, no-nonsense, and effective: the epitome of the Eighth Legion.
Muffled voices drifted in from the next room, though there weren’t any details that could distinguished. He recognized the deeper of the voices to be Legate Hailstorm, a dour old stallion with a perpetual scowl. Half the centurions in the Eighth Legion had a long running bet on if Hailstorm was physically capable of smiling.
Skyhammer had ten bits that the Legate could not.
The quiet sound of a pony clearing his throat drew Skyhammer’s attention from his thoughts. Standing between Skyhammer and the Legate’s office was Hailstorm’s aide-de-camp: a thin stallion with a combed back mane and old eyes.
“The Legate will see you now, Centurian Skyhammer.”
Skyhammer stood and saluted the pony before trotting into the room. Hailstorm sat behind a simple wooden table that was littered with various documents and quills, his eyes focused on a report in his hooves. He didn’t acknowledge Skyhammer initially, the papers seemingly holding more interest than anything Skyhammer could say.
With a gray mane, pockmarked face, and sunken brown eyes, Hailstorm appeared to be far older than he was. His voice resonated with a deep purr, and he spoke with a natural gravitas that officers and politicians alike would have sacrificed their wings to possess.
“Sit down, Centurion,” Hailstorm said, pointedly never looking at Skyhammer.
Following the instruction, Skyhammer sat. “Thank you, Sir.”
“I’ve received news from the front,” the legate began in his quiet tone, his voice barely louder than the burning logs in the hearth behind him. “The Eighth Legion has met our enemy at Hengsted where they routed local griffon forces and razed the town. The Eighth’s casualties were within our expectations, though we haven’t gotten the exact numbers yet.”
“How soon will we deploy, Sir?” Skyhammer asked.
“The war games are scheduled for tomorrow; we will conduct them as planned, then the replacements will fly to Nimbus to reinforce the Eighth Legion. The Third, Fourth, and Seventh Legions will continue the advance into Gyrphus and bring this business to an end before harvest season. The eighth Legion will remain in reserve, standing ready to assist the advance wherever needed. This regiment will be given more specific orders after you integrate with the eighth.”
“Understood, Sir,” Skyhammer said.
“Now then,” Hailstorm set the papers down and looked Skyhammer in the eye, “Are they ready?”
“Yes, Sir.” Skyhammer gave a curt nod to the elder stallion. “The entire regiment is armored, armed, and lined up. We’re just waiting for your inspection before we begin.”
“Well done, Centurion Skyhammer,” Hailstorm said, though the compliment sounded more like an afterthought than legitimate praise.
The aging stallion rose to his hooves, the heavy plates of his armor creaking at the motion. Skyhammer stood as well, saluting Hailstorm as the legate moved past him. Hailstorm paused at the door, confirming a few afternoon meetings with his aide-de-camp before heading outside.
All four platoons had been assembled in the drill yard in preparation for the day’s tourney. The separate platoons had been lined up in orderly squares standing eight ponies wide by eight ponies deep. As Hailstorm exited into the light, a centurion called them to attention.
“At ease, greenwings,” Hailstorm growled, barely loud enough for everypony to understand. “Skyhammer, you may proceed.”
The centurion executed a perfect salute before turning to the regiment.
“Listen up, Greenwings,” Skyhammer shouted in the manner only he could, “today’s tournament is to test your skills in single combat. To that end the centurions will each select two names from the bucket, and those called will then duel. The winner will be the first pony to disarm, incapacitate, or force his opponent to yield.” Skyhammer took a breath, allowing his words time to sink in. “There are no rules, no forbidden holds or techniques, however the centurions will intervene should things get out of hoof. The goal here is to defeat your opponent, not to kill them. Hence why you are still using the blunt weapons.”
“Now, so we aren’t here for the next three days, here’s how this will work.” Skyhammer caught himself before he started pacing. It was a habit he needed to break himself of if he ever hoped to make Legate or Praetorian one day. “All four platoons will separate and duel until there is a single champion for that regiment. The champion of first platoon will then duel the champion of second platoon, while the champions of third and fourth platoon duel. The winners of those duels will then fight to decide the regimental championship.” Skyhammer smiled at the recruits. “There will be a reward for the winner in a bonus to his weekly pay and a tankard of the finest Cirran ale with dinner.”
Excited murmurs danced through the recruits, Skyhammer and the other centurions allowed it without the usual reprimands. He cleared his throat after a moment to refocus their attention on him. “Finally, Legate Hailstorm has been gracious enough to honor us with his presence, and will be observing the duels.” Skyhammer smiled, “impress him, and you might make centurions yourself one day.”
Skyhammer looked to Hailstorm. “Do you wish to address them, sir?” he asked in a hushed tone.
Hailstorm didn’t answer with words. Instead, he stepped forward, his gaze drifting to the overcast skies. He contemplated the weather for a moment, wondering idely if the gods would bring them rain, or hold back the summer rains for another day.
“Sons and daughters of Cirra,” he began, his voice firm and powerful. “It is a glorious time for our empire. We have met our enemy in the skies and fields of battle, and we have driven them back. Yet take heed, for the bitter work is not yet finished. Soon, all of you will be deployed to the front, and you will taste battle in all it’s horror and glory.”
Hailstorm paused a moment, giving his words time to sink in. He look out at the faces in the assembled ranks, young, frightened faces looked back at him. Colts and fillies that should by rights be in their homes working the fields, building the roads, or creating the next great works of Cirran art were instead destined to be soldiers in another ugly war. Hailstorm wondered how many of those young faces would be sacrificed before victory would be attained.
“Trust in the pony beside you, trust in your training, and you will come home with honor,” Hailstorm said, bowing his head ever so slightly to the recruits.
The recruits couldn’t help but notice he hadn’t mentioned anything about coming home alive.
With no further fanfare, he turned to Skyhammer and gave the centurion a small nod to proceed. The centurion stepped forward, clearing his throat and addressing the regiment one last time. “Alright, greenwings, follow your centurions to your assigned dueling area. The tournament will begin immediately.”
“Yes, Sir!” the regiment answered in unison.
It took a few minutes for each platoon to move to their separate areas before the duel, and for Pathfinder, every second of that time disappeared far too quickly. He stuck close to Carver and Windshear, doing his best to keep his head down and draw the smallest possible amount of attention. His nerves easily got the better of him, a constant tremor running through his wings and legs.
Carver noticed Finder’s anxiety before Windshear, and after they had found a spot to stand in front of the simple dirt arena. He leaned slightly over, nudging Finder’s side with his wing.
“Relax,” he suggested with a friendly smile, “this is gonna be fun.”
“The most fun a pony could have out of the bedroom,” Windshear added.
Finder groaned, shaking his head in dismay. “The both of you have gone mad.”
Carver laughed, slapping his hoof against Finder’s shoulder. “You’ll get there too, my friend.”
“Alright, meatbags, pay attention!” Skyhammer called out, snapping the platoon’s attention to him again. Sitting beside him was a simple bucket with the names of everypony in their platoon written on slips of parchment. “When I draw your name, step into the dueling circle.”
“Excuse me, sir?” Windshear raised a hoof over his head.
Skyhammer cast a disparaging glare at the large stallion. “What is it, Windshit?”
“I’d like to volunteer to go first, Sir,” Windshear answered, allowing himself an eager grin.
Skyhammer considered the request for a moment, his eyebrow arching upwards. Feeling unusually generous, he nodded once and beckoned Windshear forward with a hoof. “Alright, Windshear, in the ring with you, then”
A broad, animalistic grin pulled at Windshear’s lips. His wings twitched with excitement as he looked to Finder and Carver. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
“Knock ‘em dead,” Carver said, smiling eagerly.
“Good luck,” Finder offered, looking far less excited than Carver.
Adjusting his grip on his spear, Windshear stepped into the dueling ring and waited for Skyhammer to name his opponent. He flexed his wings open and closed, the metal scales of his wingblades scraping together with every motion. He closely watched Skyhammer’s hoof as it shuffled through the bucket and produced a single slip.
“Redshift,” he called out the name. “You’re first.”
Pathfinder nudged Carver. “Is it just me, or is Windshear looking a little, erm… unhinged?”
Carver blinked several times before looking into the ring. Windshear had stabbed his spear into the ground and paced behind it like a caged animal. His eyes sparkled with barely contained glee and his lips pulled back in a wide smile that exposed his crooked teeth.
Redshift was a stallion of average size with a midnight-blue coat and a dark red mane and tail. Finder hadn’t really talked to him in more than a passing manner, and didn’t know much about him other than he seemed like a nice enough pony.
“Right, try not to kill each other.” Skyhammer lifted his bucket of names and held it against his breastplate before walking out of the dueling circle.
“Good Luck,” Windshear saluted his opponent.
“Don’t need it,” Redshift shot back, returning the salute.
Windshear let out an amused snort, his face split by a feral grin. Redshift matched the look with a calculating stare and a smile that radiated supreme confidence. They waited for Skyhammer to start the match. Neither stallion moved, neither blinked.
“Begin!” Skyhammer shouted.
Redshift leapt forward, ripping his sword free of it’s scabbard and lunging at Windshear with almost blinding speed. Windshear barked out a joyous laugh, pulling his spear free of the cold earth and meeting Redshift head-on. The flat of his spear’s blade deflected Redshift’s sword with a tremendous ring.
The strength of Windshear’s blow was enough to send Redshift spinning. He flapped his wings once to put himself out of Windshear’s strike range. The spearpony responded with a wild smile, dropping his spear into his left foreleg and lunging forward.
Redshift twisted away from the thrust, his wings propelling him into the air to the cheers of the assembled recruits. Windshear twirled the spear around his foreleg. He wedged the counterweight into his fetlock and thrust upwards with lightning speed.
Cursing, Redshift narrowly dodging the sudden lunge with a midair spin. He brought his sword down, batting aside the spear and slashing at Windshear’s head with his wingblades. Windshear narrowly avoided the slash. Redshift followed up with a blinding flurry of strikes against his opponent.
Suddenly on the defensive, Windshear deflected each blow as best he could. Redshift tried to press his advantage, succeeding in pushing Windshear back, but failing to connect with the decisive blow he needed. The frustration only made Redshift’s strikes more ferocious.
Windshear rolled left to avoid another lunge and lashed out with his wings, but the sharpened scales deflected harmlessly off Redshift’s iron bracer. Redshift gripped harder on his sword, preparing for a powerful strike on his opponent’s exposed flank but Windshear didn’t give him the chance.
Thinking quickly, Windshear dropped his spear into his hooves again. The butt of the spear slipped under Redshift’s stomach, unnoticed by the stallion. Throwing all his weight onto the other side, the counterweight slammed into Redshift’s unarmored belly. Redshift let out a distressed grunt as Windshear threw him aside like a shovel full of dirt.
A wild roar erupted from the crowd as Windshear rose up on his rear hooves, his spear angled down with the blade resting on the ground in front of him. Redshift recovered almost immediately, his sword at the ready.
Windshear panted from the adrenaline rushing through his veins, his lips pulled into a full, wild, smile. Redshift snarled, the hilt of his blade held tightly in his teeth.
“That all you got?” Windshear taunted, licking his lips and laughing. “My little sister has more fight than you!”
Redshift loosed an angry snort, his teeth clenching the hilt of his sword. The stallions circled each other, sweat trickling down their brows as they searched for any opening to exploit. All the while, the gathered recruits cheered and shouted; their raucous cheers split evenly between the combatants.
Redshift lunged, his sword parrying the heavy spear away. He twisted, keeping his blade in contact with the spear as he lashed out with a wing. Windshear’s eyes widened, and time slowed to a crawl. He wouldn’t be fast enough to dodge.
Silence fell over the circle.
Windshear stumbled backwards, the searing pain radiating from the gash in his belly. Blood seeped into his coat, staining the pale blue hairs. He gritted his teeth, taking slow, trembling breaths. The butt of his spear jammed into the ground and he leaned on it for balance, holding the bloody wound with a hoof.
Redshift stared at his opponent, eyes wide with horror.
The medics shoved their way through the crowd only to be stopped by Skyhammer’s raised hoof. Summer stared at the centurion with a mixture of confusion and disgust.
“The duel isn’t over yet, Celsus,” he stated in with a cold tone.
Summer bit her tongue and glanced to the combatants.
Redshift stabbed his sword into the ground and took a moment to let his jaw rest. “It’s over, Shear, yield!”
“Over?” Windshear asked, his gaze looking down to the accumulating droplets of blood that had dripped to the cold earth. He looked up, eyes wide and lips pulled into a wild grin. “How can it be over when we’re just starting to have fun!” He leapt forward with a gleeful howl as Redshift grabbed his sword, barely managing to deflect a series of rapid thrusts. He moved in close, blocking a heavy strike and hooking his forelegs around the shaft. At the same moment he lashed out with his wingblades. Windshear dropped the spear, leaping away to avoid another painful cut.
“That’s more like it!” he cheered, immediately drawing his own sword and pressing his attack.
He leapt into the air, bringing the sword down at Redshift’s head. Redshift blocked, the muscles in his neck aching from the force of the impact. Windshear leapt away, sprinting around Redshift to where the spear had fallen to scoop up the weapon and slide to a stop.
Twisting his neck, Windshear flung his sword at Redshift. The blade whistled and spun through the air at Redshift’s head. He twisted his sword to counter, deflecting the flying weapon with a heavy clang.
Before he could recover, Windshear slammed into him. Both stallions tumbled to the ground, their armor clattering together as wingblades flailed in wild slashes. Windshear managed to get the shaft of his spear around Redshift’s neck.
With his back to the ground, and Redshift’s back on his chest, Windshear pulled tightly on the spear. Redshift thrashed and struggled, panic gripping him as he choked. He kicked out with his hooves, flapped with his wings, and tried to pull the spear off of his windpipe.
“That’s it…” Windshear whispered into Redshift’s ear, the smaller stallion’s struggles getting weaker by the moment. “Let it all out.”
The sword fell from Redshift’s mouth, clattering to the ground next to them. His body felt heavy and his limbs stiff. The darkness on the edge of his vision crept in, closer and closer, until there was nothing left. His eyes rolled back in his head as his struggles ceased.
“Victory goes to Windshear,” Skyhammer called, motioning for Summer and the medics to treat them.
“Come on!” Summer ran into the circle, Dawn, Poultice, and Salve following close behind her. “Dawn, you and Poultice on Red. Salve, with me!”
“Yes, Ma’am,” they answered.
Windshear released his spear, letting it roll to the ground. With slightly more effort, and the timely assistance of the medics, Redshift was laid out beside him. The defeated stallion coughed, gulping lungfuls of air while they tended to him.
“You’ll be fine, Red,” Dawn assured him in a calm and serene voice. “Just take nice, deep breaths.”
Meanwhile, Summer hooked Windshear’s right foreleg over her shoulders and braced against his weight, Salve took his place on the spearpony’s opposite side. Together, they guided him out of the ring and through the crowd. The recruits cheered and slapped his back affectionately. Windshear wore a proud smile, shaking hooves and thanking ponies as they passed him.
“Don’t let this go to your head,” Summer warned him in a hushed tone. “Griffons are a whole different challenge.”
“How many have you killed?” he asked, wincing from the wound on his belly.
“Griffons?” Summer thought for a moment, her face scrunching and one eye closing. “Seven.”
Windshear grinned, his elbow nudging Summer’s ribs. “Only seven? I’m disappointed in you, Summer.”
Summer grumbled under her breath, her ears flattening out.
“You’re so bucked,” Salve whispered in Winshear’s ear.
Before she could fire off a snappy retort, one which Windshear knew would probably emasculate him in irreparable ways, Carver and Finder trotted up to them.
Carver grinned, his hoof slapping Windshear’s back. “Hell of a fight, Shear.”
“Are you okay?” Finder asked, looking slightly paler than usual. The young pony dug at the ground with a hoof and chewed at his lower lip. His golden eyes occasionally darted towards the ring, where two other ponies were already locked in a vicious struggle.
“He’s fine,” Summer answered, setting Windshear down. “Salve, get the vinegar.”
“Yes Ma’am,” he answered, hooves digging through his bag.
“Uh...hows a bout we don’t do that?” Windshear fidgeted uncomfortably.
“Don’t be a foal,” Summer chided the spearpony with a wry grin. “We’ve got to clean the area before we sew it up.”
“I think I’ll pass,” Windshear said, attempting to get back to his hooves.
Summer held his shoulder with a firm grasp, preventing him from moving. Meanwhile, Salve set a small wooden bowl on the ground. He took a large salt crystal in his hooves and carefully ground it into the bottom of the dish until he had accumulated a thin film over the wooden surface. After replacing the crystal into his bag, Salve added in water with a small amount of vinegar. He mixed the concoction together with a long stick that had one end wrapped with cloth, nodding to Summer when it was ready.
“This will sting a bit,” Summer warned Windshear, her hooves securing a tighter grip on his shoulders. “But a tough pony like you will be fine.”
“Somehow I don’t feel particularly reaSSHH!” Windshear’s eyes went wide as Salve applied the solution to the wound.
“Or maybe not,” Summer added quickly.
Pathfinder watched the scene unfold before him with wide eyes and flattened ears. A pallor fell over his face and he took a half step back. Summer glanced up at him with a fierce glare.
“Don’t you dare move,” she snapped at him.
“But, but I—”
“If you can’t handle watching this.” Summer motioned with her head to Winderhear’s writhing form. “Then how in the hell are you gonna handle seeing ponies get cut to pieces when the real fighting begins?”
Carver frowned, draping a supportive wing over Finder’s back. “Summer, ease up on him.”
The medic scoffed, shaking her head in annoyance. She reached into her medical bag with her left wing, her dexterous primaries retrieving a hook and thread. “Don’t “Summer” me. The kid wants to be in the legion, then she’s gotta get used to this.”
“Would you all shut the buck up?!” Windshear yelled at them, his face twisted in an agonized expression.
“Oh be quiet.” Summer gave Windshear’s head a light smack with her hoof.
“Ready to close him up?” Salve asked.
“Yup,” Summer answered, deftly threading the needle with the thread.
Windshear’s eyes widened again and he let out a nervous laugh. “A-a spot of medicinal brandy would—”
“Brandy’s for heroes, Shear,” Summer answered, patting her hoof on his head. “The rest of you get vinegar on your cuts, stitches in your skin, and maggoty bread in your bellies.”
“Can I at least get a kiss to make it feel better?” Windshear asked.
“No,” Summer answered, taking the hook in her feathers and planning how she would proceed.
“I guess it's a good thing I was talking to Salve then,” Windshear said with a little huff.
For a moment, Summer seemed to forget whatever had been in her mind in the last few minutes, her gaze slowly drifting up to look Windshear in the eye. Salve, on the other hoof, looked unsure if he should feel flattered or offended at Windshears comment. Perhaps more confusing to both the medics, was their inability to tell if the spearpony had been joking or serious.
“Are you implying I’m a bad kisser?” Summer asked with a fake pout.
“No, I’m implying Salve is probably better.”
“Can I stich his mouth closed?” Salve asked, casting a pleading look at Summer.
“Don’t tempt me, Salve,” the white mare growled in answer.
Windshear’s victorious grin was short lived as Summer and Salve began to suture his wound. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes tightly, taking sharp breaths through his nose with every pinch of the needle. Summer didn’t provide him with her usual banter or small talk, wanting to finish the task as quickly as possible.
Pathfinder watched the process diligently, too afraid of Summer’s potential wrath to refuse her. Carver’s right wing remained draped over his back like a warm blanket. It didn’t little to soothe the nausea, but it did provide a measure of comfort to the younger pony.
The next duel had already commenced in the circle. Finder could hear the clashing of steel blades mixed with the primal grunts and roars of the ponies that battled for dominance. Every impact made him flinch and cringe.
All too soon the fight came to an end with Skyhammer naming the winner and preparing to draw the next names. There was a terrible stillness that hung over the ring as ponies waited with baited breath for the next fight. They murmured to each other; everypony making his or her wager on names and victors in hypothetical duels.
“Carver!” Skyhammer’s voice boomed over them.
Pathfinder felt his friend’s body stiffen for a moment before he relaxed. An easy smile pulled his lips into a grin. “Well, all I need to know is who’s sorry ass I’m gonna—”
“Pathfinder!” The Centurion shouted.
For a fleeting moment, Pathfinder felt his heart stop in his chest. He looked up at Carver who, in turn, looked back at him. Neither spoke, their faces said all they needed.
Windshear, on the other hoof, did not share the moment. “Well, didn’t see that one coming.”
Summer smacked the back of his head with her hoof.
Carver’s wing draped over Finder’s back, and the elder stallion flashed him a brave smile. “Ready, little brother?”
“Y-yeah. I’m ready,” Pathfinder answered.
As the two ponies took their places in the dueling ring, Hailstorm’s eyebrow arched upward at the sight of the small colt facing off against the large stallion. He looked at Skyhammer, a sense of confusion written in his expression. Motioning his hoof to the pair, he addressed Skyhammer.
“What’s with the whelp?”
“A fine example of patriotic spirit,” Skyhammer answered, “and less useful than a tankard of piss.”
Hailstorm’s lips pursed together in a thoughtful expression. “What’s the odds on him?”
“Eighty to twenty, Sir.”
“Did you place a bet?”
“There’s not much to bet on here, Sir,” Skyhammer answered.
A small, but very wicked grin pulled at Hailstorm’s lips. “Well then, Centurion, go put you and I down for fifty each and a barrel of ale on the runt.”
Skyhammer balked visibly, staring in thinly veiled horror at the order. “S-sir?”
“Now, centurion.” Hailstorm motioned for Skyhammer to move with a dismissive wave of his wing.
Feeling deflated, but still holding his head up high, Skyhammer saluted the Legate. “Yes Sir.”
Finder’s teeth struggled to hold their grip on his sword. He could hear the scales of his wingblades shaking as the feathers beneath shifted uneasily. He thought he’d been ready, but seeing the looming shape of Carver standing at the far side of the ring, he wasn’t so sure.
Carver, for his part, smiled around the handle of his sword. “Try to put up a good fight, Finder; I wanna look good in front of the mares.”
Skyhammer glared at the sound of Carver’s humor, and snapped his wing down. “Fight!”
Carver didn’t need to be told twice; his wings pumped just once as his legs kicked off the ground, producing more of a pounce than actual flight. Even as worried as he was, Finder managed to get a wing up to stop Carver’s sword, and his own sword up to match his opponent’s left wing. Despite the block, the force of Carver’s much bigger body shoved the little colt backwards, almost to the point of sitting down.
The hole in Pathfinder’s guard was obvious; with his neck twisted forward to parry Carver’s wing, and his wings spread wide, any serious combatant could have gotten a their blade against his throat in an instant. Rather than end things so quickly, Carver brought his forehead down against Finder’s. The literally green rookie stumbled, and his vision took a moment to return.
“Come on, Finder!” Carver called in a forced whisper. “Swing at me!”
“But Carver―”
Carver brought his sword down, deliberately grinding its blade against Finder’s and releasing a spray of sparks. The motion left the older colt’s mouth rather close to Finder’s ears. “Do it!”
Acting more out of shock and desperation than desire, Finder took advantage of his smaller size and ducked under Carver’s left wing. With new space to maneuver, he threw a swift slash with his left wing.
The sloppy blow would have been easy to block, but Carver took the opportunity to instead drop low to the ground and let Finder’s wing blades slash above his mane. The risky maneuver earned some whispers amongst the crowd, but it also left Finder with enough time and momentum to spin around completely. Finding his rear hooves oriented toward his friend, the little colt did the only thing that made sense at the time: a double-hoofed buck.
The blow hit Carver squarely on the tip of his muzzle and left him to reel backward in shock. Despite the pain, and the little trickle of blood that escaped his nostrils, he wore an almost carefree grin. “That’s more like it!”
“But I don’t want to―”
A swing from Carver’s sword stopped Finder’s protest, as he bit down hard on his own weapon to block. Growing irritated, the bigger colt lashed out three more times, and with each attack, Finder found himself backing up. Finally, in desperation, the little pony lashed out with both wings. Carver’s attacks stopped more from surprise at the sudden show of aggression than any actual difficulty in parrying them. With a moment’s space, Finder grabbed Carver’s head and leapt over him, like a little stallion playing leapfrog.
Halfway through the motion, the flat of Carver’s wing slammed against his friend, tossing the green colt to the dirt. Finder rolled with his momentum, returning to his hooves just in time to block a new flurry of slashes from his larger friend. Every blow made Finder’s teeth ache, and left his neck feeling sore and overpowered.
On his fourth slash, Carver held his sword against Pathfinder’s, locking the steel together. Finder’s focus on holding back the bigger stallion’s strength left him blind to the forehoof that smacked against the side of his neck. Pathfinder’s sword was thrown to the ground, and the colt himself barely managed to avoid the same fate by a quick flap of his wings.
Finder moved for his weapon, but Carver reached it first, swatting it aside with a hoof. “Come on, Finder. Last chance.”
Pathfinder swallowed down a breath, and for just a moment his eyes wandered to the crowd. Summer and Dawn held up hooves toward him, though the words accompanying their motions were lost in the commotion of the crowd. They didn’t really matter, anyway; he could guess what they were calling out just from the looks on their faces.
Carver charged forward on all four hooves, bringing his sword to bear again. This time, Finder caught the attack on a wing blade, and then twisted in place to keep the sword out of the way while also bringing his other wing to bear on Carver’s side.
The bigger stallion smiled around his sword until he realized just how much of a disadvantage Finder had him at: between the wing pinned at his side and his neck twisted out of the way, he was having a hard time making any sort of move against his Pathfinder. There was one advantage, though, that Finder simply couldn’t stop: size.
Carver threw his entire weight into his shoulder, and in turn smashed it against Finder’s shoulder. At worst, the blow would bruise, but it also tossed the lightweight pegasus back a few feet, leaving Carver enough room to regain his focus.
Something in Finder’s mind was racing as the calls of the crowd grew louder; he could feel his heart beating in his ears, and his mind raced faster on instinct than his consciousness could follow. He needed to keep his momentum; he couldn’t hold Carver for long once the big stallion got on the offensive.
His solution was to lunge forward and swing a wing blade toward Carver’s legs. It was a blow destined to miss from the beginning, but that wasn’t the point at all. The bigger colt leapt over the attack, giving Finder’s smaller frame and faster limbs the chance to slide under his friend’s wing and move in on his exposed flank.
Carver jumped away from Finder’s attack, but not without losing a few hairs and a couple drops of blood near his cutie mark. The tan colt’s bigger wings didn’t waste another moment in hurling him to the far side of the ring, where he rounded on his friend and kicked at the ground with a forehoof. Now that Finder was finally playing for real, it was time to end the battle.
Finder knew what was coming. It wasn’t hard to guess, given the way Carver spread his wings to their full length, and tensed his legs for a mighty push. He also knew that he wasn’t strong enough to stop Carver’s charge without his sword. He didn’t trust himself to dodge to the side, or to beat his friend’s longer range. That only left one option.
When Carver repeated his initial pounce, Finder was ready. Rather than even trying to block the bigger stallion, the smaller pony jumped straight up in the air and pumped his wings twice. The effort kept him in the air just long enough for Carver’s momentum to place him directly beneath the underaged recruit. The rest of the maneuver was textbook, ground into Finder’s skull by countless shouting lessons on the training field. He folded his left wing against his side, clenched his teeth together in focus, and dove.
Carver saw it coming; his sapphire eyes locked straight up onto his little friend even before the first hint of air had rushed through Finder’s mane. Instead of dodging, however, Carver reared up onto his hind-legs and began to flap his own wings. His action went against everything that Skyhammer had ever bellowed in their general direction about the advantages of height and the strength of gravity; against a griffon, the maneuver would have been suicide. Finder, however, was no griffon.
Finder’s weight was directed wingblade-first against Carver’s guard, and the collision was bone-shattering. Sparks erupted into the sky, forcing Finder’s eyes shut and leaving a kaleidoscope burned onto the inside of his eyelids. Without looking, he could only feel the force of his weapon sliding down the length of Carver’s. Metal scales scraped at his belly from one of his friend’s wingblades, though they lacked the force to do anything more than leave scrapes and slice a few hairs from his coat. Then Finder felt a sudden lurch, as his wingblade left contact with Carver’s, and struck against something far softer.
The scream was agonizing.
Something thick and wet splashed over Pathfinder’s feathers and muzzle, and his nostrils filled with the scent of copper. His eyes shot open, though he didn’t need to look to recognize that it had to be blood. The first thing he saw was Carver, clutching both forehooves to his face and howling as his wings carried him in what was probably best described as a limping fall. The medics were on him as soon as his shoulder collided with the ground.
Amidst the ensuing murmurs, and Carver’s howl of pain, it was sickened Finder’s stomach to hear a mighty voice call out. “Pathfinder wins!”
Summer carefully pulled at Carvers hooves in an attempt to examine the damage. The howling stallion proved either unable, unwilling, or both to comply.
“Carver,” Summer spoke to him in a calm, yet authoritative tone. “Carver, you need to move your hooves. I can’t help you if I can’t see the wounds.”
“Stretcher!” Dawn called, motioning for one to be brought to her.
Pathfinder couldn’t move. His eyes were transfixed by the scene before him; by the pain he’d caused to a pony he called a friend. It brought a pallor to his face and the taste of bile in his throat. He was grateful when he felt a warm wing drape across his back.
Looking to the side, he quickly identified the pony as Windshear. The spearpony gave the colt a half-hearted smile as he guided him away.
“Come on, kid. Let’s give them some space.”
As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, Pathfinder sat alone outside of the infirmary. From the canteen he could hear the roar of laughter and the singing of songs. He knew Windshear was among them; likely enjoying his food and revelling in the glory he’d earned as the champion of third platoon. He had invited Finder to join him, but the colt had politely declined.
He had no stomach for song or food that night.
Finder had barely seen Summer or Dawn since his duel with Carver. Summer, in particular, had spent the better part of the day in the infirmary, treating ponies as they were brought to her. Dawn had passed him a few times, but she had been too busy to give him more than a passing smile.
He closed his eyes and curled up into a tight ball on the dusty ground. There he stayed, replaying the duel over and over again in his head. The clash of steel, the sudden lurch, the spray of blood. Carver’s agonized howl as he writhed in the dirt haunted Finder like a bad dream.
‘What if he had been Longbow?’ Finder wondered.
Carver, who had been nothing but kind to him since they had met those three short weeks earlier, had become the closest friend Finder ever had. The not insignificant difference in their ages hadn’t mattered much to either of them. In fact Carver had seemed to enjoy a sort of big-brotherly role with Finder.
Though after what Finder had done to him in their duel, he wouldn’t be surprised if Carver never spoke to him again. He sniffled, a knot forming in his throat. The prospect of losing that friendship was nothing short of unbearable.
It was then, just before Finder could complete his spiral into depression that Summer stepped out of the infirmary. She let out a deep breath and pulled off a white linen headband that had become saturated with sweat since she’d started working in the morning. Running a hoof through her damp mane, Summer took the opportunity to stretch out her back. Her coat seemed to glisten in the waning light
Finder looked up to her, noting her glow with a moment of awe. “Summer?”
“Hm?” She looked down, surprised to see him there. “Hey, there you are.”
Getting to his hooves, Finder’s ears splayed out as he looked up at Summer. “How’s Carver?”
Invisible weights seemed to pull at the corner’s of Summer’s lips into a deep frown. She struggled for a moment, debating how to tell the colt what he had done. After a few moments of silent deliberation, she took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. “He’s sleeping right now. Your wingblade took out his right eye.”
Finder felt sick again, his green going pale. “But...but you can fix it, right?”
“No, kid,” she shook her head, a hoof reaching out and touching his shoulder. “He’ll never see outta that eye again.”
Finder’s world spun for a moment and he sat back on his haunches, stunned.
“I..I didn’t mean…” He shook his head, gulping down the knot in his throat. “Can...Can I see him?”
Summer draped her wing around him and gently shepherded him into the infirmary. “This way.”
With enough beds to accommodate a full platoon of injured soldiers, the infirmary was usually ready for more patients than it had. Still, after the days tournament nearly half were occupied by ponies with injuries ranging from sprained ankles and concussions to lacerations and broken bones. The large room smelled of blood, vinegar, and a pungent variety of medicinal herbs believed to purify the air and ward off infection. Finder scrunch his nose and snorted in revulsion; he was convinced the true purpose of the herbs was to incentivize ponies to heal faster.
Carver’s bed was towards the back of the building, and the tan stallion was laid on his left side with his back facing Finder. A simple grey blanket covered him up to his neck to keep him comfortable as he rested. Finder spotted Carver’s armor at the foot of the bed where it was set in an orderly pile.
“Hey, Carver,” Summer said, her voice taking on a gentle healers tone. With her right hoof, she gently reached out for Carver and gave him a little shake. “Feeling up for a visitor?”
There was a long pause between Summer’s words and a reaction from Carver. He rolled over with a pronounced slowness, a low groan emanating from his throat. A thick linen bandage wrapped around his forehead and covered Carver’s right eye. Dried blood had saturated the dressing as well as left crusted stains of red down the right half of Carver’s face.
Finder tasted bile in the back of his throat again.
In spite of the pain he was in, Carver produced a meager smile as he noticed Pathfinder. “Hey, Finder, how you doing?”
“C-Carver, I…” Finder swallowed the lump in his throat and stepped closer to the bed. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I—”
The older stallion reached out with an uncoordinated hoof to pat Finder’s head. After several tries to compensate for his new visual deficits, he found his mark. Giving a pained smile, his hoof tousled Finder’s mane.
“Hey, it’s all right, Finder. You did exactly what you were supposed to do.” Carver’s smile turned sad. “I didn’t.”
The colt nodded, though Carver’s assurance did little to ease his heartache.
“Beat anypony else?” Carver asked, pulling his hoof away and sitting up. Summer moved closer to help stabilize the woozy stallion.
Finder shook his head. “I got paired against Recoil in the second round. It was a two-hit fight.”
“He hit you, you hit the ground?” Carver asked in an amused tone.
Pathfinder’s ears folded back as he nodded.
Carver chuckled, patting Finder’s head once. “No offense, kid, but Recoil is a way better fighter than you.”
“I noticed,” Finder groused, his hoof absently rubbing the sore spot Recoil’s training sword left on his head.
“Hey, Summer?” Carver craned his neck so he could see the Nimban mare.
“Yeah?” Summer replied, thinking Carver might need another pain treatment.
“Can I get that kiss now?” he asked with a hopeful grin.
Rolling her eyes, Summer shook her head and laughed. “You’re pathetic, Carver.”
Leaning forward, she kissed his cheek. Carver’s eye went wide and his wings flared out in surprise. Finder hid his giggling behind a hoof, finding the older stallion’s reaction priceless.
“But it’s kinda cute,” Summer said with a sincere grin.
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Loved the lake scenes, but talk about the calm before the storm.
I misread Redshift as Redshirt, and that is a really bad name for the upcoming war.
Yikes, and that is not good for Carver.
3782937
I kept misspelling his name as Redshit
3783007 That’s pretty bad too! Cronic redshits is a really, really bad thing!
Well, that was a very entertaining chapter. This little group of Summer, Dawn, Finder, and Carver... you're gonna do something bad to them. This was the first little instance of something bad happening to one of them, but I know you're gonna kill one (or more, knowing you) off in a painful, heart-wrenching manner. Can't wait to see the next update!
~SolidFire
Ah yes, this chapter was rather fantastic, absolutely worth the wait.
I do, however, have the unnerving feeling that this won't be the last of gruesome injuries we'll come to see... I'm betting either Longbow or Carver will be the first.
Now, onwards to the waiting period for the next one!
Based on nothing at all, predicting Longbow was a casualty or will soon be one with Finder as a witness. Also, Dawn is either going to die horribly or hook up with Finder, and Windshear will play the hero and die holding off a horde. Carver will defy the odds and make Centurion because you always need a one-eyed soldier in a story, and Summer is going to go batshit on some giffons and probably hook up with Carver once and then go MIA
I think you mean Finder :P
3785748 Well yeah! Carver's gonna die from a blindside at some point in combat for one thing :P
3794860
Well, of course; we already knew that. After this, Carver gets some red dye for his mane, some gray dye for his coat, and becomes a legate. And then he gets in a fight at Feathertop Mountain...
Impressive work with the actions scenes! Fluid and gripping!
Also, massive respect for Carver...
Finder takes out his eye and he holds no grudge... That... Man, that takes a better man(pony) than I...
~Skeeter The Lurker
I wonder how Finder is gonna deal with the killing of civilians?
From memory that was a broad-scale order in the start of the war
I have a quick question! Does it matter at what point in time I read this in regards to Summer Lands? I really just don't like spoilers
3830481
It won't spoil any real details about Wind and Stone, but that said it will have some meta-spoilers which I can't discuss yet. It's really up to you.
3830949 Thanks! I just really like these stories and I'd hate to soil one of them with spoilers. I kinda did that with Fallout Equestria on accident and it sucked
Hi, I hope you don't mind me pointing out, but I noticed a small error.
It should be "Windshear", should it not?
Anyway, great job! I wait with eager anticipation for the next chapter.
Then good sir, what is the goal?
4071165
Fixed, thanks!
4071203 Well if you're so thankful have some more!
I think you accidentally a letter (Windshear)
R63 pony?
Those were some solid fight scenes! I love the three weapon style of the pegasi, it feels nicely non-human.
Huh, this was interesting. Rarely does one see one of the main cast actually get HURT in these kind of stories. Impressive. I really like the characterization and pace. Good job!