The Wayfarers

by TheFictionAddiction

Act 2, Chapter 30: A Reason to Kill

Toot Sweet stared at the rushing rooftops below and clung to the darling filly in her arms even tighter. Her poor, earth pony heart quailed at all that empty space beneath her and the earth. She sent a silent prayer to Celestia that the pale pegasus carrying them didn’t loosen his grip.

The filly, Sweet Tart, was having the time of her life. She waved her legs and laughed as the wind swept back her mane. The filly had often fantasized of flying like a pegasus. For Sweet Tart, this swelling sense of liberation and adrenaline had bleached away the horrors of the day.

Neither of the mares realized that they were sweating profusely. The rushing wind helped to mask the heat generated from the pegasus.

Alabaster flew in a beeline to the castle at the edge of Ponyville. He was numb with adrenaline and fueled by an anger that was slowly subsiding. The rage wouldn’t gone completely, however. Rage was always close at hand for Alabaster.

The pegasus circled the entrance twice before finally landing. Their hooves touched down on soft, churned earth. If Alabaster hadn’t know any better, he’d have thought the place had been tilled by a stampede of bulls.

Toot Sweet stumbled forward on shaky legs, trying to her best to get reacquainted with gravity. Her coat was slick with sweat and her mane was swept back across her head. A gust of wind sent her into a fit of shivers.

While her mother fought to stay upright, Sweet Tart was practically prancing about. She bounded around Alabaster, chattering a mile a minute.

“Gosh, mister, that was so cool! You’re so cool! They were like: GRRR! But then you were like, ‘I don’t think so!’ It was something out of Daring-”

Alabaster payed the filly no heed. He stretched, but instantly regretted doing so. Shallow cuts along his legs and belly stung like was wasp stings. They weren’t the worst injuries he’d ever sustained, but they definitely didn’t feel like hugs and kisses either.

Gonna be sleeping on my back for a fucking week.

Alabaster’s ears flickered at the sound of approaching hoofbeats. He turned and saw four figures galloping towards them.

Alabaster planted a hoof on the filly’s tail as she bounced by, pinning her in place. Sweet Tart’s chatter came to an abrupt halt.

She looked up at stallion. It was then that Sweet Tart noticed being this close to him was like standing next to a fireplace. Blood wept from his cuts, yet he didn’t even seem to notice. Sweet Tart was growing nervous.

Gaze still fixed on the advancing party, Alabaster said, “Kid, go see to your mom. Get her inside.”

He released her tail. Sweet Tart gulped and scampered off after Toot Sweet. One of the approaching ponies, a bulky stallion in a hard hat, diverted towards the mother and daughter. He would be the one to usher the pair into the castle.

Alabaster thought that the lead pony looked familiar. It wasn’t until she came to a skidding a stop that he was able to place her face. Alabaster furrowed his brow.

“Mayor, is that you? Wow, you look like shit.”

It hadn’t even been half an hour since he last saw the Mayor of Ponyville, yet somehow she looked even worse than before. Pink roots were showing through her disheveled forest of a mane, and her fur was matted with splotches of dirt.

Looks like the poor girl got trampled.

Mayor Mare panted, but managed to speak between each huff and puff.

“Was there anypony else headed this way? We haven’t seen anypony else in minutes.”

“I saw no one, Mayor… no one we want in there with us, at least.”

Mayor Mare nodded. “I hate to say it, but we need to get inside too. We should be safe after we bar the doors.”

Alabaster frowned. “I’ll come along, but if I don’t so my friends in there, then I’m popping out through one of those windows. I’m not gonna hunker down when they might be in danger.”

“That’s… fair enough, I guess.”

The party turned and hurried towards the open door, but only made it halfway when they realized one of the muscle bound ponies in a hard hat hadn’t followed. He was looking west, up the road leading towards town.

“Tar Dust,” a fellow hard hat grumbled, pushing his way through the party. “If you don’t move your flank right now, I’ll buck you clear to Canterlot. Move it!”

Tar Dust didn’t look at him, however. He cocked his head.

“Don’t ya’ll hear that? It sounds like-”

But there was no need for Tar Dust to finish. They not only heard the drumming of hoofbeats and the creaking of wood, but saw the cloud of dust emerging from the builds. It was hurtling towards them like a comet.

The stallion who had scolded Tar Dust began to shrink back towards the castle. “W-we really should be getting inside now. That might be the monsters heading this way!”

“No,” Alabaster said, squinting. “I definitely see a pony. Sounds like they’re pulling a wagon. Maybe that means we’re getting a few more house guests.”

They decided wait. The party watched the nearing figure like a group of deer, ready to bolt at the slightest hint of danger. It wasn’t until an old wagon came rattling up to the castle that everyone relaxed. Tethered and harnessed to the wagon was an all too familiar face.

“Big Macintosh!” Mayor Mare cried, exalted. “By Celestia’s burning butt, what the hay are you doing here?”

The large stallion said nothing. All he could do was pant and shake his head. Alabaster was struck with recognition: first by the name ‘Big Macintosh’, and second by the dozens of cuts riddling the large stallion’s hide. The wounds were identical to those on himself.

A raspy voice hollered from wagon. “Careful, Grimmy, we finally got them bandages to stay!”

“Damnit, we can fix them inside! Right now we get moving.”

“Well, at least wait for Applebloom to help ya! Come on, girl, grab Whisper’s legs. He can’t be doing all the heavy lifting.”

“I got her, Granny!”

Alabaster’s stomach lurched.

The fuck did she just say?

He rushed forward, wings flared. Mayor Mare followed him, but the construction ponies stayed back to help Macintosh free himself from the cart.

A mare, withered as a prune, was carefully lowering herself from the cart. A filly with a silly red bow was helped her down. Alabaster hardly noticed either of them, however. He stared, shocked, at the puke green stallion standing in the bed of the cart.

Grimes was battered and beaten. A long gash ran the length of his left flank. He struggled under the weight of the figure slung over his back, but his expression remained hard and determined. Grimes would not falter. Alabaster’s stared at the thing laid limp over the stallion’s back.

It was equine in shape, but almost insectile by nature. What should’ve been fur was instead a shiny, black chitin. Holes perforated its legs, as well as the horn jutting from a bed of pink, silky hair.

It was a changeling.

Tears sprung to the corners of Alabaster eyes. Oh fuck… Oh, Whisper...

Through translucent wings, Alabaster could see the sodden bandages haphazardly pressed to Little Whisper’s back. His heart throbbed with anger.

“What the hell happened to her?” Alabaster growled. “Was it those fucking dogs?”

Grimes looked at Alabaster, surprised by his sudden appearance. “Who the heck are you, pal? I don’t think you-”

“What happened to Whisper!”

Grimes flinched. After the morning he had, he didn’t think there was anything short of a rampaging timber wolf that could frighten him. And yet, here was this wildeyed pegasus who looked damn near ready to claw Grimes into chunks.

A warm breeze slapped the apple farmer across his face. For such hot day, Grimes was feeling awfully cold all of a sudden.

Mayor Mare came up beside Alabaster. She moved to help Granny Smith, but froze when she saw Grimes’s cargo.

“S-sweet lunar lunacy, is that a changeling?”

The ponies helping Macintosh peered around the hulking stallion and spotted the source of the cummotion. A variety of emotions bubble up between the lot of them, fear and anger being the dominating two. Hush conversation broke between them like a sickness. Big Macintosh watched them wearily.

The majority of Mayor Mare’s terror was dampened as a hoof rocked the backside of her head. It wasn’t a heavy blow, but hard enough to smart. Mayor Mare turned and found Granny Smith glowering at her.

“Did you just hit? You did, didn’t you? What the hay for!”

Granny Smith prodded the Mayor with one grubby hoof. “For flappin’ your ever lovin’ gop! Can’t you just go a minute without havin’ to be in the middle of everythin’? This ain’t the time, nor place, to be makin’ a scene!”

Granny Smith pushed past the slack jawed mayor and limped over to Alabaster. Her faded eyes met his, and they held each other’s gaze for a long second. Some kind of understanding seemed to pass between the two.

“So you know who that is, sonny?” Granny asked.

“Yes. Little Whisper’s my friend.”

Granny Smith nodded. “You’re the stallion she moved into town with, ain’t ya? Aluminium, right?”

“Ye-” Alabaster paused. “Alabaster. You got the first two letters right, I guess. Are you gonna tell me what the fuck happened to my friend, or not?”

Granny Smith sighed. “You already guessed the most of it. Those timbers attacked our farm.”

“Whisper fought them off.”

This was Grimes. He had wrangled the remains of his courage and used it to glare intently at Alabaster.

“She saved me from one of them… from a lot of them, actually. It’s just... they kept…”

“Not dying?” Alabaster suggestion.

“Sure. When we couldn’t drive them away, she helped us get our cart.”

“Yep,” Granny agreed, “that’s when one of the buggers got a real good hurtin’ on the girl.”

Mayor Mare shuddered. “You really consider that thing a girl?”

Granny Smith shot the Mayor a look that could’ve given snow frostbite. “If ya ain’t got nothin’ reasonable to say, ya git, maybe you should get movin’ on. Won’t be long before them beasties catch up to us-”

Granny Smith paused and surveyed the nearby cluster of buildings. The howls and growls of timber wolves could still be heard, but they were distant.

“They were right on us, though. Why’d they stop chasin’ us?”

One of the construction workers stomped forward, eyes fuming beneath the brim of his hard hat.

“You want to hear something reasonable, old lady? How about this: put down the bug and let’s get inside! There’s no way you’re bringing it inside.”

The stallion’s “reasonable” notion was answered with a single firm word.

“Nope.”

The party jumped, clearly forgetting about the pony who had driven the carten. Big Macintosh moved to stand next to Alabaster. His posture was erect and defiant.

The construction worker glared up into Macintosh’s face. The farm pony stood nearly a head or two taller than himself, but the construction worked was no string bean. He was barrel chested. With a gut as hard as a steel beam and a head as wide as a cinder block, the stallion looked as if he could’ve been registered as a vehicle.

“We’re not leaving her,” Grimes agreed, adjusting the unconscious changeling. “She’ll die out here, either to those damned wolves or to blood loss.”

The construction worker snorted. “Well, you’re not bringing it into the castle, squirt! We’ve got families in there. For all we know, that thing could be just as bad as the timbers.”

“She protected us from the timber wolves, damn it!”

“So? Don’t y'all remember that one of her kind spent nearly a quarter of a year playing pretty pink princess up at Canterlot? That bug nearly killed the princess! Who knows what kind of long con this one could be-”

“ENOUGH!”

Alabaster whirled, eyes blazing and wings flared. Macintosh was struck by Alabaster’s right wing and was nearly sent sprawling.

The construction worker recoiled. Seeing a brick house of pony get bitch slapped by a pegasus was crazy enough, but the electrifying rage pouring off of said pegasus was actually palpable. It rolled over the construction worker in waves. He thought it might just bury him.

Alabaster stepped forward, his gold rimmed eyes shining like swamp fire. “This bullshit ends right. You pussies are scared of a half dead changeling? Or a pack of barking matchbooks?”

Alabaster’s sneered, flashing a vicious row of sharp teeth. “Mother fucker, be afraid of me. If that ‘bug’ dies, there won’t be enough of you for the fucking wolves to scavenge off of. This shithole will be a crater. You read me, twatwaffle?”

Although the construction worker had to crane his neck to see Alabaster, it felt as he was standing the pegasus’s shadow. Sweat ran in rivers along the back of his neck.

“I… er…” the stallion glanced towards his partners, but found only gaped mouths and shuffling hooves.

Alabaster chuckled. “I take that as a yes. Good. Now, get the hell out of our way before I have to move you.”

*****

Every intake of breath was death. In the dim confines of the stagecoach, ribs were bruised, heads were cracked, and limps were aching. Thankfully, Speira’s instincts were honed to a fatal edge. Even as she groaned, she was pushing herself up to the vein of light overhead.

There were plenty of obstacles amidst the disarray. She scampered over ponies and luggage as if they were stepping stones. Perhaps this was a good sign. Despite how Speira ached, she was still well enough to climb.

Moments later, the compartment door swung open with a bang. Speira surfaced from the compartment like a diver. She hung on the lip of the door, trying to catch her breath, before hoisting herself up. Speira rolled over and simply laid next to the door, trying to catch her breath. A hitch pitched ringing was gradually fading in her ears.

Other ponies were emerging from the overturned stagecoach. They coughed and groaned as they helped each other out of compartments. Thankfully, the stagecoach was massive. The armored ponies clustered along its broad side as if it were a raft.

“W-what was that?” one soldier asked. Though she spoke clearly, her cloudy eyes glanced about, not focusing on any one thing.

Speira’s finally managed to catch her breath. Her eyes fluttered open. The wood beneath her had been stained black with soot and ash, yet she felt not even an iota of warmth. Inches from Speira’s nose, a threadwork of runes glistened through the coat of soot.

Not a bad enchantment.

The chilly air went colder as someone started wailing. Speira forced herself to stand at last. Turning around, she spotted a soldier peering over the front of the stagecoach.

Speira pushed her way through the bleary eyed survivors. A few of them were sticking their heads through the open doors as if they were ostriches. She paid them no mind, and instead joined the stallion at the front.

The situation was no good. A ring of scorched earth encircled the stagecoach like a coaster stain. Curls of steam rose as snow continued to fall. It looked to Speira as if the very ground was exhaling a long sigh.

What had wretched the sanity from the soldier’s lungs, however, was the row of crispy flesh and melted armor in front of the stagecoach.

“Sweet lunar locus,” he whimpered. Speira heard the rattling of steel as he trembled. “Briar Berry, Terry Top, Gossamer… what the hell happened?”

The soldier buried his face into his hooves, trying to smother his tears.

A familiar voice spoke to Speira, startling her.

And why are you sitting here like a doorstop, girl?

Though the thought was Speira’s, it was Quill’s rough voice who spoke to her.

Shake off that concussion and get your head on straight. Why would a stagecoach just spontaneously explode in the middle of a frozen wasteland?

Speira’s mouth went dry. “An ambush.”

The soldier lifted his head and stared at Speira, confused. Then he understood. His eyes widened.

Speira’s glanced away from the dead soldiers. She studied the road ahead of them, following along as it cut through the countryside. It didn’t take long to find what she shouldn’t seen in the first place.

Just over the horizon, a column of smoke hung lazily in the air.

For the first time in years, Speira felt herself become afraid. “Papa...”

Throughout her childhood, Speira had helped Quill fill countless unmarked graves on their journeys. If death was their business, than Quill had made Speira into an entrepreneur like no other. Speira was a killer by heart, and merciless by nature.

Yet, despite all of this, that column of smoke in the distance reminded Speira of what she truly was: a child, lost and parentless.

Not again… please, not again...

In an instant, reality came roaring back into focus. There was a sudden flurry of activity as the stranded soldier rose to their hooves. Over the sounds of rattling armor, someone cried out.

“Armed ponies approaching from the hillside!”

Another pony answered with, “To arms! To arms! Ambush! Ambush!”

Speira went numb, but not with fear, as many of the soldiers did. A sterile fury had settled over her nerves like a blindfold.

Death was Speira’s business, and today... business would be plentiful.

Author's Note:

Aye. Hope you're doing well.

Now accepting tips on my Ko-fi page.

Comments

[kildeez]

Really on the edge of my seat here! MORE!