Myths and Birthrights: Anthologiae

by Tundara

The Moon on the Sword: Act Two (Dark, Gore)

5

All hope had bled from Luna long before she was dropped onto a table at the heart of the soulless’ camp. Other than a few jugs of wine and a plate holding the bones of some animal, juicy meat still clinging to the joints, the table held just a large map of the island.

She trembled, unsure what to do. Legs curled underneath her she tried to hide her face in the depths of her tail. Would she become like whatever it was on that plate? Eaten? Her thoughts skittered back to what little she knew of the monsters and her hooves flew up to her horn.

Several minutes passed in relative silence, Luna slowly rising her head to look around, each time spotting the minotaur hovering nearby.

Next to the awning under which the table stood was a tent made of thin, lacy cloth that showed several soulless within while hiding anything more than the vagueness of their shadows. These slim forms moved back and forth talking to each other in easy voices, laughter and short giggles frequent while a spicy perfume wafted past Luna’s nose. Her sneeze brought a little gasp from the tent, and in the next instant a curtain was pulled aside to reveal a curious face.

Wide, brown eyes darted over to the minotaur, and a question hung from full red lips before a delighted squeal broke from the creature and with surprising speed she darted from the tent up to Luna on long, coppery legs. Before the minotaur could protest, Luna was scooped up and brought to the woman’s breast. Deceptive strength held Luna fast, and she dared not provoke the creature further by fighting.

The creature’s antics brought fresh, cooing faces from the tent. They surrounded Luna to the minotaur’s chagrin, pinching, petting, and kissing every available space.

A finger traced up Luna’s horn, sending shivers down her spine, and then traced the wound on her brow. A flash of pain elicited a sharp nicker, and at last Luna began to fight. Her hooves swung out to drive the creature’s back, only for a thick hand to grab her by the scruff and pull her away.

Sternly, the minotaur spoke, and the creatures grimaced then grew angry, a spark flickering at the corners of their leader’s eye. She placed a long finger to the minotaur's chest and leaned in closer. As with everything else spoken thus far, Luna had no idea what was said except that the minotaur grew stiff as if he were carved from marble.

Smiling at his discomfort, the trio stole Luna away and whisked her off to their tent in a flurry of parting winks and giggles.

Luna found herself surrounded by silks and incense. Pots of sweet smelling oils sat on low tables decked in golden cups and wine. Cushions adorned a large nook set aside as a bed. Onto this bed Luna was placed, the later two curling around her like a pair of purring panthers.

Over them loomed the first soulless, her expression unreadable and aloof. She tapped her cheek as she looked Luna over, and then she nodded at some decision. Leaning down, those long fingers lifted Luna’s face so they stared eye to eye. A chill swept down Luna’s spine, and she knew beyond any hint of a doubt that this soulless was far more dangerous than any of the other. A snap of her fingers sent a sharp jolt through Luna. Pierced as if by a spear she reeled back, the acrid scent of spent magic lingering in the air.

“What was that, Sopha?” One of the other creatures asked, tilting her head a little and a slight pout touching her full lips.

“I can understand you!” Luna yelped, unable to catch the words before they burst from her in a wild tumble.

The two laying around her stared a moment, then smirked. “Oh ho! So, the cute little pony has found her tongue?”

“She’s so darling,” sighed the other, head resting on one palm while her other hand played with Luna’s mane, twirling it through her fingers. “Dark and velvetine… Think we’ll get to keep her?”

“Doubtful,” The one called Sopha said as she retrieved from her table a foul smelling paste. “Besides, we are not here to pick up stray unicorns. Now, sit still child, while I apply this to your wound. The infection spreads and you will die otherwise.” This statement made Luna freeze, like a mouse caught beneath a cat’s paw. She did not move as the poultice was applied, despite how much it stung. When she was done, Sopha snapped her fingers again, and this time Luna caught the scent of spent magic. Massaging the magic into the poultice, Sopha asked, “What is your name, little unicorn?”

Luna considered not telling, but saw little reason in being spiteful. “Luna,” she replied, and then tried to shrink deeper into the cushions when Sopha put the paste away. Her forehead no longer hurt, and the chills receded.

“Like the moon,” giggled the woman on the right. On seeing the quizzical look Luna gave her, she continued in a somewhat flustered and bored tone, “Luna was the name of the old moon, sister and lover to Parhamane, and the one who created the gateway for our ancestors. She stayed behind to keep the way open for others to follow, but… Oh, this is so dull, and why am I explaining it?”

“No one asked you to give a history lesson, Marian.” Sopha laughed at the discomfort that flashed across her friend’s face, tossing back her head and her ample bosom bouncing. “But it is curious,” she said as her mirth calmed and she began to apply rouge paint to her lips. “Ol’ Firemane gives ponies their names for reasons or a purpose. It can not be coincidence that the gate’s key lay hidden somewhere on this island and she bears the name of the old moon.”

“You think this filly knows where the key is buried?” The third one ruffled Luna’s mane, then bounced off the cushions up to her table. “Your visions have proven true once more, Sopha. The Witch-Queen, they’ll call you!”

Sopha waved off the compliment. “Please, Yasmina, I know a paltry few spells, and the gods bless me with a vision now and then. Hardly enough to compete with the sorcerers in their black towers, or the true witches in their fog shrouded huts in the depths of the swamps. But you know these stories so much better than I, dear Marian! Tells us a tale like you do our lord. Tell us a tale of high adventure in the days of yore when our ancestors walked bravely through the gate to tame lands before unseen!”

“Oh no,” Marian replied at once. “My stories our for our lord alone. He is greedy of their pull, and he frowns so when I share them even with you. But, why do I tell you this yet again? I swear on Parhemane’s tangled beard, you will never give me peace.”

Luna listened with rapt attention as the soulless bantered and played. She found them quickly to be nothing at all like she’d imagined, and presented with such an oddity, her worries and sadness melted away for a time.

6

Night drew near, the sun yawning near the tips of Coltsica’s mountains, and a lively energy filled the soulless’ camp. Torches were lit, and a great bonfire set around which the men began to gather. Not all, as sentries continued to stand guard beyond the torches glow, even more attentive for ambush. Fingers traced the lines of taught bows, and ears strained for the faintest whisper of wings on the wind or the clank of mail barding.

Luna, secured in the tent with the three women, knew little of what occured beyond the silk walls of her prison. Underneath her bruised flanks the cushions were a welcome respite. Hooves stretched out, she laid next to Marian, chin on the women’s supple thigh, and was fed dried figs.

After the horrors of the last few days, she felt more secure with the jovial preparations of Sopha and her friends than out alone, running from the griffons or worse. The stories of the soulless had to be false, Luna concluded, as no creature that laughed and showed such kindness could be capable of the depravity attributed to them in legend.

Once or twice she contemplated running, but each time she looked up to see the shadow of the minotaur watching the tent, his hand resting on his weapon.

The drumbeat of hooves touched Luna’s ears long before any of the soulless made out the approaching noise. She raised her head towards the sounds and hope flared in her breast that her sister had come in rescue.

She pictured with such clarity Summerset striding into the camp that Luna was certain it was real and not a desperate dream. Hooves twitched, and she began to stretch towards the now louder hoofbeats. Hope made her heart quicken until it was in time to that steady, distant thrum.

Such hopes were dashed at the call of a horn, and the answering retort from one within the camp.

At the horns, the women reacted with gasped breaths and rushed to finish applying their paint and putting on their thin, gossamer dresses. Bare thighs and waists teased the imagination, while veils hid all but their eyes. Strings of gold and jewels came next, placed about the head, neck, and wrist, or dangled from rings in their navels.

Their own preparations complete, the trio then turned on Luna to attack her with their best combs. The same sweet smelling oils were applied behind her ears, paint to match the colour of her mane spread around her eyes, and with a brush a black dragon clasping a crescent moon in its talons painted where Luna’s true mark would one day shine.

She giggled and fidgeted underneath the attention, and her crushed hopes were put aside.

“Now, you will come out after I give you the sign, Luna.” Sopha repeated the command, her voice finally stern and serious. “Remember this, as it is important.”

Luna nodded.

“Just bow to his lordship,” Marian explained, taking over from Sopha. “Do not stare, and do not make eye contact as that is very rude. His Lordship may ask you to sit by his side. If he does this is good, as it means he favours you and you’ll probably survive the night. If not…” Marian shrugged, and Luna was struck by a return of the dread and fear that had filled her when she’d first seen the camp.

“Do not scare the poor thing,” chided Yasmina as she secured her veil and went to the tent flap. “You will be safe, little Luna. His Lordship is a fierce man with a simple honour, but not a fool. You are a unicorn and worth more than all the gold that could be heaped in our ship without it sinking. You will not be harmed. Oh no, not you.”

And then the hoofbeats drew close enough that all else was silenced.

Into the heart of the camp burst a group of five horses, armoured men astride their powerful backs. Luna had never learned of horses before, and until that moment she’d assumed it to be ponies she heard. Her mouth fell open at the giants that skidded to a halt just beyond the lace walls, lather and sweat covering their plain brown coats.

Only animal intelligence glimmered behind the beasts’ black eyes. Eyes that were far too small and sent tremors up Luna’s spine. It were as if a veil onto another world had been shorn, and Luna gazed into a realm of madness and what may have been if not for the twists of fate. A primal urge filled her to escape, to get away from the horses, one far more potent than even that which had grasped her on seeing the soulless.

Light, soothing fingers touched Luna’s withers, their pressure and presence easing the fear. She blinked a few times, and looked up to see Sopha giving her a smile of reassurance.

From the horses’ backs jumped their riders, each tossing their reins around a stout post and then stepping away as others tended to the horses, bringing them water and food.

The largest of the newcomers, decked in crimson brigandine hauberk, clasped arms with the minotaur and slapped a powerful hand on his shoulder. This man alone equalled the minotaur in height and strength. A thick, rust red beard hung in plaits down his chest, swaying as he marched up to a provided stool at the table. There was little Luna could tell of his features with the heavy helmet he wore, except for a white line of grinning teeth that flashed every time he laughed, which was often. Over his right shoulder hung the pelt of a golden lion, the beast’s head acting as a pauldron and its hide a cape. Embossed dragons flew across his armour, their scales made of gold thread glistening in the afternoon light. Scars, white against the burnished copper of his skin, criss-crossed his bare upper arms and thighs, and stood testament to well-earned experience.

Even more impressive was the man’s weapon, a spear half-again his height. Solid dragon bone etched deep with something written in the human tongue carved into the haft, ending in a tuft of manticore hair affixed to both ends along with griffon pinions. The spear head held a shimmering blue-white light, designs in brass trailing along the face.

He sat at the table on a large stool, and around him gathered a dozen of his soldiers as he held council.

“It won’t be long now, Luna,” Sopha said, taking up a long shawl the same colour as Luna’s coat.

Luna and Sopha’s definition of long turned out to be rather different as the minutes rolled by and turned into an hour. For the first while Luna cringed and vacillated between excitement and fear. She bit the edge of her hooves, peered out through cracks in the tent, and hid beneath Marian’s table. The next several she groaned and laid on her back, legs spread as boredom creeped closer. When the cooking fires were lit and the soldiers dispersed from the table, Luna jumped to the tent flap, dancing on the spot in anticipation, all her previous anxiety lost. This too passed, and Luna slumped into Yasmina’s lap, flicking her tail with irritation. Towards the end, when Sol had at last dipped behind the mountains and plunged the beach into a golden gloom heralding the fast approach of night, she cried. At first it was sniffles, then it was near to open bawling.

She wanted her mothers, her sisters, anypony that could give safety and a comforting hoof to rub away the horrors of the past few days.

“There there, dear little thing,” Yasmina said and used a silk cloth to dab away the tears. “You are safe now. The griffons will not come here, unless they wish for death.”

Sopha and Marian repeated the assurances, and together they had the effect of reducing her tears to slight whimpers.

Outside an instrument was strummed, a long exotic note hanging in the air and drawing gasps from the women. Her shawl flinging around her silken, raven hair, Yasmina flew from the tent on a fast patter of feet, toe tips barely touching the sand as she entered a half-circle formed while Luna had been overwhelmed by her losses. Such memories were utterly banished as she stared at the dance. Yasmina flowed and shimmied her hips, eliciting howls and roars of approval from the onlookers. She sped up then slowed down, alternating between flicks and twists of her entire body.

The music sped up, a drum speaking from somewhere unseen, and Yasmina twirled her shawl, bosom a-quiver and the biggest grin on her face. Her shawl floated further and further afield as she moved, until Yasmina came to a sudden stop and beckoned for Marian.

After Yasmina, Marian’s dance seemed very stayed and empty, yet the men grew far quicker and intense in their gazes. There was a subtle grace to her dance, one that drew from the inner reserve rather than the outward energetic movements of her predecessor. Marian was all control and smooth, rolling gestures that transferred from the tips of fingers through her body down her her feet. Precise and beautiful, Marian held the crowd in the palm of her copper hand, no one daring to breath for fear of disrupting the dance.

“Remember what I said,” Sopha whispered in Luna’s ear, and then she too left the tent.

The soulless’ eyes all lit up as Sopha entered the dance, beckoning Yasmina and Marian to join her, all three moving in perfect harmony with each other. Silver flames burst along Sopha arms and ebony hair, climbing higher in time to the music, and dropping to a hissing sputter at the lows. Other illusions joined the flames, a cloud of butterflies flitting from Yasmina and Marian’s hair, their arms multiplying in number, and their shawls moving of their own accord.

As quick as the music had begun it ended, the illusions drifted away like smoke, and Sopha gestured towards the tent. Luna hesitated, frozen on the spot, her gaze locked on the curious crowd. No matter the kindness shown by the three women, Luna could not shake the sense of danger and fear the soulless instilled. Worry flitted across Sopha’s eyes, and she gestured again, while the crowd began to whisper.

On his stool, the soulless’ lord began to frown. He shifted towards the minotaur by his side and whispered.

Sopha pleaded with her eyes and silently begged for Luna to come out.

Swallowing her fear, Luna pushed her way out of the tent. Relief came from the women, while the men clapped their hands in approval and gave out their deep, roaring yells. Grinning, and a little more confident, Luna went up to the lord, and made her bow.

She had to fight hard not to stare at the burns that covered half his face, visible now that his helmet was removed. The scars were terrible, and made his left side appear as if made of melted wax.

He gazed down at her sternly at first, then tossed back his head with a great, booming laugh, hand slapping his knee. “Thraxe!” He said to the minotaur at his side, “When you said that the girls had taken a king’s prize from you, never did I think you meant such as this! Ha-ha!” His laughter summoned similar mirth in the crowd, and soon the entire camp joined their lord in his good humour. As his laughter died away and he called for a mug of wine, he turned to Luna, “Tell me, filly, if you have words on your tongue, what is your name?”

Years of rote training had prepared Luna for moments such as this, and without hesitation she said, “Princess Luna Lullaby of House Lullaby, youngest and least daughter of Queen Syllabus Lullaby the fourth, from Princess Jinxy Fantasia by King Dire Pentacut the second. It is a pleasure, my lord.”

Her proclamation brought nothing but silence from the crowd.

The lord leaned down towards her, reached out, and then lifted her chin with a gentle touch.

“A princess?” He hummed the word, rolling it around his mouth as if it were the first wine he’d ever tasted. “Then know this, I am Heyreddin Barbarosa, and these are my men. The Adharjoon we are called, the greatest and most feared of Kull’s children. Is that not right?”

He shouted this question to the crowd, and as one they answered with, “Kull, Kull, Kull!” pumping their fists and spears into the air.

“Sit on my lap, girl,” Heyreddin clapped a palm to his thick thigh. “And tell me the tales spun by your ancestors. No, a better idea! It is said that the song of a unicorn is the most beautiful sound in all the world. That even the fiercest of dragons will be calmed and lulled back into their hundred-year slumbers. Sing for us, princess, and give my men and I some joy, for tomorrow we hunt griffons, and only Ol’ Firemane knows who will live or die.”

After such a request, so earnestly given and with all the kindness the soulless had shown her, Luna couldn’t refuse.

Up into his lap she jumped, deciding on which song to sing. She didn’t know many, most being nursury rhymes of the sort not suitable for entertaining a lord. Of those that remained only one answered.

Taking a deep breath, one on which the entire camp hinged, gazing at her with reverant, keen faces, Luna launched into the Ballad of Crystal Dew. It was a slow, sad song, filled with remorse and regrets of a time when the disc was young and primal, detailing the titular Crystal Dew as she was separated from her herd and journeyed across dangerous lands in search of home.

Each lyric was infused with Luna’s own loss and sorrows, resonating across the beach in a floating melody. At the start of the second chorus the haunting tones of a ney and kamancheh spoke, carrying Luna’s voice in a deathly wind that chilled those who heard.

Luna lost herself into the song, its source coming from a place hidden and buried deep at her core. It were as if exploring her home she’d found a new passageway, and down it an indeterminable number of doors, none she’d ever dreamed of before. One stood slightly ajar, and it was from it the song originated. She edged nearer, curious about the music’s source, only for the song to reach its melancholy conclusion. The door snapped shut once more, and the illusion faded away.

Opening her eyes, Luna looked up to see tears running down the faces of the soulless. Yasmina held Marian, the latter shook with sobs and curled into a tight ball. Men, hardened soldiers and warriors all, as accustomed to death as any could become, did not hide their tears.

“Never have I heard such beauty,” Heyreddin sighed, wiping at his face with the back of a hairy hand.

Luna smiled, and only wished that her sisters could have been with her and her new friends.

7

A shrill scream of rage shook the griffon galleys at anchor beneath the smoldering ruins of Dreamsong Castle. The vessels bobbed on the light swell, keen eyed guards staring hard at the sacked town and their merrymaking brothers ashore. Those aboard the largest of the galleys winced at the sounds of a chair being smashed in their captain’s quarters, followed by another scream.

“Incompetence!” Howled Baron Scalane. A burly griffon, large in stature and the size of his gut, he paced and glared at his commanders as they cringed and wilted away from his fury. None dared meet his eye, afraid of what they would not see. “Lord Amon is greatly displeased with our failure to capture a single foal.”

“But, Lord we’ve captured hundreds of—” The speaker’s words ended in a bubbling scream, his throat torn out.

Talons dripping, Scalane turned to his remaining commanders. “Lord Amon cares not a whit for the chattel.”

He settled at the long table around which they’d been planning and plotting, maps covering the oak surface. Few of the maps agreed on topography and layout of the island, and mistakes had been made as a result. Costly mistakes.

As many of the scouts that had returned had failed to come back, lost to traps, ambushes, and whatever natural predators the island hosted. With each loss, Scalane’s fury grew, until he made no distinction between friend and foe alike, visiting upon any his bloody wrath.

“It was all going so well,” he continued, drumming his gorey talons on the tabletop, and black eyes shooting hate at the maps. “The castle fell far quicker than anticipated, and the town was taken quickly. But, the damn ponies have rallied, because you useless twig brains did not follow through. Now they raid us in return, while we are stuck here, because you failed to capture a single, little filly.”

“My lord, we still have the advantage,” spoke one of the commanders. “Let my flight take the Hyleans place in the south. We will not fail you as they have done.”

“The south has been unsettlingly dangerous. How many scouts have returned from there? None? Harumph…” Scalane pondered the maps again, and again. “Yes, south is where the filly will have fled. But why? There is naught there but… The ship! The ship we spied on our way north, could that be to where the filly flies?”

“That ship sailed under the blackest of banners, Lord Scalane. No pony, no matter how young and foolish, would seek comfort among that lot. Worse than pirates, that was the flag of the Adharjoon we spied.”

“The Adharjoon?” Scalane shook his head, and his fury turned into a cold blade. “I will lead you myself. The humans have landed down there. They must have found the filly. It is the only explanation.”

A current of unease rippled through the commanders, each looking to their companion to see who’d speak up first. There was not a griffon alive that didn’t possess a primal, almost unnatural fear of the humans, except, perhaps, for Scalane. He grinned and went to don his armour.

Comments

[Truth_Seeker]

Huh, Amon sure loves the griffons, doesn't he?

Or perhaps it's the other way 'round.