When The Snow Melts

by Bluespectre

Chapter Fourteen - Brother against Brother

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BROTHER AGAINST BROTHER

Thorn winced as he pulled on the last piece of his armour. The wounds would heal well enough in time, but he’d carry their scars for the rest of his days, just like the rest of them. Each one was a reminder of a fight, a battle, where life and death had been constantly in the balance. He’d been lucky so far—most thestrals didn’t live as long as he—but it was only a matter of time before he came across one a little fitter, a little faster, that shade more experienced, and then it would all be over. His brothers would sing his soul to the afterlife, and then Storm Major Thorn would be nothing more than a name in the annals of the tribe’s history.

He reached up to the raw cut down the side of his face. It was clean, thank the goddess, and healing well despite how it had looked at first. That fool child had nearly blinded him, and he was damned lucky he hadn’t lost his sight. Only another half inch or so and that would have been it.

The major sighed. What the hell had possessed the lad to take haj? That cursed mixture was known for having dangerously unpredictable effects on warriors, and on occasion, the battle fever could even become permanent. He shook his head. Of course the young warrior he’d brought with him had to be the one who went berserk and now, as his officer, Thorn was honour-bound to take responsibility for him. He would have the one who would have to stop him before he killed again.

Thorn spat on the ground, cursing his luck. He was getting too old for this stupidity!

At least he’d found the princess, though, or rather that monkey creature had. It had simply been a case of following them back to that shack in the woods. Worryingly, the creature had been in there with her for a while now, and his mind was beginning to conjure up all sorts of terrible images. What if he’d killed her? What if he’d…?

He shook his head. No, that wouldn’t have…could it?

Thorn rubbed his aching limbs. He’d rested in the forest, tending to his wounds and foraging for what sparse food sources there were out in this strange land, even managing to catch several fish. He sat down to eat them when he heard movement further back in the trees. Peering through the undergrowth, he saw him, the monkey thing, a sickle held in its claw. It was collecting herbs by looks of it.

Curiosity took him, and before he knew it, Thorn found that he’d stepped out of cover, and the thing looked up at him. He’d cursed himself for that. Stealth wasn’t really the thestral way, but it was still a part of their most basic of skills. And here he was, standing in plain view like a bloody clueless foal!

The thing had started walking away from him, back up to its shack, but it was obvious from its scent and the way it walked that it knew he was there. Thorn was no fool, but he wanted to know what had happened to Celestia, he had to know! He’d capture the thing and have it tell him what it had done to her. If it had hurt her…

Damn! He’d spooked it. The monkey was running now, making for the hut. Thorn picked up speed, but his wounds were slowing him down considerably. Hellfire, if he wasn’t in such poor condition, he’d have been on the thing in a heartbeat. As it was, the two-legged thing was outpacing him! His wings were still injured and useless in the confines of the forest, so leg power was the order of the day.

Thorn applied a burst of speed, closing the gap, when a lancing shock of pain suddenly ripped down his foreleg. Hissing, he glanced down to see the wound had re-opened. He stumbled just as the monkey shot into the hut and slammed the door shut. Cursing himself, Thorn quickly retied the makeshift bandage and began pacing around the hut. What in the name of the goddess was he going to do now?

Any chance at surprising the thing had long gone, and he was back to square one, only worse so. Now it knew he was there. Shaking his mane in dismay, he realised he’d left his axe by his camp, along with the fish. Thorn shook his head. The monkey wasn’t going anywhere, and besides, it looked like he’d been collecting herbs for something… healing? Great moons! It wasn’t to flavour something, was it? Damn it, if he’d done anything to her…

The thing shouted something at him. What was that, a language? It sounded like one, but it sounded like a barrage of groans and squeaks. Ridiculous creature. Still, there was no mistaking that tone of defiance in its voice. He smiled—this might be more interesting than he’d thought.

Thorn hooked his helmet onto his marching pack. There was no way he’d be risking opening his facial wound by putting that back on. A shame really, he was very fond of that old thing, having been a gift from his father. Thorn had been reluctant to wear one at first, his mind wandering back to his youth…

“I don’t trust warriors who wear helmets,” he had told his father. “It suggests you’re afraid of getting hurt.”

His father had laughed at him. “Any idea how many warriors there are rotting under the black sand with their heads split open, boy? The tribe would not thank you for dying for the sake of vanity.”

He’d worn the helmet after that.

Thorn carefully trotted down to the river. Fishing was quite a simple matter once you had the feel for it, and he’d netted quite a haul so far. There was good fishing in the Beyond, especially on the black river, and survival skills were not just something the warriors were taught ‘just in case’. They were a daily necessity for life in that unforgiving land.

He kept the fire low, choosing only the driest sticks to keep the smoke down to a minimum. He could have eaten the fish raw of course, but he wanted to get some warmth into his body. The winter in this land was brutal, and he had no winter gear with him other than his cloak.

The major’s mind wandered back to his foalhood, to his mother singing the songs of his ancestors to him. His favourite had been ‘The Dragon of Humpback Mountain’, a story of heroes, sacrifice, and exciting adventure that had kept him awake for hours instead of sending him to sleep. How he’d wished he’d been there, facing down such a massive beast! He’d leaped around the room, waving his wooden sword, trying to stand on his hind legs and use his forehooves to grip the weapon as his father had shown him. It was so hard to balance just right and felt unnatural to him, but little Thorn had been determined to learn, to condition his body to the rigours of life as a warrior of the tribe. He wanted his mother and father to be proud of him, wanted to be the best the tribe had ever seen. Now, years on, countless battles and scars later…

Thorn shrugged, taking a mouthful of the fish. He was here, and that was that. The colonel always said ‘to be able to adapt was to survive and conquer any challenge’. He was a wily old goat, but quite wise, or at least more than the average thestral whose brain box had been repeatedly bashed over the years. Thorn grinned to himself. This was good fish!

Dozing quietly, his belly comfortably full, the major sat up suddenly, his senses prickling. Had he heard something? Listening carefully, the sound came again: a scream, not too far away, and a laugh… a familiar laugh. He lifted his axe, shaking off the sleepiness and headed off towards its source. So much for a quiet nap. It was time to go to work.

The forest scenery became more familiar as he walked; the odd, long, thin trees changing to more recognisable ones. It was a strange place, so different from the monotone colours of home, and more like the lands the goddess had brought them to. Even the smells here reminded him of Equestria. There was something else carried to him on the light breeze this night, an all too familiar smell… blood.

Thorn picked up his pace. The trees were beginning to thin out now, eventually opening up onto a wide, open, flat plain that was clearly lit by the moonlight. There was a village here, a sprawling disordered collection of numerous wooden structures, with no two the same. This must be where the local inhabitants lived. He’d have to be careful and remain unseen. After all, if he was as alien to them as they appeared to him, they might not be too friendly. The one he’d encountered in the forest had shown quite clearly that although the locals appeared afraid of him, there was likely to be a whole lot more of them down here. Thorn knew all too well that numbers often bolstered an individual’s courage to face down the unknown, and even the strongest could be brought down by overwhelming numbers.

The snow helped to muffle his hoofsteps, and he kept to the shadows as much as possible. Only the breath curling up around his muzzle could give him away now. Behind one of the smaller structures, he saw it: the shape bending down, the moonlight outlining the familiar dark coat. It was the young warrior. Thorn looked on in horror as the thestral, one of his own, gorged himself on the lifeless form of one of the inhabitants of the village.

He felt sick inside. No matter how hungry he was, to do this…

The crossbow came up and he took aim, controlling his breathing. With a sound that seemed unnaturally loud in the night air, the bolt hurtled toward its target. Thorn closed his eyes at the moment of impact. The boy might have descended to the level of a beast, but he was still one of his warriors. The major murmured under his breath:

“Forgive me, brother.”

The thestral screamed, rearing back and turning to face him, his red eyes burning with pain and hate. Thorn hefted his axe and waited for the charge that never came. With a shriek of rage, the young warrior turned, then took off at a gallop back to the forest, angling away from the major’s position. Breathing a sigh of relief, the older one trotted down to the side of the pond and the creature that lay there. He knew there was nothing he could do even before he got to it, but still, he had to see, had to know.

The girl was staring silently up at the sky, the stars reflected in her now lifeless eyes. Hair as black as his own mane fell across her face, a small red hairclip still attached to it catching his gaze. He knew next to nothing of these beings—they were so alien to him—yet still, in his heart, he knew this was wrong, so, so wrong. She was only a child, an innocent life taken away when she had barely begun to know any of its wonders. Now, she was gone. The warrior reached out with a hoof and gently closed her eyes.

“Sleep now, my child, sleep. May the angels of your home fly you to your rest.”

Whether the gods of this world would listen to the prayer of a being from another, he didn’t know. Still, he had to do something. This shouldn’t have happened. If he hadn’t come here…

It was his fault. He’d chased Celestia here, he’d brought death with him to this quiet land, and now a young life had been brutally taken. Thorn gritted his teeth. He had to stop that killer before he struck again.

Turning to leave he froze. Voices, urgent and insistent drifted out to him, oddly clear in the chill night air. Thorn shook his head, rubbing his ears. The unusual sounds, the words they spoke, they were the same as the creature in the shack had used...strange, alien, yet somehow the more he listened, the more he seemed to be able to understand them. The language they were speaking sounded like Equestrian, the language the goddess had taught his people before the invasion. Was this magic? Perhaps a gift to him from the goddess? Whatever it was, he would have to think about it later as the voice, louder this time, called out into the night.

“Who’s there? Is that you kids again?” the male voice shouted. It was quickly followed by another, a female.

“What’s going on out there, dear?”

“It’s those blasted kids playing by the pond again. I don’t know how many times I’ve told them it’s dangerous!”

Thorn was already running by the time the screams and shouts of alarm started.

Damn him! Damn, damn, damn! The major fled into the trees, allowing the dark interior to shield him from the villagers before he felt safe enough to stop and catch his breath. He had to find that soldier fast. If they found him first, who knew what would happen? They could kill him, certainly, but what if they found out about Celestia? What if they killed her? They wouldn’t know the difference between a thestral and an alicorn, nor care. In their desire for revenge, they would in all likelihood act first and think later. He’d seen it before; fear and ignorance were terrible weapons.

The major trudged through the snow; the tracks of the soldier had disappeared into the river. He was good, too damned good. He knew how to hide his tracks and doubtless knew he was being followed. A few scattered spots of blood further back up the bank ended in a bloodied crossbow bolt, discarded in the snow. Thorn examined it before wiping it off and replacing it in his quiver. He’d wounded him then, but how badly was impossible to say. The mental state of the young thestral would in all likelihood drive him to more and more violence until he was finally put down. He shook his head sadly. That was how it usually ended in these cases, which was why that foul substance had been banned in the first place. Didn’t anyone listen to their tribal elders any longer?

It was a lot sooner than he’d expected when he first saw the glint of lanterns through the trees on the other side of the river. There was a lot of them, but not as many as he’d thought there’d be. The two-legged things seemed surprisingly young too, except for three of them. One seemed to be in charge, the one that looked ‘comfortable’ out here in the hills. Thorn stared intently at him… Yes, yes that was the one—he was the creature from the shack that had found Celestia. Why was he involved in this? Had he…? The major gave his mane a quick shake. He’d follow them for now, and if fate was kind, he’d have a chance to discover more.

Hours passed, the party disappearing and then reappearing though the trees, doubtless following a set of tracks on their side of the river that he hadn’t discovered. Their leader had stopped and bent to see the tracks, pointing to the river. There’d been an argument, a disagreement, and then they’d begun backtracking, obviously unwilling to cross the river at night. So much the better—if they had, they might well have found another set of tracks that led to him. He’d wait until they move off a ways and then cross himself, shadowing them. If that fool was still out there, Thorn would have try and get to him before he got to them.

The night dragged on. Thorn kept low and downwind, keeping a steady distance from the villagers; close enough to observe but not too far as to risk losing them. It would be nigh on impossible to lose them anyway. With the amount of tracks they left as they blundered along, a blind foal could follow them. Thorn shrugged to himself. They were no warriors, that was for certain. That older one, though, there was something in the way he moved, his state of alertness; he was the one to watch and not just because he had recovered the princess. No, he had a military presence to him. Call it a ‘feeling’, but one warrior simply knew another that way. Either that or Thorn was starting to imagine things with staying out here in the forest too long. He sighed. As much as he liked his own space, there was something to be said for being in the company of others.

Good goddess, it was cold. The wind bit at his hide, nibbling his ears and muzzle, making him wish he’d brought his winter coat. Not that he’d exactly expected to find himself up to his withers in blasted snow, of course. Keeping low and out of sight didn’t exactly help to keep you warm either.

The party had come to a halt up ahead. There was some sort of commotion, and a few of them had gathered around a tree staring at something. What were they looking at? The mood had changed noticeably. Now there was a quickening to their pace despite the tiredness on their faces. He waited until they’d moved off and then slowly approached the scene of… horror. Thorn’s eyes narrowed.

“Oh goddess… you bloody fool.”

They’d never forgive them now. The child was bad enough, but this…why? What was the need for this? In his homeland, acts of terror were occasionally used as a tool of warfare. He’d never agreed with it, but it still happened. Anything, no matter how dreadful, could and would be utilised to demoralise and unsettle an enemy. Victory was victory, no matter the blood that soaked your hooves. No matter how innocent…

Thorn said a silent prayer to the two youngsters. The boy must have lost his mind completely, acting independently in some sort of guerrilla warfare against a people who had never done him any harm. He dreaded to think what that fool was capable of, but inside he knew. Nothing would stop him now, not now, not until he had been brought down and slain. As his superior officer, Thorn was responsible. He had a duty to help the villagers, and he would do so without reservation. With the blessing of the goddess, he hoped it wouldn’t cost him his life in the process.

He set off once again, trying to keep his distance, but skirt around them and get ahead. If he were the maddened warrior, where would he attack from next? The major began to swing wide of the party, his senses stretched to the limit, watching, waiting for—

The thud of a crossbow, quiet but distinct, was all too loud in the quiet of the forest. Then the screaming began. In moments, all cohesion broke down, and they were running, fleeing for their lives.

“Goddess damn it!” he cursed, and broke into a run. The boy had been ahead of them all this time and now was upon them. Fear had gripped their hearts, and now he would be like a wolf amongst panicked sheep. They didn’t stand a chance. He had to move, and quickly!

As he dodged between the trees, there was a crash and a cry of pain just ahead. Checking his axe was free and at the ready, he slowed. It didn’t do to rush in blindly. Dead was dead no matter what world you were in. Now he could hear water, and breathing, but where was it coming from? Goddesses, this cold! It was hard to concentrate. His joints, muscles, and even his ears were aching so much that it was becoming harder and harder to think straight.

A muffled groan of pain brought him to a halt. It was near, but it wasn’t a thestral. He sniffed the air. No… it was one of those villagers, one whose scent he quickly recognised. Peering into the darkness of the gully below, he saw him, the one from the shack. He was hurt, badly too by the looks of him. Now was his chance. He would try and communicate with the thing and find out what had happened to the… princess?

A sudden bright glow of golden light nearly blinded him, making him duck reflexively, the lethal blade of Celestia’s halberd hissing mere inches over the top of his head. She was alive! And trying to kill him.

He knew that look; he’d seen it a thousand time and more. She wouldn’t stop until she’d struck down her enemy, and this wasn’t the time or place for a pitched battle. He backed away. The princess was here and yet…

More screams assailed him from further away now. That damned boy was fighting his own war against innocents. Damn it! Celestia could wait; he had to stop him. Storm Major Thorn, veteran of countless battles and campaigns, did the only thing he could have right then.

He ran.

Author's Note:

Edited by JBL

Comments

[Shachza]

Oh, I like the way this is shaping up.

[Gravity012]

Oooooh boy. So many misunderstandings it’s enough to drive one insane.