The Hungry Eyes

by Ammie Kindheart

Chapter 8 - From this Day Forth

Author's Note:

This is where the going gets tough. ATTN: There are descriptions of crime scenes in this and the following chapters. I have tried to convey the scenes in ways to get the idea across, without being blatantly graphic.

About half a mile outside of Ponyville, the one clothed all in black paced the floor of a rundown tree-home. His furious eyes blazed red in the darkness. He had nearly gotten that red-haired mare, with her big city ways. She thought she was so smart, but all her fancy machines and science were not going to help her. No! She thought she could find and stop him? And that healer with all her potions—they both needed to die. How dare they interfere with his plans? Who was that dark pony that had attacked him tonight? It would take nothing to find out who it was and make an example of him. He would make them all fear him, these ponies who were more like sheep, bleating in fear. They made him laugh, even those princesses in their castles. Before he was finished, they would all kneel at his paws and beg for their lives. None of them deserved to live. They would all die once they surrendered their magic to him.

The dark one slipped out into the night. He would give them their last colt, and with this gift he would begin his reign. He would be known as the Wolf King, and their blood and fear would be his feast. He ran to the place where he had been keeping the oldest colt, Nate. Oh, the fun he had been having with this one! As he opened the door of the cell, Nate began to whimper. The fear was like a drug to the wolf. Powerful and heady, it made his eyes glow again as he looked at the colt, who began to sob through split and swollen lips. Adrenalin fueled the wolf as he jerked the colt to his hooves, snapping the chains that bound the young one like twigs. Prodding the colt forward, they headed for town. The bloody, beaten, and battered colt limped along. His once-shiny, red coat was a crisscross of deep cuts and bruises. His eyes were both nearly swollen shut; he could barely see where he was going. He tripped and fell, only to be jerked back to his hooves and ushered onward again.

And as Nate grew weaker, the wolf thrived.

* * *

In Zecora’s room, Coal began to pace and softly growl. Looking at her friend, the healer nodded. “I feel it, too—the darkness grows—and fear its wrath before morning shows.” The eerie pressure began to build, as if all the air were being sucked out of the room. Zecora’s heart began to beat faster. She remembered feeling like this before, the day she had lost all her family many years ago…

Usually, she would go into the forest near her village to gather her ingredients for their remedies. But this time Bibi had asked her to go farther from home to the waterfall, where some calamus grew. It was hard to find anywhere but near the waterfall in a boggy area. Zecora thought they had a supply of it that they had dried at the end of last summer, but Bibi insisted they needed more. So she had set out early that morning, her bags across her back. She decided to stop in another village and pick up some clover seeds as a surprise for Bibi on her way home.

After she had picked the calamus and some beautiful berries, Zecora had slipped into the pool below the falls. The cool water was refreshing after her long walk. Settling down on a large, flat rock beside the pool, she let the warm sun dry her as she ate the lunch she had brought along. Then, her meal finished, she stretched out in the sun and soon dozed off.

About an hour later, Zecora sat up in a panic. She felt as if she couldn’t breathe. Something was wrong. Throwing her bags across her back, she began to gallop toward their village. The walk earlier had taken her over an hour—the distance forced her to pause in her mad run a couple times just to catch her breath. Finally, she reached the trees in sight of the village. That was the first time Zecora had ever felt pure evil. As she looked over the village, she saw some of the homes had been burned; smoke slowly rose from the debris. The once-clean streets were strewn with belongings and bodies. She struggled to control the terror she felt, tears beginning to flow down her cheeks as she took in the carnage. Though she strained to hear over the thundering of her own heart, she could discern nothing but the crackling of flames in a nearby home.

Feeling sick, she started to step into the clearing. It was as if an invisible grasp stopped her in midstride. The impression that she needed to be cautious flooded her mind, as if it had been spoken aloud. Softly treading, she circled the village, keeping inside the cover of the trees. Soon, she came up behind her Bibi’s home. This, too, had been broken into, but much less than many of the other homes. Carefully, Zecora slipped in through the back door, listening for any sounds that would indicate another presence there. She still felt the evil, though it had reduced greatly.

The main room of the home had been wrecked, belongings thrown around and damaged. The door to Bibi’s room was off the hinges, and even the mattress had been ripped to shreds. Turning to her room, Zecora opened the door cautiously. To her great surprise, the room was exactly as she had left it—no, her mirror on the wall was slightly askew.

Crossing the room, she took the mirror from the hook that held it on the wall, revealing the secret panel that only she and her grandmother knew was there. Zecora touched the hidden trigger, and the door popped open, revealing its contents. The things she treasured most were there. Her remedy book, the jewelry that had been passed down through the generations. On top was a wooden box with hearts carved into the lid. Taking it from the safe, she gently opened it. Inside were a stack of books. Turning the first one over, Zecora drew a ragged breath. Bibi’s book of potions and magic! As she opened the front cover, a folded parchment slipped out and onto the floor.

Her knees weak, Zecora sat the box on the bed, picked up the sheet, and sat down beside the box. Her hooves shook as she unfolded the paper, finding a note:

Dearest Granddaughter,

You have been the light of my life and the joy of my old age. Never doubt the magic that lives within you. You have gifts far beyond those of any healer I have ever known.

I place these things here for you because I feel an evil coming. It seeks to destroy us and our kind. I set a guard on your room to hide it from the darkness that seeks our family’s cures and records, thinking we could no longer heal and resist the curse they carry. Take these things; keep them safe. Carry only what supplies you can easily bear, disguise yourself, and go to a place far from here. There is a place where ponies are kind and princesses rule fairly. Go there and live so that you can continue our work. Always remember who you are. I love you.

Bibi

With tears streaming down her face, Zecora folded the note and slipped it back into the box. Squaring her shoulders to carry what felt like the weight of the world, she said softly, but with an iron determination, “From this day forth, I will speak only in rhyme, as a remembrance of this time—until a time that shall see the author of this travesty.”

Zecora cautiously searched her village for survivors, lest those who had done this evil were still close by. There were none. Then, with a heavy heart, Zecora packed a small cart, carrying the wooden box, her grandmother’s cooking pots, and other essential items. She dressed as an old farmwife and piled hay on top of the cart as she began her journey to Equestria…

Zecora was brought back to the present when Coal growled insistently. An instant later, there was a firm knock on their door. Opening the door, she was surprised to see Morgan, Peach, Ammie, and a tall, dark unicorn stallion. After asking them in, introductions were made, and they shared the story of Morgan’s attack.

* * *

Big Mac and Jaberi were talking outside Town Hall when they heard a piercing scream coming from the edge of town. In an instant, they were joined by several other stallions galloping toward the sound. As they neared Ammie’s home, they heard a maniacal laugh that echoed off the surrounding houses. They skidded to a stop, trying to pinpoint the direction the sound had come from.

A wolf howled.

Looking at one another, the stallions cautiously moved forward. In the yard of Ammie’s home lay Nate, or what remained of him. His throat had been ripped open with three parallel gashes. Nearly every inch of his body was covered by cuts and welts. It was obvious to those that looked on that Nate had been abused since the night he had vanished. On the side of Morgan’s workshop in giant letters were three words written in blood—You are next!