Malign Spirits

by Jordan179

Chapter 2: The Fight in the Fog

It was when the Mare Mustang made for the mouth of the Avalon into the lake that things started to go wrong. First, the wind, which had been blowing from the north-north-west, shifted to the north-north-east. The riverboat could still sail, but much more slowly, as she glided northwards. Keen knew that as the river ahead curved northeastwards, and that soon further progress under sail alone would be impossible.

"Crew sweeps," Keen commanded. Scudding like some great water-bug, the Mare Mustang rowed northward, against a current that was here still thankfully slow. It took effort, and Keen knew that it wuld be a weary passage up to Saddle Lake. At least we're making headway, he thought, We don't need to pole -- yet.

The next thing that happened -- and it did not happen until they were a thousand or so lengths into the channel, was that the wind suddenly shifted to the east, and a thick, opaque fog began to drift with it from the wooded swamps on the eastern banks of the river. The fog seemed unnaturally-coherent. Keen felt a crawling along his back, and he felt sure that this was hostile weather-working.

Given just where they were -- just what forest they were passing -- Keen was especially unnerved. It might be brigands, aided by a fogworker; or some sort of monster from out of the Everfree. He briefly considered ordering Brown Roarer to turn the boat back downstream -- but his hackles rose at the thought of backing down -- of giving up, tamely accepting defeat.

If it were brigands, boldly pressing forward might throw off their plans; dishearten and demoralize them. If it was a monster, then sailing back toward the Everfree might simply expose the Mare Mustang to greater danger. And if it were but a natural fog, then he would truly be a coward to flee from it.

Keen made up his mind.

"Heavy, break out the arms. Brownie, make all possible speed upstream until we lose visibility, then as fast as we can do without running aground. We'll run right out of this fogbank!"

Heavy Hoof -- the big, brown-coated, orange-maned bosun, opened the arms locker and distributed axes and half-pikes to the crew. The boat's two crossbows were readied and loaded. Keen took one at the stern, and Heavy went forward with the other.

Keen briefly wished he'd shipped a swivel-gun: essentially a big blunderbuss mounted on a pivot, so that it could be quickly turned and pointed at any clear target. Smaller firearms were not very effective against Ponies, because they were slow-loading single-shot weapons, inaccurate against anything as agile as a Pony and against which each of the Kinds had its own defense -- Earth Pony toughness, Unicorn telekinesis and Pegasus flight-fields -- but a swivel gun sprayed its grapeshot into a wide area and with enough of a punch to penetrate this protection. In the packed, close-quarters environment of a boarding action, such a gun could be fearsomely effective.

Keen had been offered a surplus swivel-gun at Snake City, but he had chosen not to make the purchase. To use the weapon he would have needed to buy and store black powder, which was both an expense and a fire hazard; and to use it effectively to hire a gunner, as neither he nor anypony else aboard the Mare Mustang had any experience with black powder artillery. That would have been an even greater cost, cutting deeply into his profits. The logic behind declining to buy the swivel gun had made sense at the time. Now, he was not so certain that he had made the correct decision.

The Mare Mustang drove forward under full oar-power; aided intermittently by her sail as she tacked every other leg up the Avalon. The oarsponies were pulling with desperate strength, and the riverboat shot forward with enough speed, relative to the water, that Keen knew her prow was raising a bow wave, putting a bone between her teeth, as the galley-ponies termed it, though he hoped there was nopony to see their progress.

Keen's craft was not a galley, she was a yawl-rigged riverboat, and close to fully-laden at that; so this was almost her utmost speed. At that moment, pride swelled in Keen's heart as he saw his ship and crew both laboring to run rapidly through the fog. Counting himself, that crew was but a dozen in number, yet they included some Taented oarsponies, such as Time Maker and Thirsty Blade, and the others well-matched their pace. He also had in Sheet Trimmer a skilled rigger, for all that he had been apprenticed to a linenmaker when Keen had first met him.

Then the fog was upon them.

It wrapped Mare Maverick like a stifling shroud, instantly reducing visibility so severely that he could scarce see the bow of his own boat. The location of the rierbanks, let alone shallows, became increasingly a mystery.

"Back oars!" Keen commanded. No point in running aground at full speed, wedging ourselves well and proper on a sandbar. Laden as we are, we might not be able to get off again without losing much of the cargo.

Keen went forward to the waist, treading sure-hoovedly on the central cat-walk. "Softly, lads," he warned his crew. "See the stillness of the air. This is no normal fog. Pirates, I reckon, and they have a weather-worker."

This was, of course, but an educated guess, but Keen misliked the suddenness and thickness of that fog; especially the way in which the wind had wafted that fog across the water, only to die down when the Mare Maverick was fully shrouded in its mists. That smacked less of natural weather than of hostile warlockry.

A good weather-working Sea Pegasus, skilled at both sailing and weather-working, could command high pay from any captains fortunate enough to secure their services. The pay was high enough that Keen couldn't afford one -- it would have cut too deeply into his profits. This was a decision he now regretted even more than his lack of a swivel gun. For that reason, few joined pirate bands -- why risk the short and bloody life of outlaws, when they could enjoy the long and wealthy lives of respected maritime professionals?

But some Ponies will make foolish choices, for what seem to them excellent, but to us foolish reasons, Keen Trader reflected. That's something one learns swiftly out in the wide world -- especially leading trading ventures.

Keen went all the way forward, to stand on the foredeck by Heavy Hoof and Mark Gainer.

"Any sign of trouble?" he softly asked Heavy Hoof.

"No, Cap'n," replied the big brown bosun. His normal voice was close to a shout, but Heavy had cut it back to a half-strangled stage whisper. "All's quiet out there, fer now. But I don't like this, Cap'n, not one bit! I feel like we're bein' watched."

"I also," said Keen, nodding. "Heavy, I'm taking the bow. You take the post aft. Attack may come from any quarter."

"Aye, Cap'n," Heavy replied. He clopped off forward, his strong hoofbeats marking his passage back along the cat-walk.

Keen stood at the bow and watched as their headway slowed; then he said, in command tone but merely normal speaking volume: "Pass it aft -- ahead half, take us up the main channel."

Thirsty Blade, leading the port oarsponies, passed it aft -- a bit louder than Ken would have liked, but he knew that the Mare Mustang would soon be making plenty of noise anyway. Given the time, he would have muffled oarlocks, given the current in his favor he would have proceded more slowly, but the river kept trying to drive them back south, and he greatly feared that with a hostile weather-worker out there in the fog, they did not have very much time before the pirates fell upon them. Mare Mustang needed to get back underway as quickly as possible. Though that fog might prove a two-edged blade: it would blind the pirates as thoroughly as it blinded Keen.

They were out in the main channel now; Keen could see the current flowing evenly past the prow; he had to trust in the Talent and skill of his helmspony Brown Roarer, recent cub pilot or no. Keen was of course skilled enough, after two decades on the river, but he had not the instinct for piloting that was Brown Roarer's birth-right as one literally Marked for the profession.

"Pass it aft," Keen said. "Full speed ahead, up the main channel!"

The rhythm of the oars accelerated. This was an exhausting pace to keep up for long. Keen knew that he could reliably get only about a quarter-hour, at most a half-hour of this effort out of them; they were merchant oarsponies pulling a yawl upstream, not professional galley oarsponies, amply crewed and trained for battle. Especially in this fog, Keen's orders seemed reckless.

Yet, there was method to his madness. The fogbank, if weather-worked could not possibly be much more than a few hundred lengths wide; unless there was an impossibly powerful Pegasus working it -- a major-class wind-locker. Pirates generally rowed in small, fast light boats to chase their lumbering prey; if Mare Mustang collided at speed with anything matching that description, she would run the little boat down, roll it over, probably break its keel and certainly put the pirates aboard in the water. Mare Mustang was no ram-prowed river-galley, but she was a full-sized riverboat, not a slim little racing shell of a longboat. Mass and freeboard counted for something in a collision.

Keen knew that the faster and more decisively he maneuvered, the less accurate was the fix on Mare Mustang's position the pirates had gotten when they sent this fog. The faster the riverboat surged forward, the less the ability of the pirates to block, foul or grapple her and the more likely that the pirates themselves would be swamped in the attempt. And if he could move fast enough, he just might be able to make Saddle Lake, where the pirates might fear to pursue.

There was, however, a fatal flaw in Keen's plan. It was due to a fact he did not know and would not know until after this encounter was done, when it would be too late for his venture. He should not be blamed for this -- he had no way of knowing.

The existence, if not the precise nature, of this flaw in Keen's plans revealed itself soon after the Mare Mustang had made the main channel and was gamely working her way upstream at several knots.

Awareness of the error came when the first crossbow bolt hummed through the air past Keen's head.

Keen immediately and involuntarily ducked, a moment after it no longer mattered, and no further bolts immediately followed.

"They're shooting at me!" cried Mark Gainer, the leadspony. "Holy shit, they're shooting at me!" Hysteria rose in his voice; he suddenly seemed a lot younger than his nineteen years.

"Flank speed!" shouted Keen, dropping all attempt at stealth. The closeness of that bolt told him that the pirates knew where they were, though he still had no idea as to how they did. There was no chance now of evading the pirates. Mare Mustang's only hope now lay in flashing past with such momentum that the foe could do nothing to stop or board his boat; in running rapidly out of this accursed fog.

If they could do that, they would be in full view of Mount Avalon, and closing on the head where the River flowed out of Saddle Lake. Be the Day Guard ever so lethargic, they could not ignore a naval battle right on Saddle Lake -- there might even be a patrol operating on the lake itself. Surely they would intervene against a pirate attack this close to Canterlot and the foot of the Mountain! All he would then need to do would be to hold off the pirates long enough for help to arrive.

A second bolt hummed, this time through the air right between Keen and Mark. Now, Keen could plainly hear the sound of oars lashing the water in a different rhythm than his own, ahead and to starboard -- about 30 degrees off the bow, he estimated, raising and carefully angling his ears.

"Pass me another!" a surprisingly high-pitched voice cried. "I can hit him!"

Keen was about to warn Mark that there was no way that the pirate crossbowpony could possibly see them through this murk; that he had to be tracking them by sound, when Mark screamed like a little filly and flung himself toward Mare Mustang's waist.

Several things happened, very quickly.

Keen heard the unmistakable twang of a crossbow shooting, from the direction of the pirate.

A moment later, there came a meaty thwack, and the point of a crossbow bolt, encrimsoned with blood, suddenly protruded from Mark's throat.

Mark's shriek immediately turned into a hideous bubbling gurgle, and instead of running back along the cat-walk, as he had doubtless originally intended, the leadspony leaped into the port waist -- the side away from the source of his anguish, and the one toward which the impact of the bolt naturally pushed him ...

... right onto the port oarsponies his choking, thrashing form converted into a gruesome projectile -- their crewmate, whom most of them personally liked and all well knew; lashing out randomly with his hooves and spraying his life's blood all over them.

Two of the three port-side oarsponies were physically-incapable of rowing because Mark had fallen on them. The unfortunate leadspony had collided head-on with Thirsty Blade, knocking him about and causing him to reel back from his oar; he had then fallen with the length of his body onto the back of Strongburg Miller; his hooves flailing into the big burly oarspony, one catching him in the base of his skull, stunning him instantly. Strongburg slid off his bench and fell inboard, losing his grip on his oar in the process.

Meanwhile, in the starboard bank, the sight and sound and smell of Mark Gainer's fall had thrown the oarsponies of that bank into a frenzy of motion. The result, of course was that the thrust of the oars surged starboard as it diminished to port, causing the Mare Mustang to begin a turn to port, pointing her prow toward the shallows to port and exposing her vulnerable starboard beam to the foe.

Brown Roarer flung himself on the steering sweep to counter this unbalanced thrust, but his ability in this regard was limited. The keel-board was raised, so Mare Mustang could not well grip the water, so that instead of cleanly turning in any direction, the riverboat began crabbing toward her port bow, cleary incapable of any precise maneuvering.

For a very brief instant, Keen Trader merely gaped in frozen horror at what was hapening. Then reason, and the requirements of command, returned to him.

"Man the portside oars!" he roared. "Anypony! We're losing way!"

He need not explain that last shout. It was plain to the greenest hoof aboard the Mare Mustang just what would happen if they were caught dead in the water with pirates closing in. Thirsty Blade frantically resumed his grasp on his oar, and Hammer Free, the boat's carpenter, leaped up from the scuppers, shoved both the dying Mark Gainer and the collapsing Strongburg Miller aside; and seized the forward port oar.

For one glorious moment, Keen Trader believed that they were saved.

In the next instant the pirate boat -- emerging from the mist, knife-prow and slim beam; a little mastless demi-hemikonter with five oars flashing on each side; every bit as fragile and vulnerable as Keen had imagined -- seemed to form from the fog like a wraith-boat. But she was no ghost; she was all too real, as were the dozen or so pirates that crewed her, crowding her slim shape, working her oars to drive her upon the Mare Mustang.

Keen could plainly see two Ponies on the pirate's small bow deck. One was a gorgeously-dressed Unicorn stallion, a tall red-coated dandy with a long black flowing mane, wearing a feathered hat and a ruffled red-and-black shirt colored to match his coat and mane. The Unicorn had an unusually long horn, and in his right hoof he held a long steel rapier with an ornate basket-guard. He was clearly the captain of the pirate galley.

By his side crouched a small Pegasus, who was in the act of cranking a crossbow. The Pegasus was dappled gray, with a long lank untidy dark greenish-gray mane. Between the facts that he was both the only Peagsus and the only crossbowpony in sight, Keen was fairly sure that this was possibly the weather-warlock and the sniper who had felled Mark Gainer.

"Get the Pegasus!" Keen ordered. He leveled, aimed and shot his own crossbow. Unfortunately, Mare Mustang's chaotic maneuvers were causing her to rock violently in the water, and a sudden motion of the deck came just as Keen pulled the trigger. Heavy Hoof fired from the stern at almost the same instant. Their two bolts hummed across the intervening space toward the pirates.

The Pegasus yelped, giving a rather girlish shriek as he threw himself down onto the deck. Keen's bolt was wildly high -- it passed not only far over the head of its ducking target, but even far above the head of the black-and-red dandy, without causing that Unicorn to so much as blink. Heavy's bolt went low, thunking into the side below the Pegasus. Keen was disappointed, but not dismayed by the lack of result; shooting between two maneuvering boats was difficult, especially as the currents pulled and rocked both of the boats back and forth.

"Turn to starboard!" shouted Keen back at Brown Roarer. "Ram the bastards!"

The port oars thrashed up to flank speed, as best they could with the strong but inexpert Hammer Free substituting for the still-stunned Strongburg Miller; the starboard oars slowed from their frenzy to a more normal pace, and Brown Roarer plied his steering sweep, once again controlling the riverboat's course with precision. Mare Mustang turned to face the pirate boat, her crab to port reducing as her oars worked in proper harmony.

Keen tensed as the gap between the two boats closed rapidly. On what happened in the next seconds, the fate of his boat and all aboard her might depend.

"Slip port and diekplous!" snapped the pirate captain. It was an unavoidable consequence of combat this close that each captain could hear the other's orders.

Can he -- maybe he can! The diekplous was a maneuver by which one galley deliberately scraped the side of a foe, usually from a bow-to-bow approach, breaking the foe's oars and possibly the bodies of the oarsponies behind them. Keen was equally surprised by the fact that the pirate captain thought his crew capable of such a precision attack, and the fact that he referred to it by the Classical term rather than the 'dicky-plus' by which it was more commonly called by Equestrian galley-ponies.

"Ship starboard oars!" Keen bellowed aft. If his oarsponies could get the oars up in time, the diekplous would fail and the pirate be left heading in exactly the wrong direction to pursue Mare Mustang.

There was the twang of a crossbow from the pirate, and a bolt went far over Keen's head, tearing a small hole in a panel of the mainsail. After that glance to ensure that no real damage had been done, Keen ignored it -- the pirates had shot their bow, and wouldn't have time to reload until the two boats either rammed or passed, any more than would Keen or Heavy have a chance to shoot theirs.

Time Keeper and the other two Ponies on the starboard bank pushed down on their oars, lifting them out of the water and well clear of the oncoming pirate boat. The thrust now unbalanced to port, where Hammer Free had found his rhythm and Flying Needle the sailmaker and self-taught sawbones was fighting a losing battle to save Mark Gainer's life. Brown Roarer swung tiller and sweep the other way, and the Mare Mustang kept her bow pointed upchannel, but began slipping to starboard. That crab suited Keen just fine; it pushed the merchant yawl directly into the path of the pirate, threatening a bow-to-bow ram which the small galley would be unlikely to survive.

But the red-and-black pirate captain must have been anticipating some such move, for he cried "Belay that! Slip starboard and diekplous!!!"

With a speed that told that he must have drilled his Ponies in this maneuver, the pirate crossed Mare Mustang's bow ...

"Ship port oars!!!" bellowed Keen Trader.

The merchant captain and his crew were almost fast enough. Thirsty Blade's oar rose skyward, and a moment later so did that of the port after oarspony, Puller Safehome. But Hammer Free, who was a talented carpenter but an indifferent oarspony, in the port for'ard position, was just an instant too late.

The pirate's prow crashed into Hammer's oar, smashing it backward and cracking it in twain, an action which whipsawed the handle, first flinging the carpenter forward as he unwisely tried to hold on to the oar, then throwing him backward as the sudden release of pressure coupled with his own strength smacked him across the front with both handle and button. The hemi-dekakonter was a small galley, and at no point was its momentum transmitted fully to Hammer, which is what saved his life in that moment. Nevertheless, the carpenter fell stunned from his bench, the second casualty Mare Mustang had suffered, and the port for'ard oar was now useless.

"Grapple and board!" cried the pirate captain, and with dismaying suddenness two grappling hooks thudded against the yawl's port side; the first one thrown short and bouncing off to splash in the water, the second one, thrown from the after end of the galley, landing right at Keen Trader's feet.
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With a surge of fear and an oath, Keen grabbed the grapnel and tossed it overboard before it could be tugged back and its flukes allowed to dig into the Mare Mustang's planking. The four-armed hook splashed somewhere below. He saw something faintly glowing flying toward him out of the corner of his eye and reacted swiftly, flinging himself down and lashing out with his hooves, kicking the object out of the air. The throwing knife, knocked out of the red-and-black unicorn's telekinetic grasp, thunked into the deck to land quivering not a foot from his head.

Keen heard the scraping of the galley down Mare Mustang's port side. He sneaked a peek over the side, and a crossbow bolt hummed over his head, a bit high and to the right. Both boats were losing way, and the pirates were pulling in their grapples to prepare for new throws, some grabbing at at the riverboat's sides.

"Fend 'em off!" Keen shouted. "Don't let them grapple us!"

Mare Mustang's crew picked up whatever long poles were handy and pushed at the pirate galley, an action which given that both were small, relatively shallow-draft boats, quickly increased the size of the water gap between them, making it impossible for anypony not a Pegasus to cross. The pirates did have at least one Pegsus on the crew, but that small Pegasus seemed to be cringing behind the galley's port side, only exposing as much of himself as necessary to shoot his crossbow.

Heavy Hoof responded by shooting his own weapon. The boats rocked as they slowly turned, the shot thunking into the deck to the left of the Pegasus. The pirates jeered his miss; Mare Mustang's own crew shouted defiance, and openly laughed at the pirates as they shoved the galley away. A grapnel snaked out, guided by the pirate captain's violet aura, but even with the aid of his telekinesis could not gain a lodgement against the active resistance of the yawl's crew, who batted it away with their own poles.

"Man the oars!" ordered Keen, seeing their chance. "Make for Saddle Lake, full speed!"

The crew of the Mare Mustang leaped to their oars. Strongburg Miller staggered to his hooves, grabbed a spare oar and pushed the broken one out of the tholes, setting the spare in place. The Ponies plied their oars without complaint, though they were breathing hard from their labors so far. They had seen what was chasing them, and they had already suffered losses.

Keen cranked his crossbow, then made his way aft to stand behind Heavy Hoof. He could just see the pirate galley falling behind as she began a turn to starboard, obviously hoping to catch them. Then, she vanished in the fog as Mare Mustang drew away from her.

"She's faster n'us, Cap'n," commented Heavy. "She can catch up afore we reach Saddle Lake." His voice was calm; he was merely stating a self-evident truth.

Keen nodded. "She'll have to board us, though, and that'll be hard bow to stern."

"Aye," said Heavy Hoof.

The air remained stubbornly still, save for the wind created by the yawl's own passage as they coursed through the murk. Somewhere astern of them, the pirate galley was on their trail. Somewhere ahead of them -- after all their maneuvering the distance was mostly a matter of guesswork, as they could see no landmarks in this fog -- lay Saddle Lake, and perhaps safety.

"Keep an eye aft," Keen told Heavy Hoof. He turned to Brown Roarer. "We have to make Saddle Lake as fast as possible. Are you still sure of your way?"

"Aye, Cap'n," replied the young pilot. "I can do it."

"Good," Keen said, clapping Brown on the shoulder. "I'll go for'ard and warn of snags and the like."

Keen made his way forward along the catwalk. He noticed that the sound of Mark Gainer's gurgling attempts at breath had stopped, and saw that a sailcloth had been draped over the corpse.

Poor lad, Keen had time now to think. He was so glad to be of our company. I didn't have time enough to get to know him as well as I should've. Keen was no stranger to sudden or violent death, but it always bothered him, especially when the victim was young.

Flying Needle was now bent over Hammer Free, bandaging a bleeding scalp wound and reviving the carpenter with a carefully-administered cordial.

"Slow sips," urged the delicately-built, brown-and-white sailmaker. "You don't want to cough it all up, you don't need that on top of that knock to the head."

"Ah," replied Hammer, "I've had worse hits to the noggin!" But the brawny carpenter followed his boatmate's advice.

Keen continued forward, stepping carefully. There was blood on the planks, and the last thing they needed now, for reasons both of tactics and dignity, was for him to slip and fall, and wind up Flying Needle's next patient.

He took station on the bow and watched the waters ahead. As near as he could tell from simply looking -- and a veteran of the rivers such as Keen could tell more than a novice might imagine, from such things as the flow of the water, about what lay beneath the surface -- they were plying the main channel. The oar-thrust was relatively even on both sides of the boat, and the only irregularities in their passage were small course corrections made by Brown Roarer at the tiller.

It was silent again in the swamp -- too silent for Keen's liking, because he knew that there was a pirate galley out there.

"There they are!" came a high-pitched cry from above. Keen turned and looked up, pointing his crossbow, but saw nothing but the fog. "To your starboard!"

The Pegasus, Keen thought with a sinking feeling. He's airborne and his eyes are better than mine for peering through this fog. And of course he's looking for a riverboat; that's much easier than spotting one flying dustmop.

He could now hear the creaking rhythm of a small galley's oars to port -- and nearly abeam of them, from what his ears could determine. How did they close on us so rapidly? Unless there are -- oh, no.

He made his way halfway back toward the stern, until he was close enough that he didn't have to shout loudly to be understood. "There's a second pirate," he called aft to Heavy Horse and Brown Roarer, "closing on us to starboard. The feather-duster's spotting us for them. Shoot him if you get the chance."

"Aye," said Heavy, looking up and trying to see the pirate Pegasus.

Keen turned to the oarsponies. "Flank speed! Let's make ourselves hard to catch!"

The rhythm of the oars increased, and Mare Mustang surged forward against the current. Keen's crew were sweating and gasping as they rowed. Keen would have liked to spell them, but he had only two live crew not manning either the tiller, a crossbow or an oar right now, and one of those was patching up the other. His was no war-galley, with deliberate redundancy in her complement. And changing an oarspony right now would throw off the stroke at the worst possible time.

Keen went back onto the bow deck.

"They're going all out!" the high pitched voice called from port and above. After a moment, Keen could hear the rhythm of the galley's oarstrokes increasing.

There was no strategem, no manuever which came to his feverishly racing mind. If they tried to ram this new galley they were apt to get tangled up with her, and then the original galley would soon be upon them. Their only hope was to make Saddle Lake.

It's a race, Keen thought grimly. And our lives are the prize.

It was at that moment that the galley appeared out of the mist to their port.

It was a second hemi-dekakonter, much like the first, but the figure standing on its bow calling orders back to the crew was one to make even Keen quail -- a big brute of a Minotaur, gray-coated and black-maned, with incongruous blue bows all through that mane. He bore a battle-axe and shield, and silver torcs and bracelets and other jewelry adorned his kilted form. Even were he not obviously foebeing, he would have been a fearful sight -- the epitome of un-Equestrian barbarism.

The Minotaur pointed at the Mare Mustang. "There they are!" he roared, in a voice every bit as fierce and gruff as one would have imagined from his appearance. "Bring us alongside and board 'em!"

The pirate galley's outline shortened slightly as she turned toward her prey, her superior speed enabling her to close the distance in a near parallel approach while maintaining the same headway on the yawl's own bearing. Keen understood their tactics full well -- they were not going to get ahead of Mare Mustang, where she might run them down, but instead attempt a survivable beam-to-beam collision. Both boats would be forced to ship oars at the last moment, which would knock them firmly against each other and allow the best possible chance of grappling.

"Get ready to ship port oars," Keen commanded. "Get ready to repel boarders!"

The orders were obvious, but it was all he could do. He could only hope that by fighting and fending they could win clear as they had against the first galley, then surge forward to make Saddle Lake. It was more difficult, because the second galley was on almost the same heading as themselves; hopefully, they might damage her when they collided.

The distance between the two boats shrunk alarmingly. Closer -- closer -- then they were alongside, and a lot of things happened all at once.

"Ship port oars!" cried Keen, and the port oars raised.

The pirate galley slipped under the raising oars, her own starboard oars raising and clattering against Mare Mustang's in an absurd parody of Ponies duelling with quarterstaves.

A crossbow twanged from above and Keen flinched aside. It was well that he did, because a bolt buried itself vertically in the deck almost exactly where he had been standing.

Heavy Hoof's crossbow twanged, as did another one from the pirate, but he had no idea if either side scored any hits.

Keen brought up his crossbow and started to pull the trigger, but in that moment the two boats collided with a crunch as side fittings on both boats broke, and Keen was staggered by the impact, his own bolt thus going wild above the galley.

And the Minotaur leaped across the intervening distance to the Mare Mustang's bow, even before any grapples had come onboard, jumping upward almost his own body length. The big biped's feet landed on the rail, and for a moment he tottered and seemed as if he would fall, but he grabbed a rope left-handed, the relatively small target shield on that arm not impeding him greatly. And there he was, standing right before Keen Trader.

Keen dropped his now-useless crossbow -- he would have no chance to reload -- and drew his personal weapon, a fine Bitsburg-forged longsword -- an extravagence he justified by two causes. It looked good at parties with formal dress, and it was extremely useful at moments such as this.

He got it out just in time.

The Minotaur cut down at Keen, a blow that if it had landed would have cloven the merchant captain's skull like firewood. Keen sidestepped, and the battle-axe continued in its arc, thunking into the decking. That was the great weakness of axes -- even in the hands of an expert wielder, once committed it was hard to very redirect their momentum. Their great strength, of course, was that in the hands of a brute like this Minotaur, they could kill even Earth Ponies with single blows.

Keen aimed a sideslash at the Minotaur as he tugged the axe free, but the barbarian blocked it with his targe, then brought the axe up unbelievably fast -- Tartarus, he's impossibly strong! Keen had to step lively to avoid either losing his sword to the axe in a disarming move, or losing his life to it in a disemboweling one.

He had no time to see anything that was going on elsewhere aboard Mare Mustang, only a confused glimpse of struggling Ponies. At least one grapple had obviously been successful, and the two boats drifted together like embracing lovers in the current, their way completely lost. At least the struggle seemed to be mostly at the port side; the pirates were not easily getting aboard.

The nightmare duel continued. Keen was just quick enough to keep the Minotaur from striking him with his battle-axe but likewise the Minotaur was skilled enough that Keen had to literally keep hopping to avoid that fatal strike. Keen was faster and well-trained in the use of the longsword; he not only kept the axe-blade from his flesh but managed to inflict minor wounds on the pirate captain; a slice to the thigh, unfortunately partly stopped by a leather legging; a stab to the lower side that might be nasty in the long run, but did not seem to even slow his foebeing. The Minotaur was forced to be wary, to abate the offensive rush that might have overwhelmed him, but also might have let Keen strike a decisive blow.

At last, Keen thought he saw his chance. The Minotaur attacked with a series of sweeping axe-arcs that forced the merchant captain to give ground, until Keen was standing on the rail. As the Minotaur cut low, Keen leaped over the stroke and landed on the deck before the barbarian. With all his might, Keen stabbed up ...

... only to find his blade deflected by one thick silver bracer on the pirate's right wrist. Keen tried to step back for another stroke -- the Minotaur's axe was out of position for that moment -- but the Minotaur slammed the target shield into Keen's head. Red and white stars exploded, and Keen found himself without memory of any transition on the decking, his face wet and eyes half-blinded by a red fluid that Keen realized was his own blood; his longsword drooping in his hoof.

Keen struggled to rise, to come to a fighting position, but the world was spinning and his muscles seemed to have all come unstrung. All he could do was twitch as the Minotaur raised his axe for the death-stroke ...
\
... and Time Maker surged up from the waist, spattered in blood, yelling incoherently and pushing a half-pike at the Minotaur. The normally calm lead oarspony looked like a fiend from Hell, but at that moment no sight could have been more welcome to Keen Trader. Hope surged in his breast ...

... only to be dashed in the next instant, as the Minotaur, showing both tremendous strength and considerable skill, stepped back, slipping Time Maker's desperate rush. The pike-blade went under the raised axe, and sliced into the Minotaur's big leather belt, cutting fabric and bringing forth some blood, but from where Keen stood he could see it was but a surface wound.

Then, as Time Maker struggled to bring up his haft to parry, that Pony's own time ran out forever, as the axe descended in a flash of bright steel that ended in a terrible wet sound like a melon being chopped in half. Blood sprayed from Time Maker's bifurcated head, the axe sank into the lead oarspony's skull. Keen could not see Time Maker's face, and was glad of it. The Minotaur lifted a foot and tugged his axe clear of Time Maker's skull, kicking the corpse of the lead oarspony to slump at Keen Trader's side.

Keen desperately managed to struggle to his hooves, raising his longsword defensively. His head was pounding, but not as badly as poor Time Maker's must have at that last moment (he could not avoid that terrible thought), and his arm wobbled weakly. However he still had a sword; he was still dangerous, and the Minotaur must needs beware his blade.

The Minotaur looked at him speculatively, obviously trying to gauge the threat Keen still posed, and the best way to finish him without risking spitting himself on that blade. Then he briefly glanced at something over Keen's shoulder, and smiled.

Keen should have used that moment of inattention to lunge, but it was but a short moment, and Keen was unsteady from that blow to the head. So instead, Keen shifted position slightly, so that he could do this while still watching the Minotaur, and also looked.

He saw the other pirate galley, oars flashing, red-and-black Unicorn dandy still conning her from her bow, looming out of the fog off the Mare Mustang's starboard aft quarter. As he watched in sick horror, the pirate slipped up smoothly alongside Keen's riverboat, shipping her port oars and coming to rest with but a relatively slight bump.

"The other galley!" shouted Keen, or at least he meant to shout -- it came out as more of a hoarse croak. "Ware to starboard! They're going to board!"

But his warning was useless. What looked like half the crew of the Mare Mustang had already fallen. The pirates were swarming over the port side of the waist, and Heavy Hoof was leading the crew's survivors in a fighting retreat to the stern. Neither Heavy Hoof, nor Keen himself, could do a thing to interfere as grapnels sailed over the starboard side, pulled back, bit into the deck and railing.

The pirates from the other galley swarmed over the starboard side, and all Keen could do was to watch helplessly as they boarded his vessel.

"I'll handle this," said the red-and-black Unicorn dandy. With a leap, he vaulted to the bow deck, rapier and dagger held firmly in his violet aura.

Keen made a weak effort to lash out with his longsword as the Unicorn landed, only to have his thrust parried with contemptuous ease by the Unicorn's dagger. Keen's head was pounding, his throat terribly dry, and it was difficult to focus on anything. All the world around him was suffused with the stench of blood and voided bowels.

"Oh, dear," said the Unicorn sarcastically. "You imagine yourself equal to your betters. How droll." This close, Keen could smell the Unicorn's cologne -- an expensive variety,

Rage filled Keen's heart, that a pirate should consider himself the better of an honest riverpony. For a moment, strength surged back into Keen's sinews, and he launched into the attack, his longsword flashing in a series of cuts and thrusts. It was not any exact form he had been taught in a fencing-class -- one always had to adapt them to the circumstances, and this narrow, blood-slick deck, with a second enemy who was not attacking but could not be safely ignored, was not much like the floor of any salon d'armes. But it was an effective combination.

Or would have been against most foes. For, unfortunately for Keen, the black-and-red Unicorn was every bit as skillful as the social status he claimed might imply. The Unicorn easily parried or slipped every one of Keen's strikes.

"Is that all you have?" The Unicorn yawned. "Dear me, I suppose I should not expect sophistication from the master of a mere goods-hauler. Still, one takes one's diversions where one can." His eyes narrowed, and Keen thought they looked most deadly under that unusually long, sharp horn. "And you were a diversion."

Now the Unicorn went over to the attack, a flurry of thrusts with rapier and dagger, the Unicorn switching the latter weapon from defense to attack and back again smoothly and effortlessly, bespeaking long and careful training. He also did not slip on the bloody planks, which bespoke considerable sanguinary experience.

Keen could no longer attack. Instead, he parried and leaped and dodged, barely managing to avoid being spitted on the Unicorn's rapier -- an uncommonly fine one -- Keen incongruously noted, with elaborately scrolled metalwork and gemstones on the hilt and guard. In the process he took a number of slight cuts from the dagger, but scarcely noticed them in his struggle to survive.

Then Keen slippped on the deck, and fell heavily. He hit his head, and his senses reeled. Again he saw stars, then came out of it to find himself lying on his back on the deck, the longsword still in his right hoof, and the red and black Unicorn standing above him, sneering down at him contemptuously.

"As I said, a short-lived diversion," the Unicorn commented. "Now, as to your betters --"

"Thief!" spat Keen.

"Oh, it speaks." The Unicorn laughed thinly. "What have you to say, mud pony?"

"You put on fine airs," Keen said thickly, "but you're nothing but a thief! A leech, living off the labors of honest Ponies."

"Oh, my dear," said the Unicorn. "I'm being lectured at by a commoner. How very droll and Levelling."

Keen tried to bring up his sword, and the dagger flashed to impale the flesh around his right cannon, pinning that hoof to the deck. For a moment Keen could barely grasp what had happened, then he cried out as the pain started to hit him.

"As I was saying," the Unicorn continued, "in a Leveller play, this might have been the moment when the plucky common hero got up and fought to victory, so that the grubby Ponies on the floor might cheer him on against the nasty evil gentlecolt turned to pirating because he was unappreciated by his cowardly peers. And even the gentleponies in the good seats would have to approve, because the plucky common hero was such a likeable lad, perhaps with a sweetheart waiting home for him, or even a wife and several adorable foals, and so of course he has to beat the wicked pirate. And all the audience would be schooled in the important truths that Virtue Is Magic, and that Evil goes down to defeat before the purity of Goodness."

"But this isn't a Leveller play, now is it?" He smiled cruelly down at Keen. "This is real life, and the only one who is to be schooled is you. And here is the lesson." He floated the rapier over to place the point against Keen's flesh, just behind his breastbone.

"I am Red Longhorn, a Unicorn of the highest family, who has through certain misfortunes related to affairs of honor pursued perhaps a bit too far found himself exiled from the Court of Canterlot by the ungrateful cake-eating creature that sits the Throne. I am both a gifted and a well-trained swordspony, as you have discovered. And I am not to be defeated by some river-rat lout who imagines himself important because he has command of a glorified barge.

"You may have believed that I was an episode in the story of your life -- an exciting encounter, a victory over some dreadful bad pirates, after which you would return to your no doubt loving though ugly wife and horrid little foals. But it is quite the opposite. You are but an episode in my life, the comical attempt at defense of his pathetic little treasure by a jumped-up bargepony, slapped down in fine form by my superior skill, birth and -- dare I say it -- fashion sense.

"You will die unavenged, your wife and foals wail for you in vain, and you will matter no more to me than any of my prior victims." Red Longhorn smiled in a mockery of graciousness. "And here ---" he said "endeth the lesson." His face twisted.

Keen had been mesmerized by the mad and yet level look in those deep violet eyes. So captivated was he by that expression, and its sudden almost sexual intensity, that, when he felt a coldness deep within him, he at first did not know what it was. Then he looked at his chest, and realized that Red's rapier seemed shorter. He could not account for this at first, and then he realized that the point was no longer against his hide, but instead had penetrated far within his flesh.

But that can't be, Keen thought. If I had a rapier buried there, I'd -- oh. Oh.

He wanted to say something, but all that came out when he opened his mouth was a terrible gasp, one which he had heard before but never from any Pony who ever got up later to talk about the experience. And everything around him seemed to be fading out into insignficance.

No -- he thought desperately. It can't end like this. Mare -- the children -- they need me! It bothered him that Red Longhorn had mocked them, even though he had plainly been but guessing about their existence. I can't die!

But he very obviously was dying. There was a sudden sharp agony within him -- his whole frame quivered -- and then the pain slipped away. Everything was slipping away.

There was a light -- a warm golden light that flooded over everything, suffused his awareness, blotted out everything save for its Presence. It came from some source which was beyond his comprehension, but which he knew loved him.

He need to go into it. He had done what he could in this world, to the best of his powers, and the game was over, the venture done. Time to embark upon a new and greater one ...

No! The denial rang within him. No! Red Longhorn could not triumph! Mare and his children could not be left destitute. He must fight! He must remain! He would not give up!

There was a lesser Presence with him -- it was limned in the same sort of golden light as the greater one. He squinted, focused -- it was a mare, her coat a soft pink, her hair golden. She was very beautiful.

"You should not do this," she said to him. "Your time in mortality is done." She reached out a hoof to him. "Move on."

"My wife ..." he said.

"She will be along in her own time," the mare said. "Long by the standards of your past world. An eyeblink, on the scale of Eternity. You may wait --"

"No!" he said again. "I'm not done fighting! Red Longhorn will not wreck everything and then go off laughing! I will defeat him, and save my family!"

The mare looked sad. "I cannot make you come," she said, "not if you really wish to stay. But your life is over. If you stay all you will have will be an existence in the half-world, one you will not enjoy. And you must then let go your hate, if you mean to pass on."

"You don't understand," he told her. "I'm not hateful. But everything -- ruined --"

"I have seen more than you can imagine ruined once before. A whole world wrecked," the mare said. "And it doubtless will be again. Your love for your wife, though -- that was real, and a rare gift for both of you, something I never knew on Earth. You have touched my heart, Keen Trader. I will ease your passing on, when you have finished what remains undone."

She was fading out.

"Your hate, though. Let go your hate, or in the end it may damn you. I speak quite literally. You were a good Pony in life, Keen Trader. Remain one after. Farewell ... and may we meet again ..."

She was gone.

Everything went black.

---

Ruby Gift drifted under the leaves of the trees, feeling the occasional sting of sunlight as she approached the widening of the Avalon south of the swamp. Her Talent was telling her that her hoped-for treasure lay just ahead. She hurried as fast as she could, forming golden eyes with which to see the mortal world, flitting from one patch of shadow to the next.

Her way was getting easier, for she was entering a fogbank, one which had fortunately lingered in the shade of the trees, spread out somewhat onto the river. She had seen fog before, over the swamp; apparently it had moved down to the south shore of the Avalon, a bit east of where Riverbridge had been, in her breathing days.

She gratefully slipped into the mist, feeling its coolth shielding her from the harsh solar rays. She formed a thicker patch of mist, draining heat from the air to condense water into droplets that she swirled around herself.

She was getting closer ... closer ... there it was!

A box, its lid pried open, the furs within abandoned. She flitted over to them, formed her Life Aspect, materialized to gaze at and smell and caress the furs against her cheek. They were so nice! Obviously, some riverboat had been forced to jettison cargo -- no one would otherwise abandon such fine goods here. The wonderful thing was that they didn't seem to have been wetted; the box had been water-tight.

But why hadn't whoever opened the box taken its contents?

She looked around, and finally saw the many other boxes lying scattered over the strand. The grounded riverboat.

The still, bloody figures that had once been Ponies.

"Oh, no," Ruby whispered. "Not like this."

She had sought a treasure.

She had found a massacre.

Author's Note:

The arrogant and aristocratic Longhorns of Canterlot come from Ask Pun Pony.

Red Devil's "rapier" is of course the heavy combat variety common in the 17th century, not the light sporting sort used today in fencing schools. It's a lot tougher and can also be used as a pummeling weapon in an emergency.

Starlight's (the one from My Little Pony: Tales, rather than G4 Starlight Glimmer) cataclysmic fate and post-mortem role as psychopomp is the idea of Alex Warlorn.

Appropriate music for the Mare Mustang ...

More appropriate than Red Devil knows, actually ...

Comments

[FanOfMostEverything]

Alas. Keen was outclassed in every sense of the word. Still, death need not be the end of the story, as he's going to learn. I just hope he learns forgiveness before it's too late...

[A British Gentleman]

Poor guy. I knew he was done for the moment he started talking about retirement.

I look forward to seeing where things go from here.

[Jordan179]

7348312

Poor guy. I knew he was done for the moment he started talking about retirement.

"And as soon as I get past this dangerous stretch of river, I promise I'll spend more time with my family ..."

Yeah. Sort of like being the cop at the start of the police movie who is just a week from retirement.

[Jordan179]

7345615

Do you know I'm a big fan of ghost stories?

[Jordan179]

7298968

Why thank you -- I'm glad to hear that you like what I've been doing with the ghosts.

I'm also glad that you like the way that I've depicted the riverboats and trade. 13th-century YOH Equestria isn't exactly like 17th-century Europe for a number of reasons, one being that the Ponies know a lot of things are possible that they can't actually do it. So, for instance, they haven't yet developed riverine steam engines so they don't have steam-powered riverboats, but for riverine naval purposes they use Pony-powered paddle-wheels and screws on their biggest armed riverboats -- these are, however, far too mechanically-demanding and expensive for either Keen Trader or Red Devil to use.

The North Amareican river system used to look a lot more like the one from our world before the Cataclysm. Roughly speaking the Muddy is the Missouri and the Motherwater the Mississippi, with the Avalon being a very course-shifted Ohio. When the Earth was suddenly put through tens of millions of years of geological change in a few hours -- something that wuld have slagged the crust if not for the Sunwarp Celestia, Luna and Discord made as their Cosmic Selves -- shifts in the incline of the eastern part of the North American continental plate took the Tennessee and changed its outlet to the Atlantic, by way of what had been Chesapeake Bay, through the eradication of a portion of the Appalachians by the titanic explosion that created Horseshoe Bay, one of several titanic explosions that happened that day (one of which created the Badlands).

Half of Ponykind died in a day, and about eight in ten of the survivors in a year. That was because Fusion, Gravity and Dissonance were protecting them; if they hadn't been, then all multi-cellular life on Earth, and most uni-cellular life, would have been instantly eradicated. It would have been like the impact that tore the Moon from the Earth's mantle.

Anyway, the Everfree Forest is meant to cover roughly what in our world would be Kentucky and parts of West Virginia and Western Virginia. There's a reason why Kaintuck was called the "dark and bloody ground." Sometimes monsters fell through flaws from the other side.

Canterlot is located roughly in what would be Illinois or Indiana. The Crystal City was built roughly where Lakes Superior, Huron and Michigan would have come together. Of course the geography of that area had already been changed by the Cataclysm. It got changed more in the Climatic Optimum after things settled down, and again in the Coming of the Windigos.

Yes. Keen Trader is very honorable, but not all merchants are, especially the ones who mostly trade in the Northwest, still very unsettled after the recent defeat of the Griffon Uprising. There's enough room here for a band of insane alchemist serial killers pretending to be merchants to trawl for bandits -- and they do. This is a time when Celestia has succumbed to despair and spends far too much time sitting in Canterlot eating cake and inspiring a fashion for plumpness among the aristocracy, which is one reason why the Guards are so lethargic and Levellers have risen and plot to rise again.

[A British Gentleman]

7350073

I will confess, I am enjoying this rather more than I thought I would. In particular, I enjoyed the unicorn pirate's rant, with his completely delusional self opinion.

I suspect that it was not for nothing that he was exiled by even an apathetic Celestia.

I shall enjoy seeing more of him.

[Jordan179]

7350989

Red "Devil" Longhorn, of course, has to believe in a version of reality where he's the romantic but overly-honest and brave cavalier who was not understood by the soft weak courtiers, and his actions are but the only way for a true gentlecolt to survive, by making war on the trade which nourished his rivals. Of course, he's incredibly arrogant and scornful of the lives of "lesser" Ponies -- indeed, he's sociopathic. Which is why he wound up having to flee Canterlot in the first place.

Celestia's demoralized and lethargic, but not entirely inert, or at all sadistic. She's still a good Pony. Just a rather sad one, right now.

Red isn't good at all, though he has some virtues -- most notably courage and decisiveness. Oddly, those he shares with Keen, though Keen is also genuinely honorable, caring, kind and responsible.