...Go Oft Awry
“Here we are.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yep. This is where I came out.”
There was no doubt about it. Even under the dim moonlight, the hillocks just beyond Ponyville’s outskirts were unmistakable. Archer and Inkwell now stood on the very spot a certain blue pegasus had landed, ready to deliver the mule-kick of a lifetime directly to the forehead.
“So... did you pack provisions?”
“We’ve got a couple dozen muffins, some donuts, and enough coffee powder to outlast a siege.”
“Let’s focus on outlasting the forest first.”
Without another word, Archer sallied forth into the forbidding gloom of the forest. Inkwell took one last look at the home she was leaving behind, and followed. It was surprisingly easy going for a while. The ground was fairly level, the trees let a bare smidgen of moonlight in, and nothing was jumping out at them trying to murder them and consume their livers.
Idle conversation, then, was the name of the game.
“So.”
“So?”
“Do you know magic?”
“Me? No. Nooo, no. If I could do magic... I would definitely not be doing this. I’d be home, turning dirt into gold.”
“Humans can do that?”
“If the penny dreadfuls are to be believed, then yes.”
“What on earth is a ‘penny dreadful’?”
“It’s sort of like a really cheap, tiny newspaper that publishes nothing but complete codswallop.”
“So... you can’t change dirt into gold.”
“Well, I’ll be darned if I wouldn’t try, at least. My family’s got far too little of the second and far, far too much of the first.”
“Is that why you became a scout?”
“Well, there’s only three reasons for someone to sign up for a job like this. Either you’re stupid and you have no idea what you’re doing, you’re clever and you know all too well what you’re doing, or you’re desperate and you have no idea what you’re doing but get good at it anyway, because there just aren’t any other options. Take a wild guess which one I am.”
It was a dark fact of life, but it was good for a laugh. The two refugees continued making their way deeper into the Everfree and away from Ponyville in silence. Until, of course, silence got boring, so Archer decided to start talking again.
“I guess I could ask you the same thing.”
“Hmm?”
“You know, what magic can you do?”
“Mostly stuff related to books and such. You see that mark on my flank?” She gestured to the crossed quill and pen.
“Yeah?”
“It represents the special talent I have for language and the written word. Every Equestrian gets one of their own by a certain-”
“It is at this point that I cease to care.”
“What?”
“I was asking you about magic, not funky fairy hip tattoos. What exactly can you do with yours? The magic, I mean, not the tattoo.”
“Well, I can learn new languages pretty fast. I can create books on any subject I know, then turn around and use them to teach other people. That’s how I got the job at the language room, and it’s pretty much the only reason you know Equestrian now.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble. I-”
“...But don’t you have anything useful?”
“Pardon?”
“You know, combat magic? Survival magic?”
“Well... No. No, I don’t.”
“Anything? You can’t shoot lightning or fire, or turn people inside out?”
“Ew, no! Why would a bookkeeper need to do any of that?”
“I’m just throwing out some possibilities, woman. Think.” He flicked the inert horn jutting out of Inkwell’s hair, eliciting a stray spark. “Any destructive spells? At all?”
“Well... there is one thing. A Burn-To-Nothing spell.”
“You now have my full attention.”
“I only use it for trash disposal, though. It only works on paper. So unless we run into a nest of murderous Book Worms, we’re out of luck.”
Archer sighed dramatically.
“You let me down, Inkwell. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to turn in your horn at the office.”
“Sure thing, Sarge. Let me know when we get there.”
The Everfree was cold, damp, and far too dim for Archer’s tastes. But he much preferred it over being cold, damp, and totally alone.
***
“They approach the boundary far too quickly. We will be unable to complete our illusion before they reach it. Hast thou any preemptive measure?”
The amulet crackled with the white noise made by magic stretched across realms. Out of the static came the voice of a very irate King.
“Bleedin’ blimey, Luna, do you have any idea what time it is?”
“It is precisely one hour, three minutes, and thirty-four seconds past midnight. So, yes, I do.”
“Then explain this horseradish.”
“My goodness, Jove! Language!”
“You’ve gotten me up at a very bad hour, Moon Pie. I have an excuse.”
“I concede the point. However, the scout and his accomplice are nearing the outer edge of my influence. If they are not sufficiently stalled, I fear I will not be able to prevent their escape.”
“What makes you think I can do anything of the sort?”
“You are a king. One does not keep the throne as long as you have without any sort of magical edge.”
There was a heavy sigh on the other end of the line.
“Alright. There is one thing I could try. But Vorlan has to be in control of the territory for me to pull it off.”
A simple unspoken order was made, directed to no one in particular.
“Done. The Everfree is yours until sunrise.”
“I can buy you an hour. No more.”
“Any particular reason?”
“If I try to get any more out of this charm, I’m liable to kill the man. I don’t think either of us wants that.”
“Fair enough. Good luck.”
As the amulet went silent, Luna turned to the partially-illusioned arch of trees behind her. She could, conceivably, have done without all the smoke and mirrors, but she figured if one was going for intimidation, one should aim high.
***
“...And that’s how I met your mother.”
“Yeah, neat... wait a minute. What?”
“Hah! Just making sure you were paying attention.”
The dynamic duo had made quite a bit of progress in two hours. The forest had thickened, as forests are wont to do, until the light had reached levels normally reserved for caves miles below the ground. The only illumination was the glow from Inkwell’s horn.
Which was fine, because they’d both been trying to find something for her to do besides carrying the food.
They had agreed to make as much headway into the forest as they could before camping. The less likely it was for any hypothetical Equestrian search parties to find them in the morning, the better.
So, to keep the mood up and each other awake, Archer and Inkwell had resorted to telling each other humorous and progressively cruder stories of life in their respective hometowns.
“...And then Pinkie Pie looked at me and Ditzy and said, ‘Oatmeal? Are you crazy?’”
The ensuing bout of laughter forced Archer to the side for a moment, leaning on a nearby tree to keep himself upright. For some reason, his laughter died out much faster than hers.
“Archer?” asked Inkwell, rubbing the tears out of her eyes. “You alright, buddy?”
Archer’s expression was grim. He was pressing hi ear to the tree trunk, as if it were whispering some dark secret to him.
“What is it?”
“Shh.”
“Why are you-”
“SHH!”
They stood like that, in utter silence, for a good minute. Then Archer pushed himself away from the tree and unslung his bow.
“We’re being followed.”
“What?! By who?”
“Quadrepeds. Fast ones. Six, maybe seven.”
“Do you think Ponyville found out we’re missing?”
“I don’t know, maybe!” Archer turned, revealing a half-deranged expression. “The dragon’s a narcoleptic and Twilight sleeps like a rock, so it couldn’t have been them. The only other person who knew about this was you!”
“Are you accusing me of something?”
“Heavens, noooo. All I’m saying is that somebody must have let something slip, and you’re the only other member of the club.”
“Are you calling me a traitor?”
“I ain’t calling you for dinner!”
They were interrupted by a piercing noise. A howl, decidedly lupine in origin, sounded in the distance, soon answered by several like-minded calls throughout the forest.
“But they are.”
“Huh.” Archer swallowed hard. “I guess those are our six quadrupeds. Sorry for snapping at you, Inkwell.”
“Apology accepted. Now, RUN!”
***
Leader smells food. Leader runs.
The pack is six. Leader, Sprinter, Jumper, Killer, Tracker, and Runt.
Names are what you are good at. Tracker is Tracker because he is good at smelling. Killer is Killer because he is good at biting. Runt is Runt because he is good at being small.
Big Voice told Leader there was food. Voice was right.
Leader says track. Tracker says this way.
Big Voice says the food is two. One with two legs and angry sticks, one with four legs and magic.
Leader says the food is helpless, because the pack is nothing but angry sticks and magic.
Big Voice says we’ll see.
***
The wolves were closer. The constant howling had taken on that odd quality in which it seemed to come from every direction at once, including the listener’s own head. The two escapees couldn’t even be sure whether they were running from or to their pursuers any more.
So they stopped running, just to be sure.
Archer stood with an arrow drawn, his back to one of the Everfree’s many, many trees. Inkwell was fidgeting nervously by his side, ready to telekinesize the everloving dickens out of anything that looked at her funny.
“So, what do you think they are?”
“Dunno. Wolf monsters come in all flavors.”
“Name me some. I can prune the list for you.”
“They might be Devil Dogs.”
“Nah. We’d see the fire at this distance.”
“Huckleberries?”
“Could be, though I can’t smell anything.”
“Canes Minor?”
“I thought those were winter beasts.”
“It was only winter two weeks ago. They might be having one last go at it before hibernating.”
“Wonderful timing,” she muttered.
The howling stopped. A pair of glowing eyes shone out from the trees directly in front of the two, not more than ten yards away.
“Well, it’s not a Huckleberry, that’s for sure.”
Archer, on a whim, loosed the arrow into the gap, pegging the monster directly in the eye. It made no noise. Instead, it lumbered out of the shadow to leer at Archer with its one good eye.
It was definitely wolf-shaped. As wolf-shaped things go, it was pretty big, standing nearly as tall as an Equestrian. Its skin was completely covered with - or, likely, entirely composed of - dead-looking bark. One eye glowed a dingy mustard yellow. The other’s socket was currently chewing up and swallowing the arrow Archer had nailed it with a few seconds ago.
“Timberwolves,” Archer grumbled, as the wooden canine advanced on him, growling. “Well, I guess that’s not so bad.”
“Well, you’re the hunting expert,” Inkwell muttered nervously. “How do we kill it?”
“Let me see,” he said, fumbling to nock another arrow as the Timberwolf advanced on them. “It’s basically a golem made out of dead tree parts. We could, ah... set it on fire. Burn it to nothing, even.”
“That spell only works on paper. Remember?”
“Well, what’s paper made out of?”
There was a pause.
“Dried pulp?”
“Earlier than that.”
“Sawdust?”
“Earlier!”
The Timberwolf was nearly within poncing range.
“Wood?”
“Ding!” Archer swiveled the arrow down to Inkwell’s eye level. “Light me.”
“I really don’t think-”
“LIGHT ME, FOR THE LOVE OF PETE!”
Inkwell tapped her horn to the arrowhead. It immediately burst into a bright blue flame. As Archer swung the bow back up, he noticed that the Timberwolf had indeed pounced and was heading at him quite fast.
Unlike most other heroes in stories of this nature, Archer did not experience a slowing of time. He did not snap a witty one-liner before doing the deed.
One moment, the arrow had not yet been shot, and the Timberwolf was pouncing and not on fire.
In a snap of adrenaline-soaked reflex , the exact inverse was true.
Upon impact, the arrow embedded itself in the Timberwolf’s hide. It shattered, causing the Burn-To-Nothing spell to detonate like a firebomb. The Timberwolf was instantly consumed, the force of the spell knocking it back and into the grass. There, it flopped and floundered, the arcane flames incinerating it from the inside out as it wailed.
Then, within seconds, there was little left but a rapidly-dissipating cloud of ash. There was a reason it was called Burn-To-Nothing.
Archer exhaled slowly, hesitant to move for fear of the ashes somehow coming back to life and, I don’t know, suffocating him. Once it became clear the Timberwolf was completely and utterly dead, he chuckled and patted Inkwell on the back.
“Stick with me, kid. We’ll go places.”
***
Magic set the angry stick on fire.
Killer is gone.
Leader says Big Voice never told them about fire. Voice says they didn’t ask.
Leader says they are leaving.
Voice puts Jumper to sleep. Jumper is gone.
Voice says to chase for a while longer, or he will do that to the others.
***
The four Timberwolves were blocking them. This was now the third time tonight this sullen quartet had shown up, angry at nothing in particular and refusing to let them pass.
“Archer, I think they’re trying to tell us something.”
“This is seriously starting to get on my plums.”
Inkwell sputtered mirthfully. “Your what?”
“I just want to be able to shoot an animal without all his mates getting uppity at me. Just once! I don’t even care, if I could get one free bag and tag without all this hassle. First it was the horses, and now these guys.”
The wolf to the far left growled at him.
“Oh, cry me a river, Pixie Sticks. Like you never had to suffer this either.”
***
“It is finished.”
“Finally. I was about to lose the wolves.”
“Call your attack dogs off. I now have the situation well in hoof.”
“Done. Never call me up this early again.”
“Good night, ‘Your Highness’,” Luna sighed, shutting off the amulet.
Showtime.
***
“You don’t think it’s weird that they just ran off like that?”
“Nah, they’re Fae creatures. They do weird stuff like that all the time. Probably some crazy Timberwolf thing where they never hold up people for more than so long, or else they all start to fall asleep or turn to stone or something stupid like that.”
“I actually know a few monsters that do that kind of stuff.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, there was a Ghoti infestation down at the river a few months ago. Thing is, Ghoti need to beach themselves every other weekday, or else they - oh my.”
“Oh my” was right.
The clearing was broad, if nothing else. The dewy grass undulated and twinkled under a velvet-indigo sky. The whole scene was illuminated by the light of a full moon, staring down at the world like the eye of a god.
Opposite the grassy expanse was a pair of trees, which curved into each other and formed a natural archway. In that archway sat a single equine figure, pure black in color. Its wings were outstretched, the very tips connecting with the trunks on either side. It was, rather obviously, guarding something.
As if to drive the point home, it spoke. Its voice was deep and rumbling, carrying the weight of very old magic behind it.
“You shall not pass.”
Silence reigned for a good two minutes. When it was finally broken, it was Archer, unsurprisingly, who spoke first.
“Hmm, let’s see. It’s night. The moon is suddenly full, not to mention twice as big. There’s a wet, warm summer breeze, despite it barely being the start of spring. And you’re jet-black.”
“Your point?”
Archer smiled, and made a mock-bow.
“Nightmare Moon, I presume. Allow me to be the first to welcome you back to Equestria.”
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...And that's it for the rest of this week.
The family's taking a trip to visit some relatives, and there's a good chance I won't be in a position to upload any new chapters until we get back. Rest assured, though, that I'm taking a functioning copy of wordpad with me. I promise I'll have at least two new chapters ready by the time I get back on Saturday.
134202
You better have two chapters.
Great story! Can't wait for those two chapters! (No pressure though (Gah! that probably made it more pressuring))
134307
No need to go that far... yet.
Oh my god. I CAN'T WAIT! I wonder what's going to happen next. How's she going to react?
Luna that cheeky b*tch , Archer will be pissed if he finds out what that asshole of a king did!
I get the feeling that if there were a cutie mark for vitriolic banter, Inkwell would've ended up with that instead.
MOAR
Huh. You know, I did not see that coming.
launhing orbital "moar" cannon in 3
...2
...2
FIRE!!
*fires*
MMMMMMMMOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRR
I look forward to reading what happens next in your story
A river with a fish infestation?! Good heavens! Great story so far!
139716 I just assumed they had to be speaking Equestrian where the two words are (presumably) pronounced differently.
I get the sense that the monarchs know a lot more about geography than their subjects. I might go so far as to wonder what exactly the scouts are for, anyway.