Chapter 1
Lancet opened his eyes. Automatically, he took stock of the situation. Celestia’s sun (praise be to the Princesses and may their light shepherd us through these times) was barely above the mountains and the sky (danger!) had already gone blue and cloudless. It would be hot again today. The forest was bustling, the trees alive with birds (the birds work for them) who had lots to say to each other. The noise was reassuring. A silent forest meant trouble. The sun squeezed through winking gaps in the foliage a few feet over Lancet’s head, hair-fine shafts of light drawing a contour map of his body and the hollow he lay in. He smelled moisture over the stink of blood (never get used to it) and stood to check the dew trap. He gritted his teeth as he rose to his hooves, trying to ignore the pain of muscles pushed beyond endurance. The motion disturbed the air and drew tendrils of mist in to caress his legs like old forgotten friends. Under the dirt, his coat was the same silvery white as the mist, and he used to enjoy (what did smiling feel like?) not quite knowing where he ended and the mist began. These days, the filth caked onto him made the difference stark. The dew trap had gathered nearly a cup of condensation, which was good (pointless). He carefully decanted it into his harness’s canteen system and took a meager sip from the nipple at his shoulder. It tasted like pine, but clean and cool. He gratefully sloshed it around his parched mouth, then swallowed, savoring the way it lubricated his throat (drink more drink more he doesn’t need it).
A groan rent the silence, startling some birds away (shut him up they’ll find us). Lancet hurried to his side, shushing as he went. “Shh shh shh it’s alright, Hew. I’m here. You’re safe.”
“Lancet,” his voice was the sound of fever, “it hurts. It hurts!” Cords on his neck stood out as he strained.
“Shh shh shh I know it does. You just need to hang in there, OK? We’re gonna find friendlies any time now, and then you’ll be fine and healthy and a pain in my ass again, OK?” Lancet’s smile felt like tearing paper, but Hew didn’t seem to notice (he’s beyond noticing).
Hew’s tense muscles relaxed. “OK, buddy.” His chin worked, like an infant working up the gumption to cry. “I’m thirsty.”
“I know you are. Here you go.” Lancet used a trickle of magic to pull the canteen nipple from his harness and uncoil it toward Hew’s mouth. He watched and counted swallows as Hew drank (what a waste), and pulled it away with an audible pop.
“‘M still thirsty.”
“I know, but I can’t have you getting sick on me. Then I’d have nobody to talk to.”
“Y’r a bad liar. I’m already sick.”
Thankfully, that bout of consciousness had worn Hew out, and he fell asleep all of a sudden, laying limp with his searing breath rattling out of his open mouth. Lancet surveyed Hew’s body, just as he did every day, knowing what he would find, just as he knew every day. The griffons smeared their blades with shit. It was a “tradition.” Barbarians, that’s what they were. They had come out of a clear blue sky that had lulled the squad into a sense of security. Without clouds, they’d see them coming, right? Of course. Except not. Both Lancet’s and Hew’s harnesses had been out of antibiotics for days. Without them, the grinning red mouth cut into Hew’s belly would kill him sooner, rather than later (if only they’d killed him).
Lancet packed up the dew trap and cleared away the camouflaging pile of foliage he’d assembled the night before. He made sure that Hew was lying in the middle of the travois and that the straps across his chest and legs were still secure, and that Hew’s harness was securely strapped in place at the rear of the travois. He had considered many times getting rid of the harness, but it was a useful weight that made the travois more stable as he dragged it over the uneven terrain of this mountainside forest. Finally, he shrugged into his own harness and used his magic to heave the travois’ poles up into the loops on either side of it. Putting his face toward the rising sun, he climbed out of the hollow and walked. Equestria was to the east. Help was to the east. He only had to keep going east, and everything would be fine (you’re a fool).
Within an hour, his body was an agony. He used his magic to make the going easier when he could, but he had long since pushed his body past its limits, and then kept going day after day. He foraged as he went, magically plucking leaves and grasses without breaking stride, forcing his stupefied brain to pay attention to his surroundings. He was still in enemy territory (they’ll be back for you). He squinted up at the sun, correcting his course. They had come out of the sun, their bullets taking half the squad before the other half even realized what was happening. They’d fought back as the griffons looped around for a second pass, and had sent two of them plummeting to earth, but not enough.
Lancet forced himself onward in a haze. The world shrank to the ground right in front of him and the sun guiding him on (may their light shepherd us through these times). Eventually the sun abandoned him and it became too dark to see ahead. So he stopped. He stumbled into a depression in the ground and almost didn’t catch himself before falling. “Home sweet home,” he croaked, just to hear a voice (you’re losing it). He scraped together some branches and fallen leaves to conceal them before letting the travois down onto the dark earth. By hornlight, he set up the dew trap, and when the last stone was in place, he collapsed next to it, unconscious before he hit the ground.
Wild-eyed, the griffons had crashed down among them, wanting to count coup by killing ponies up close. Lancet was a medic, unarmed by choice, unwilling to kill. A big meatbird, feathers red as fresh blood, had come right for him, swinging the curved, shit-covered blade right at his eye. Lancet had exactly enough time to wish for a gun before the griffon halted his swing inches from death. He turned his head to regard the smaller meatbird that had barked at him in their squawking tongue, his blade standing as still and implacable as the grave.
Lancet woke with a start, his muscles and joints screaming in protest at the sudden movement, the memory of that bright point fresh all over again. A shaft of sunlight struck him in the eye and he winced and shuddered (may their light shepherd us). He had to be moving while the sun was up. There was help in the east. He just had to reach it. He staggered to his hooves and emptied the dew trap into his canteen reservoir. Hew was still unconscious, so Lancet took stock of his wound. He pulled back the filthy, blood-caked bandages around Hew’s belly and the stink of sepsis and shit made him gag (you’re wasting your time). He would replace the bandage with a clean one. His last clean one. That would help (no it won’t). Hew would survive long enough for him to find help (no he won’t). He unwound the bandage, forcing his stomach under control. With the wound fully exposed, he inspected it. Hew’s intestines were visible between the garish red lips of parted muscle (remember when you shoved those back in him?) and Lancet noticed approvingly that they were still a healthy red with blood (yeah, pretend you’re still a medic instead of a torturer). He tore open the last package of sterile bandages and wrapped them firmly around Hew in layer after layer, holding the wound closed with his magic while he did so. Hew shifted and groaned painfully during the process, but did not wake up (get used to that).
He walked in silence through the day, following the sun toward safety. The sun was a few hours past its zenith when Lancet froze in his tracks. It took his mind a moment to catch up to his body, but finally he heard it: voices! Distant and unintelligible, but definitely voices. He angled downslope, toward the faint sounds, his face stretched in a painful smile. He surmounted a wrinkle in the mountainside and suddenly he could hear the voices clearly. His smile died at the sounds of the griffon language.
He crept closer, now with caution, until he could peep over the crest of a slope and see down into a miniature valley made by runoff. There were a dozen griffons, a full squad. They had a fire going and were roasting some sort of animal over it, laughing and joking as their dinner cooked, easy and relaxed and healthy. Only Lancet’s eyes moved as he looked around their camp. Their packs and slings were piled neatly next to their nest-like bedrolls, and each one of them was bulging full of provisions. This squad must be fresh in the field. They would have medical supplies. He could surrender himself and Hew. Surely they would let him use their supplies to help save Hew’s life (you gonna dress him up as a medic?).
The blade had twinkled next to Lancet’s eye while the griffon listened to his comrade say something. He nodded after a moment, lowered the blade, and bowed to Lancet. “I apologize for the offense, selfless one. It would go badly for me in the next world were I to kill a healer.” He spoke in calm, unaccented Equestrian, punctuated by a scream as one of his comrades delivered the killing blow to a pony. The small one barked an order and the entire flock of blood-soaked meatbirds took off and flew away. When they were out of earshot, Hew began sobbing in agony.
Numbly, Lancet glanced back. The sun would be directly behind him from the griffons’ perspective (praise be). He let down the travois, shucked off his harness, and wriggled into Hew’s. It stank of blood and piss. It was too big, sized for the larger earth pony, so Lancet yanked the belly straps to their last hole, cinching it uncomfortably around him, trying to ignore the blood-seamed tear gaping between the straps. He took the control bit between his teeth and the harness hummed to life. He glanced down at the display in the center of his chest, the guns on either side of his body pointing down in sync with his motion, and saw that the harness still had almost a hundred rounds of ammunition and that its self-diagnostics gave it a clean bill of health (one out of three ain’t bad).
He crawled back to the slope’s lip where he could see the griffons. They had begun carving chunks of sizzling red meat off of the carcass and were devouring it with gusto. One of their eating knives caught the firelight and flicked a pointed beam into Lancet’s eye. He shuddered. “You brought this on yourselves.”
Behind him, Hew tossed and moaned. “Lancet? Where are you? I can’t see you.”
“Shh shh shh, you’re gonna be fine real soon, buddy.”
One of the griffons looked sharply uphill. Lancet gritted his teeth, and a targeting reticle painted itself in front of his eye. He put the crosshair over the attentive meatbird.
“I can’t see the light anymore, Lancet. I’m scared!”
(Me neither.)