1. First Strong Messenger
Everything will change thought First Strong Messenger to himself, as he gripped the comforting roundness of the grenado in its bag, caressing it with one strong hoof. I shall strike the blow, and everything will change. I shall make my mark on history..
First Strong Messenger did not look like a Pony who could change history. He was a small, thin Earth Pony, the bones clearly showing beneath his tan coat, indicative of a background of malnourishment -- all too common in the Old Worlds, where Ponies survived mostly as the subjects of other and stronger species. His mane -- so dark brown it was almost black -- was greasy and stringy. The look in his light brown eyes seemed a little mad, but hardly fated for greatness. He was so unimpressive that, when he'd volunteered to fight for his country, the leaders of the guerilla bands had rejected him with contemptuous laughter.
This was his last chance for greatness. He knew that. He was determined to prove those who had mocked him wrong, to demonstrate to all the world that he could be a true hero.
All around him the Peak of Running Water was coming to life for a very special morning. Faronanth, High Duke and heir to the Griffon Empire, would be visiting this provincial capital, confirming the Empire’s rulership over the remote province of the Running Water, the heart of the Bloody Mountains which stretched across the southeastern part of the continent of Taura. He and his wife Wisdom – not even a member of the highest Griffon nobility, but a pretender from the gentry – were to be welcomed to this town and their welcome be the submission of the South-Speakers to the Griffons.
They shall not enjoy my welcome, Strong Messenger promised himself. In addition to the grenado, one of the new type with a chemical trigger so he didn’t have to actually hold an obvious bomb with a lighted fuse right in front of the Imperial Guards, he also had a small repeating crossbow, small enough to conceal under his cloak, the bolts tipped with an alkaloid poison.
And he was but one of six sworn to the same end. His purpose: to slay the High Duke and demonstrate that the Speakers of the Running Water would defend their homeland against foreign domination, whether by Griffons from the north or the Wolfen of the southeast. This blow would convince the Griffons that the Speakers were too tough to dominate, that they were naturally a free people whose freedom must be respected.
The Speakers of the Running Water hadn’t been free for a very long time, of course. They’d forgotten what it was like to be free. There were legends of them once having had their own lords, their own kings, but then half a millennium ago the Wolves had conquered the Bloody Mountains. In the last century or so the strength of the Wolves had been waning, and the Griffons had been expanding into these mountains. But neither side would rule the Running Water! Of that, Strong Messenger had faith.
He’d been promised victory, after all, by a holy one
.
2. Random Flag
He’d met the holy one when he’d been across the border in the Kingdom of the Fighting Stallions, across the mountains to the south. Strong Messenger had been given his message personally by the leader of the Black Hoof, Colonel Precious Scales Shining.
The Colonel was a tall, slim ki-rin, signs of his draconic heritage obvious in his scaly neck and leathery wings, fierce and imposing, clear evidence of his mother’s seduction by one of the dragons that lived in the remotest heights of the Bloody Mountains. Strong Messenger dared not ask him the details of his heritage: Colonel Shining was not called “The Bee” for his pale yellow coat and black mane, but rather for his deadly sting.
There was a new Pony whom Strong Messenger had never met before. This was a midnight-black pegasus with black mane and eyes that were like pools of even deeper shadow in them. His smell was strange, at once like a stallion and like some very old house whose very dust breathed destiny.
Strong Messenger had never seen a Pony who looked so very black; and for a moment he briefly fancied: Surely this is Cernobog, from out of the old tales. He dismissed the thought as ridiculous. He lived in a modern world of modern means and ends, and what he was about to do was modernity ponified.
There was one patch of color on this Pony's hide, and it was glorious. A rectangle with a red stripe over a yellow one -- none other than the flag of the Speakers of Running Water. There could not be a better Mark for a true patriot!
"This is Random Flag," said Colonel Shining. "Random Flag, this is First Strong Messenger, a member of the team of freedom fighters who shall do the great deed."
Random's ebon orbs focused on Strong Messenger's own more normal ones. For a moment, Strong Messenger had a momentary sensation of being plumbed, as if something ancient and vast was examining him in some manner beyond Pony comprehension. But it was only a momentary sensation, and one Strong Messenger could quickly dismiss as his own overactive imagination.
Random smiled. He clapped Strong Messenger on the shoulder with one hoof and turned to Shining. "Colonel," he said, "Mister First here is perfect for the mission. You need to send him."
"Are you certain ...?" the Colonel began.
"Oh, I am completely certain," replied Random. "As your special adviser, I urge you in the strongest possible terms to make sure that young Strong Messenger here is at the Peak of Running Water to welcome the High Duke." His grin was predatory, his teeth firm and white and even, though for a moment First Strong Messenger imagined they were as black as the rest of him -- but nopony had teeth like that, so when he looked again it was obvious that Random didn't. "Son," Random told him with a broad smile. "You are going to make your mark on history!"
First Strong Messenger felt filled with pride. He would be the striking hoof of all the Speakers of the Running Water, indeed of all the Speaker nation. They might be weak compared to the Grifffons and the Wolves, but the Speakers were strong in the northeast, where they ruled the Redlands, and surely the Redlands would come in their might to fight for the Speakers of the South? All it would take would be a spark, and he would strike the spark, ignite the fire that would light the way to glory!
"Yes, you shall strike the spark," said Random, which struck Strong Messenger as strange, because he hadn't spoken his thoughts aloud, but then there was only space in his mind for the holy one's thrilling words. "When all hope seems lost, when you think that you've failed and lost your chance, the moment shall come. Be sure to strike the spark! You shall leave your mark on history!"
A thrill entered First Strong Messenger's brain and buzzed within him. He felt as if he had received some sort of blessing, filled with a dark light that shone in the night in some manner utterly indescribable. He knew now that he was a Chosen One, that he would make his mark on history.
So the Colonel had had little choice but to agree, for Random Flag was high in the councils of the War Speakers, the great nation of the Southern Speakers which bore the standard of the Speakers against Griffons and Lupines alike. First Strong Messenger would travel to the Peak of Running Water, the great town of the Speakers of Running Water, and give the High Duke Faronanth a proper Speaker greeting. He would make his mark on history.
First Strong Messenger's rapture remained within him. It remained even during the weeks of hiding out and getting ready for the Deed. It remained when, a week before the Deed, the Moon was suddenly and horribly changed, stripped of the Mare which had always adorned its surface, as far back as anyone's grandsires remembered. It remained during the terrifying Long Morning, when the Sun hung stationary in the sky, as if the forenoon would last forever.
Later that day there came some explanation which First Strong Messenger only half believed: something involving the Sun-worshipping Equestrians across the Stormy Sea many thousands of miles to the West, and a quarrel between their immortal Ruling Princess and her equally-immortal Sister which was now-mended. Folk whispered that the world had come close to ending, had been saved only by a band of heroes somewhere in far-off Equestria. Or something of that sort.
First Strong Messenger scarcely understood and less cared. Strange stories always came from abroad, faster now in this age of telegraphs, and there were strange foreign ways not to be taken too seriously. The Southern Speakers, and specifically the noblest of the Southern Speakers, those of the Running Water, would fight for their freedom, and this time the world would yield and give them their due. The Bloody Mountains were real. The rest of the world was but a fantastic and distressing intrusion into that reality.
Life was better off not complicated by fantasies from abroad.
3. Metasignosis
That night First Strong Messenger breathed the night air, and it seemed to his fancies that things moved in the sky, intangible and immaterial angels who looked down and smiled benignly on him, raining further blessings on his great and glorious endeavor. There were riots all across Taura -- some towns even burned -- but he did not care even the next day when the word came of tragedies from beyond the mountains. For only the Bloody Mountains were real, and the only flame that mattered to him was the flame of freedom that burned in his heart.
He stayed awake long after the rest of the team had gone to bed. This would not have been tolerated in any truly military unit, but the team leader, a stern-faced stallion bearing the modest name of Praiseworthy Praisedkingly and an archery Mark, had never served in any true military organization, for all that he had the rank of Captain among the Fighting Stallion Brothers. It did not occur to him to lower himself to trivial details such as ensuring that his fighters got sufficient sleep before entering enemy territory. So he didn't.
So First Strong Messenger watched the starry skies above the mountain steading which was being used as the base for this Brotherhood, and felt the holy power of Random Flag burn within him. It burned in his heart, it burned in his soul, and it burned on his flank, until finally at around three or four in the morning he lay down on his cot and drifted off to sleep. His dreams were strange ones that night, of tremendous battles in far-off lands, and he knew this to be part of his destiny, and his sleeping mind reveled in his coming glory.
Captain Praisedkingly awoke his stallions at dawn, which meant around five in the morning.
Though he had slept only a couple of hours, First Strong Messenger felt full of energy, as if the need for normal sleep was now part of his past. He arose invigorated, splashed water over himself, shared the simple mess of the Brotherhood. And he noticed that the other five stallions of his Brotherhood, from the Captain on down, were staring at him.
"What's wrong?" he asked mildly. He was in perhaps the happiest mood he had ever been in his life. He felt though as something fundamental had changed in his life, that never again would he be the worthless little nebbish who even a nation fighting for its survival against the Griffons and Wolves would scorn to recruit.
There was silence. Then Kingly Roomson, the youngest of the six, pointed a shaking hoof and said "Your ... your Mark." He was a small stallion, his coat was always pale yellow, but he looked even paler than Strong Messenger had ever seen him.
"My ... my Mark?" asked Strong Messenger, mystified. He had received his Mark only five years ago, when he was already fifteen -- a poor and monotonous diet had delayed this and other aspects of his maturation. It was a very ordinary mark, a typical mark for poor Ponies who faced lives of endless physical labor. It was a stylized strong back bearing side-bags, by which token he had doffed his Foal-Name of Happy Gift and become Strong Messenger, a name he deemed far more mature and respectable.
Automatically, he turned his head to look at his Mark.
It was not the same. It looked vaguely like a sketch-map of the Bloody Mountains, with the national borders drawn in -- and vaguely like something else. Something sinister, but from his angle it was hard for him to see just what ...
"Okrulga," hissed Daysun, his orange mane tossing wildly as he backed away in horror from his comrade. "A skull! You bear the Mark of a skull!"
It was true! What was more, it was an oddly-shaped skull -- neither that of a Pony nor a Griffon nor a Wolf nor a Dragon -- but rather somehow between them all, as if his mark was simply the mark of Death, a Death that would spare neither Kind nor species in the universality of its onset.
Four of the stallions muttered in superstitious fear. They were all somewhat educated, but the Bloody Mountains was in many ways the most primitive part of the whole continent of Taura. It was a land rich in legends of river-spirits, mountain-spirits, wampyri and shapeshifters. A Mark almost never changed in the lifetime of its bearer, and for a common workaday Mark like a pack harness to change into something as sinister as a skull ...?
"Death!" said Captain Praisekingly. "It is a good omen for our adventure!"
Four pairs of eyes looked at him as if he were insane. Even Strong Messenger was none too certain about such a strange transformation. But all five of his Ponies wanted to hear more, to learn at what he was getting.
"Why think, Brothers," Praisekingly said. "What do we do but journey to the Peak of Running Water bearing Death to the vile Griffon High Duke Farnonanth? We are the sharp spear-point of the South Speakers rising, to demonstrate their independence from the rule of the Griffon Empire! That is a large empire, comprised of many peoples -- Griffons and Ponies of all Kinds, even some Dragons and Wolves. In the glorious fight to come, we South Speakers will fell many foes of many species, and their skulls will lie mouldering on South Speaker soil just as this new Mark lies on the flank of our good and patriotic Brother Strong Messenger. This is a miracle -- and it is an omen of victory!"
The Captain had them under his charismatic spell. Superstitious Ponies were the South Speakers, but they were also brave, and they wanted to believe that the Heavens favored their cause. They all cheered First Strong Messenger, who felt a rush of relief and then joy that his mysterious transformation has been perceived as being one of good rather than ill-fortune. They probably would not have harmed him had they thought him cursed, but they might well have demanded that he not go with them on this mission. Strong Messenger would have been devastated at losing the chance to strike this blow against the oppressors of his race.
Now he would meet his destiny!
He was ecstatic as they left the steading and trotted toward the Shining City.
4. Shining City, Shining Future
The Shining City of the Fighting Stallions was the greatest metropolis of all the South Speakers, or so it always appeared to First Strong Messenger's perhaps prejudiced eyes. Over a hundred thousand Ponies dwelt there, most of them Earth Ponies of the Fighting Stallion Nation, and most of the remainder of other South Speaker nationalities. The Fighting Stallions were the most admired among the South Speakers -- they had been the first to win their independence from the Wolves of the City, who had ruled them from their metropolitan fortress far to the southeast -- and they were today the standard-bearers for all the South Speakers, whatever the Red East Speakers might pretend.
First Strong Messenger knew that the Fighting Stallions had throughly-modern armed forces, and that if it came to open war with the Empire, would have the honor of heroically-defending the South Speakers from Imperial aggression. The Empire outnumbered the Fighting Stallions by over ten to one, Strong Messenger knew this in a vague sort of way, but what would numbers matter against the pure hearts and noble souls of the heroic Fighting Stallions?
Besides, had not the Emperor of the Red Speakers, the great nation which stretched from Eastern Taura all across northern Draconia, promised to support the Fighting Stallions should the Griffon Empire dare to invade them? What could the Griffons possibly do against the vast armies of the Red Speakers? There were other Great Powers of which Strong Messenger knew vaguely -- the Wolves, the Prench, the Istallions, the Albionish and others who might take one or another side in the coming struggle, if it came to that ...
...but it would not. Captain Praisekingly's Brotherhood would strike their blow, and the cowardly Griffons would shrink back, ashamed that the heir to the Imperial Throne had been slain despite their protection. The Great Powers would posture and threaten, but the system of alliances which had spread across Taura over the last century would restrain them. The Griffon Empire would realize that the land of Running Waters was too dangerous and expensive to hold, and they would leave the South Speakers to decide their own destiny.
And -- live or die -- First Strong Messenger would be one of the liberators of the South Speakers. He would have proved himself. He would have shown that he was more than just a worthless runt.
He would be a hero.
These thoughts buoyed him as the Brotherhood trotted into the Shining City.
A century and a decade ago had the Fighting Stallions risen and driven out the Newsoldiers of the Wolfen Empire. The recruitment of the Newsoldiers had been one of the most horrific aspects of Wolfen rule, worse even than the horse-hunts they organized to amuse their nobility. The Wolfen tore young colts from their families and raised them in barracks, stripping away their culture, forcing them to worship the Blackstone and swear fealty to the Successors of the Wolfen Empire. Evil and arcane rituals ensured their loyalty.
But the soul-draining rituals had also robbed them of much of their intelligence and initiative. The tactics that worked in close combat had not been as suitable for modern combat -- steel swords and armor, repeating crossbows and gunpowder cannons -- and gradually, step by gore-drenched step, aided by mercenaries from the rest of Taura, the Speakers of the Bloody Mountains had won back their homelands. For the last century, the Wolfen had been called the "Sick Empire," because it was so clearly falling. The question now was who would pick up the pieces of its collapse.
The answer was obvious as his party trotted through the streets of the Shining City. It would be the Fighting Stallions.
True, the city had shone more beautifully as a distant prospect, with the sunlight glinting off the gold and silver and copper domes of its many churches, than it did close up, as they walked through the crowds and dirt and stench of its streets. The Fighting Stallions were a brave but a poor people; they could not afford the hygienic luxuries of the great cities of the Empire, or Albion or Prance. Their wealth had been stolen long ago, by the Wolves and by the Griffons.
But the throngs of Ponies who crowded the streets of the Shining City demonstrated its strength and importance. The Fighting Stallions were a rising force in the world, and they would unify all the South Speakers under their banners until they would one day build a rich and strong nation; perhaps as rich and strong as the Griffon Empire itself!
After all, there were rifts in the Empire -- the haughty but luxury-loving Lippanzers of the south and the proud and martial Trakkheners of the north famously quarreled, while neither fully trusted the money-grubbing merchants of Brimmer in the northwest, or the half-Prench industrialists of the river cities of the west. With the blow he and his comrades would deal to the Imperial succession, no doubt the Second Empire would fall apart into dynastic wars, as the First Empire had centuries ago.
Surely the South Speakers, having won their liberty at last, would all unite under the banner of a single nation, with its capital here at the Shining City. The Speakers varied mostly in religion, and the age of religious wars was done: it was generally grasped that The Megan had spoken equally to all the Kinds of the Earth. Once freedom had been secured by his efforts, surely the South Speakers would never raise their hooves against each other in anger.
Much cruel history contradicted First Strong Messenger's hopes, and much of it was known to the young student, but he did not let his knowledge get in the way of his hopes. His part was not to doubt, but to fight for his country's freedom!
So it was that as Captain Praisedkingly's small squad trotted in mufti though the streets of the Shining City, First Strong Messenger felt as if he were participating in a victory march. He knew that he was anticipating his success, and that this was dangerous, but Strong Messenger felt that The God Himself had assured his victory, for what was Random Flag if not an emissary of the Divine? There could of course be no true Prophets after the Praised One (peace be unto him), but there were certainly holy ones and teachers, and in that category Strong Messenger placed the mysterious Random Flag.
They walked into a safe house, where they were supplied with the money and papers they would need to enter the province of the Running Water. This in itself was an insult, that they should need such things to travel from one land of the South Speakers to another, but the Imperial authorities reportedly were tense about the Crown Prince's visit -- they had tightened border security and were questioning travelers from other South Speaker realms. First Strong Messenger promised himself that the shame of submitting to the Imperial police would be more than erased by the Deed, and the glorious future that Deed would win, one in which the South Speakers would travel freely between their unified lands.
They trotted out of the safe house to the train station. This was a big beautiful Neo-Classical structure of pillared marble, built by Albionish railway engineers hired only two decades ago, a celebration of Fighting Stallion greatness. Captain Praisedkingly led them to a platform.
It was not the one that First Strong Messenger had expected -- it was a train to Flowers in northern Istallia, passing through the Speakerlands north of the Flowing Waters. But Strong Messenger knew better than to ask questions -- he was a loyal fighter for the Black Hoof!
Captain Praisedkingly explained anyway.
"I want my colts to understand their mission," he said, "so that if anything happens to me, the strike will still go home!"
Strong Messenger's heart beat proudly within his barrel as he heard these words; he knew he was part of an elite, respected and valued by his leader.
"We could take a more direct route to the Peak of Running Water," he continued, "and arrive there half a day sooner. But Imperial Intelligence is very much aware of the existence of we patriots of the Black Hoof, and they will be vigilant for attacks coming from the northeast. From the northwest, however -- the same direction as their own main rail line -- that will be an angle from which our blow will be unexpected." He spread the rail map out so that the other five stallions could see, and they leaned forward attentively.
"We shall transfer here at Behind-The-Moat," he said, his hoof indicating the captal of the rather pretentiously-named province of Speakerland, "to a southbound local passenger train. The fat and soft Imperials will spend much less time searching a humble slow local train than they would the fancy express lines -- not enough pastries on which the Lippanzers can gorge in the dining car!"
His stallions, including Strong Messenger, all chuckled at that. The laughter felt good, relieving their tensions. It was pleasant to think of the Imperials as chubby, decadent lovers of baked goods -- certainly more pleasant than to think of them as the great and deadly Empire that dominated Central Taura. And, in truth, the best Imperial forces were in the east and west; the forces in the Empire's south were just garrison troops. This was something Strong Messenger knew from both his private reading and his Black Hoof training.
"Relax, my braves," the Captain said. "Enjoy the train ride. Remember that we are innocent workingponies, traveling in search of jobs. And joy in the glory awaiting us at the Peak of Running Waters!"
The train chuffed into the station, its somewhat old-fashioned locomotive coughing out clouds of steam that left the air hot and moist and laden with the smell of incompletely-burnt coal. Praisedkingly, First and the other four Ponies of the strike team boarded, setting their hooves firmly on the path of their destiny.