Chapter 3: TRAVELLERS
Normally ponies had nothing to do with the many standing stones that dotted the Shetland landscape, for the very simple reason that Princess Luna, over a thousand years ago, had recognised the menace they presented and issued an edict against approaching or touching them.
One unfortunate traveller – never mind his name, it's not important – was about to learn, in his final moments, why.
Oh, all right, we'll call him Dead Meat. Happy now? He isn't.
Travelling late, and alone, he had been easy pickings for the Muc. Unfortunately, instead of slaying, they were intent on capture - and everypony knew what that meant.
Dead Meat's terrified pleas and agonised screams delighted them as they played their dismal games; when It graced them with Its presence, those screams redoubled, briefly, as It accepted their sacrifice. Several of their number, insane with religious fervour, dashed forward to lick the fresh blood from the stone. They became the second course.
With no further meals forthcoming, It departed, and the congregation descended on the gore-soaked menhir like a horde of porcine bats, tonguing the blood where it pooled in its worn and oddly repulsive carvings. Above them, their shaman yammered something almost like a blessing, and the largest of them all strode forward, rose to his hind legs, and plucked a grisly lump from the stone's top with both fore-trotters.
The congregation froze as the huge Muc war-chief devoured Its' leftovers, all eyes waiting to see what would happen; when he merely smiled, belched, and bellowed his name, the caterwaul that followed darkened the dreams of ponies a mile around.
Grault was blessed. Worse still, he was on the march.
Which is the important thing. I told you the pony's name wasn't.
"Ho there laddie!"
Strangely enough – or maybe that's the mood your author is in, at this time – the hailed pony's name was Garden Hoe. It said so on the sign by the front gate.
"Mph?" he asked, before dropping the hoe on the ground, and turning to the stranger. He stopped and stared, one foreleg raising automatically in surprise.
Instead of one pony, there were well over two dozen he could see; hairy earth ponies and unicorns, and not far above pegasi were wheeling in lazy circles, guarding five large covered wagons. Everypony seemed to be wearing some sort of little neck bag, as well as scarves or hats with patterns of blue, red and green. Heads poking inquisitively out of some of the wagons implied they were occupied.
What really caught his attention was that several of them were holding weapons, including some sort of mouth-held thing with wickedly curved blades. Nopony ever carried weapons! Fighting was the Royal Guards' job!
The closest of the herd asked something in a thick brogue.
Garden Hoe just stared, mesmerised by the mouth weapon one of the other ponies was wielding.
"Oi! Dafty!" A hoof passed in front of his eyes, making him blink and goggle stupidly at the waver.
"I said," that worthy repeated in a testy tone, "d'ye ken how far tae Ponyville?"
"P-Ponyville?" Garden Hoe blinked again, the glint of blades dicing his faculties. "It's... along this road..."
"Aye, we ken this be the road," the questioner rolled his eyes, "Noo, how, far, awa', be it?" he added, speaking loudly and slowly as though to an idiot.
Garden Hoe bristled at that. "Twelve hours' travel," he snapped at last, "You might like to stop tonight at Sweetwater, that's about four hours away, then continue tomorrow around the Everfree Forest – that'll take you all day." Longer, he thought, if you sample the Sweetwater brews.
The Shetlander just sniffed. "Aye then," he finally said, "Tha's wha' we wanted tae know. Thank'ee muchly laddie!"
As he turned away to inform his fellows, Garden Hoe distinctly heard him mutter, "Gurt fluffy neddie."
The farmer, quite rightly, felt insulted.
The following morning, Garden Hoe was out just after sunrise, pulling his harvester through the back wheat field. This season was quite the bumper crop, and he'd no doubt make a big bit at the market. But first you had to halter up and haul the blades and catchers down the rows.
There was something relaxing about the rhythm of harvesting; the unrelenting build-up to the perfect speed where the blades cut clean and the stalks swept smoothly into the nets; the concentration to slow down and turn at the end of the row, the approaching, dust-covered –
Garden Hoe slid to a stop. The blades caught and tore the stalks, which snagged together in the nets. He glowered at the figure, who was clearly dressed like the herd of barbarians that had passed yesterday. I hope they stopped at Sweetwater, he thought to himself, and that they all have bucking hangovers.
The lone figure drew closer and Garden Hoe felt something cold on his spine. This shaggy pony's little neck bag was so worn and old that its metal badge was more rust than metal, its fabric worn and so discoloured it almost vanished in his coat. A single wrap of some thick fabric about his barrel and shoulder was so stained and worn its colour was lost in shades of sickly brown, matching the dusty coat and matted mane of its wearer.
It was the eyes of the young stallion that did it for Garden Hoe. Those brown orbs were much darker, sunk in shadowed sockets that suggested the pony had been travelling nonstop – no, that wasn't it. Most ponies' eyes gleamed with life. Not this pony's.
"Has tha' Laird passed this wee?" The pony's voice was as haggard as his appearance.
"Laird?" Garden Hoe looked puzzled.
"Aye, the Laird," the stranger grated, "He wa' comin' this wee, has tha' seen 'im? 'Ow far ahaid be he?"
The bit dropped. That herd of wild-looking... of course!
"Your friends are at least four hours away, heading for Ponyville," he said at last, "They're probably leaving Sweetwater now." He pointed in the general direction of that town. "They'll probably be in Ponyville this evening..."
"Nae time ta' lose!" The stranger spun, revealing a hide criss-crossed with an astonishing number of old scars. "Mucmarfóir thanks 'ee!"
Garden Hoe just stood there staring as the stranger galloped down to the roadside fence, went to jump it, completely failed to clear the top rail and crashed to the ground motionless.
Mucmarfóir groaned and attempted to rise but the world started dancing a slow reel.
"Hold on there," it was the farmer he'd accosted in the field. "You're not getting up until you're completely recovered. Might be a concussion."
The Shetland pony just groaned again. Even thinking hurt, but the need to reach the Laird flew around in his brain like drunken pegasi in a Cloudsdale mosh pit.
"T' Laird..." he managed to get out, "Ha' tae get tae t' Laird..."
"I don't know about your precious Leered," Garden Hoe observed, "but I do know you're in no fit state to travel, not as exhausted as you are, and not with your brains still rattling in your skull!"
Mucmarfóir just groaned again and attempted to open his eyes, then shut them again. Evidently he was in the farmer's croft, and that worthy had enough sense to close the shutters against the now agonisingly bright sunlight.
"What happened to his tummy dad?" a young colt asked.
"I don't know," the farmer said, "and don't bother him, he's still very sick from that hit to the head."
If he could have spoken without fear of passing out or puking, Mucmarfóir would have told the lad a rare tale of loss and vengeance, of his long and holy crusade against the beasts that even today colluded with the ones under stones, and slaughtered his family, among other outrages against the children of Equus and Epona.
He would have plunged his listeners into horror and despair with the sights, sounds and smells as the farm he called home burned.
He would have described many pursuits and about as many battles against the filthy swine, hoof against tusk, teeth against trotter, to the death.
He would have spoken of how the Shetlands needed a leader ready to do war against the Muc, and drive them out of the Shetlands completely; a Laird who would also root out and destroy every last one of the standing stones and what they imprisoned.
He would have spoken of the tradition of the duel for succession. A tradition he was sure would be in his favour.
As it was, Mucmarfóir, the soon to be Laird of the Shetlands, could only groan.
"How is he?" a maternal voice asked quietly, "I'm about to serve lunch."
"Still woozy," Garden Hoe remarked, "He keeps trying to get up though, and he said something about getting to a Leered."
"He must be with those ponies that passed by yesterday," the mare observed, "Poor fellow. They'll be halfway to Ponyville by now."
Mucmarfóir's eyes popped open and his ears pricked in shock. Yesterday! Father Equus, he prayed, give me strength! I have tae catch the Laird and put him tae t' challenge afore he reaches...
He stared at the wall, which was apparently not in a dancing mood this time, then raised his head, eliciting a complaint from his neck. Probably cricked it when he hit the ground. But the world wasn't rolling any more, so he was able to take in the room.
It was evidently a bedroom, since he was lying on a bed, inside a croft made mainly from wood. Wood panelling made a dado line up to shoulder level, and above that plaster reached the timbered ceiling. The pattern of leaves and flowers that rolled along the top of the dado wasn't Shetland knotwork, but reassuring in its own way.
He looked down at himself. Beyond his flank, which bore the scars of more battles than anypony should suffer, the bed was sturdy and made for two; evidently the marriage bed of the stallion eyeing him worriedly, and the mare wearing an apron looking through the door.
The apron. "Wha' – where's ma sporran? Ma blenkit?" Frankly he was more concerned with his sporran. It was the last remaining memento he had of happier times. When Ma and Da, and his brother and sisters were...
"Sporran?" The stallion was looking at him. "You mean that bag you were wearing? Over there, on the dresser. As for that blanket of yours..."
"It took three washes to get all the dirt out," the mare chimed in, "it's on the line now."
At first his legs couldn't remember how to work, but he finally not only managed to reach the floor, but stand. Additional effort led him to totter, then walk over to the indicated furniture, where, neck twinges aside, he managed to lip the dirty strap about his neck again. The small burden of his sporran and its precious keepsakes against his breastbone made him sigh in relief.
"Ah thankee good farmer," he said quietly, "but I have tae be awa' fast. Ah must catch up tae t' Laird!"
"Well have something to eat first!" the mare bustled into the room and laid a hoof against his forehead. "You're almost skin and bone. I've just laid the table –"
"Nae time, nae time!" Mucmarfóir couldn't believe it. A day behind them! Sweet mother Epona... He hesitated in the main room, the smells of hot bread and day cider causing his stomach to war with his need to pursue the Laird. Father Equus forgive me, he gave in at last, wha's another hour on t' road? At least I'll have a full belly...
"I do hope the poor colt's all right," fretted Warmhearth to her husband later that evening, while the world was passed into the care of Princess Luna.
"He talked funny," their son observed. It was really the main lasting impression he had of the strange pony his dad had dragged into the house after falling over the fence. That and the strange pouch he had slung around his neck, not to mention his scary eyes.
"Yes he did, didn't he?" Garden Hoe nodded. "Just like the other herd that passed yesterday."
"Why's he so far behind then?"
Garden Hoe frowned. That was strange. The shaggy ponies had been travel-stained all right, but not as much as... what was his name again? Muck-ma-far?
The last sunlight withdrew from the windows, and Warmhearth went to close the shutters. As she did so, Garden Hoe watched her move around in the fire's warm light and, as he always did, offered a prayer of gratitude to the Princesses for his happy life.
Then Warmhearth stiffened, squealed and banged the last set of shutters shut, backing away a little too fast. "There's something out there!"
"What? Somepony's out there?" Garden Hoe scrambled to his hooves. "At this time of night?"
"N-not somepony!" Warmhearth's eyes were wide and ears pinned back with fear. "Something!"
"Dad?" a childish voice asked behind them, starting to quiver.
Garden Hoe didn't answer, as he was peering out through the heart-shaped cutouts in the shutters.
Luna's moon was waning tonight, which immediately put him on edge. It was too early. The almanac had a half-moon scheduled for this week, why was...
Something grunted outside. Almost like a pig, but deeper and more menacing. As his eye adjusted to the darkness he saw it.
Them.
There were at least a dozen, some inside the fence. Most were on the road, and many were standing erect. Insufficient moonlight gleamed on... teeth? And... dear sweet Celestia and Luna were they carrying weapons?
The air outside carried a smell of carrion to his nostrils, and he stumbled away too, eyes wide and grabbing the door-bar in his teeth, hauling it up and into the brackets either side of the door.
"Daddy?"
Garden Hoe fought to get his breath under control when something shoved against the door, rattling it. The ponies froze in fear as the something grunted and scrabbled. Its voice – if it was speaking – sounded foul and uncouth... and hungry.
There was a response. This voice was deeper, and even worse, like a pig underwater. And it sounded angry. The first monster snarled back, then there was a short sound none of the ponies let themselves recognise, followed by screams of pain – then more sounds that would haunt their nightmares for weeks to come.
The final noises were more of those grunt-words, barked in a threatening tone, before a chorus of voices rose, chanting a name that would also stalk them in their nightmares.
"Grauuult..."
None of the ponies slept well that night, fearing the monsters' return.
They did.
Elsewhere, Luna frowned up at the moon. "What the hay are you playing at?" she asked it irritably – more precisely, she asked its Inhabitant.
She herself had been exiled to the moon for a thousand years, which meant she knew far too well the foibles of what lived on the far side of the moon, and protected Equestria from Them from Outside. The Inhabitant wasn't actually all that bright, but it had reached an agreement with the princesses to guard them and their planet, but that actually took quite a bit of effort.
It wasn't until about two thousand years ago that Celestia and Luna had discovered why the damned thing kept trying to face Equestria and its population of tasty snacks.
Some of Them weren't so much Outside as Beneath.
Communing with the Inhabitant was not her favourite way of spending a night, and this was no exception. Most of its higher mental functions, if it had any, were incomprehensible; only its baser instincts were understandable.
Tonight it had sensed prey moving. Clenching her jaw to prevent herself throwing up, she pressed for more detail. This had better not be ponies for dinner, she muttered, squinting up at the satellite.
The Lunar Guardsmen stationed beside her were startled when she gasped and staggered backwards, eyes wide, ears back and mouth agape. Then she vomited.
"Your Highness?" one asked, "What is it? Should I get a nurse?"
Luna didn't answer at first, as she had to wait until her stomach contents had left. She'd delved too far into the Inhabitant's mind, she knew it. It took a few breaths to get her voice back.
"Wake Celestia," she finally said, "tell her, 'They are walking the earth.'"
"'They are walking the earth'?" one asked, confused.
"Do as I say, guardsman!" Luna snapped, causing the soldier to step back in shock. "She'll know what it means."
SWEETWATER: A brewery town roughly a day's hoof travel north from Ponyville. Renowned for its beer and spirits.
FLUFFY: A highly offensive term to anypony, casting aspersions on their intelligence, breeding, and usefulness to society. May also be an allegation of vanity. (Based on the entry at .com)
NEDDIE: Shetland slang for a fool. Apparently contemporary with the first known renditions of Poor Daft Ned.
INHABITANT OF THE MOON: [Redacted by Royal decree for your protection]
THEM FROM OUTSIDE: [Redacted by Royal decree for your protection]
THEM UNDER STONES: [Redacted by Royal decree for your protection]
MUC: A race of primitive, semi-intelligent pigs that have proven stubbornly intransigent about integration into pony society. Despite researchers not being able to find evidence of prior occupation of the region, the Muc persistently attempt to take over and wipe out the inhabitants of the Shetlands. Witness reports, however, indicate an almost certain link between Them Under Stones and the Muc's predations.
It is strongly recommended that visitors to the Shetlands do not approach either the Muc or any standing stones, nor should anypony travel on hoof alone at night.