Chapter 6: MUCMARFÓIR
"What the hay?" Twilight gasped before she caught herself.
In the doorway stood an earth pony – a Shetlander by his coat, a brown so dark he was almost black, and his eyes were almost the same hue, but alight in a way that suggested zeal bordering on madness. His coat was not just Shetland shaggy, but matted with dirt and not a few twigs, as were the half-rotten sporran and ratty blanket he wore. Quite simply, he looked less like a pony and more like a badly made golem.
"Who be ye tae challenge t' rightful Laird?" Rianblade was on his feet almost immediately, ears back and ready to attack. "Explain yesael gobshite!"
"So ye be t' Laird then." The stranger's voice went flat. "Well nae for long, ye pampered fluffy. Shetland dinnae need some soft bugger, they need a warrior – tae lead 'em in battle 'gainst t' Muc –"
The watching ponies were divided into two camps. The Ponyville contingent were completely bewildered by what was going on and shocked by the insult the newcomer had delivered to their guest. The Shetlanders to a pony knew what was going on, knew who the gatecrasher was, and looked like they wanted to rend him limb from limb.
"Oh aye?" Rianblade sneered, slowly walking around the table and down to the centre of the hall, "An' wha' makes ye think ye're so grand fae it?"
"Aren't you going to stop this?" Twilight turned to look at Mayor Mare, who was whispering to the Laird.
"Nay," he murmured back, "We allus kenned that Mucmarfóir there was more'n a mite touched, an' my donnybrook days are o'er. Let my son teach 'm a lesson."
"Who?" Twilight asked automatically, her eyes drawn back, like almost everypony's, to the two circling stallions in the middle of the hall.
"Ah'll tell 'ee later," Roanald replied.
"'Ave I nae taken t' fight tae those snouty bastards?" Mucmarfóir was almost screaming at Rianblade. "Ah 'twas that slain t' coven by Fraoch Móinéar! An' stopped that monster Grault from attackin' Uisce Milis! Ah've sent more o' them foul things along t' Low Road than thee ever will –"
"Och," the Laird's son rolled his eyes, "get on wi' it!" And with that he reared and threw the first levade.
What followed was a display of fighting that shocked Ponyville somewhat less than the enthusiastic barracking from their Shetland guests. Both Mucmarfóir and Rianblade seemed to be – no, were – hellbent on killing each other. At first circling and attempting to line up bone-crushing kicks, the two eventually charged, raking each other with their forehooves and biting each other hard enough to draw blood. Eventually the two stallions, locked together, were just rolling on the floor, bleeding profusely, but neither willing to give up.
Rianblade's face was a cold mask, and he fought with an equally cold, clinical precision. Mucmarfóir, on the other hand, seemed to be in a frenzy, teeth snapping at any body part he could, cracked hooves tearing through skin.
Also, Rianblade was rested from the day's travels, while Mucmarfóir had been travelling almost nonstop for far longer. Despite his passion, his energy was fading fast, and soon Rianblade managed to wriggle out of Mucmarfóir's hold.
The last thing the wild pony saw that night was both of Rianblade's back hooves smacking into his skull.
The Laird's son stood bloody but with head high, breathing hard, looking directly at his sire. Around him the thunder of Shetlanders hammering their hooves in applause and cheering contrasted with the near catatonia of their hosts.
"I thank ye for lettin' mah son handle this wee interruption," the Laird said to the mayor, "Now, can we borrow one o' ye jail cells to stick that dafty in fae t' night?"
Mayor Mare gaped at him, completely stunned.
A short while later the guardsponies had been and hauled away Mucmarfóir, where he was getting some slightly rougher treatment for his wounds than Rianblade, who suffered Nurse Redheart stoically.
"So, who was that pony?" Twilight finally asked again. "And why was he challenging you?"
"His name is Mucmarfóir," Roanald an Deargdyer said grimly, "An' his tale is a grim an' bleak 'un. For years ago, afore he gained his... cutie mark... he was just a wee colt livin' in a croft near Loch Earraigh Fuar..."
Everyone settled, and the Shetlanders checked their drinks.
"If things had been different, perhaps that wee colt wouldnae ha' come home tae find t' Muc a-visitin'. And when t' Muc visit, they bring nary a plate, or wee gifties, but terror, pain, an' death, if ye be lucky.
"Alas, the wee colt found his sire dead, an' half-eaten by t' filthy bastards, an' his dam t' same, but as we all ken t' Muc have a taste for..."
He paused and looked around. His hosts were looking more than a little shocked and horrified.
"...Well, I willnae say, but every Shetlander knows what those swines do. An' worse... his sister missin', which means she were probably given tae stones..."
Every Shetlander in the hall shuddered, several whispering what sounded like prayers to Equus and Epona. Whatever being 'given tae stones' entailed, it was clearly a fate worse than death.
"So he's dedicated his life since then tae roamin' t' Shetlands, killin' every last one o' t' Muc he finds. Tha's how he got his cutie mark..."
"What was it?" Twilight asked, "I couldn't make it out."
"It's a Muc's severed head," and Twilight shuddered. Looking around, she saw almost everypony looked repulsed as well – even Shetlanders. "He's a crazed one, an' we have witnesses who say he thinks nowt of corrallin' anypony he can intae war parties. Nothin' matters tae him except slaughtering Muc.
The Laird shook his shaggy head. "He has nae clan, nae home, nae family... an' now he seems tae have nae sanity! There's nae been a duel for the Lairdship for o'er two thousand years!"
Later that night, Twilight wrote a letter to Celestia.
Dear Celestia,
The Shetlanders arrived, singing, and were welcomed. But at the banquet tonight, another pony arrived and challenged the Laird to a duel. The Laird's son fought him, and he is now being held in the Ponyville police station.
According to the Laird, this "Mucmarfoir" (I am not sure of the spelling, so I have combined words from a Shetlandic dictionary) lost his family years ago and has been hunting the Muc ever since. Presumably this is why he named himself "Pig Killer" if this dictionary is right.
What should we do? The Laird does not leave until the day after tomorrow, when his train will be ready as per your instructions. From his attitude, I suspect he might attempt to attack the Laird again.
I apologise for the bad writing, but our guests didn't really want to stop banqueting, boasting, or drinking. In fact it wasn't until what the Laird called a "wee barney" (and anypony would describe as a general brawl!) broke out that the banquet was declared over.
Your faithful (and very tired!) Student,
Twilight Sparkle
Rolling up the scroll, it trailed behind her as she sought out Spike. The baby dragon was already asleep, and Twilight felt a pang of shame before she shook him with a forehoof.
"Twi'? What?" Spike was understandably grumpy.
"I need you to send this to the princess," she explained, swinging the scroll towards him. The little dragon took it with a bad grace before flaming it into the familiar green vapour that trailed southwards to Canterlot.
Luna was in a pensive mood, and it was reflected in the tension of her guardsponies. The Inhabitant was still restive, and she now had evidence as to why.
Her eye trailed to the documents before her. Witness reports. Scene descriptions. And evidence photos that she wished she didn't have to see. A farmhouse four hours north of Sweetwater, with its front door smashed in. The interior trashed, and spattered with blood. A stallion's corpse, much of it missing, bearing a cutie mark of a garden hoe. A mare's, what was left of her face still screaming, and her belly –
Luna shuddered. The creatures – boars, unless the corpse they'd left was just another victim – had torn her open with their teeth, for buck's sake, while she was still alive, and then there was...
She squeezed her eyes shut. There had been a colt. Some of it had still been left behind.
The strange thing though was that there were two sets of pig tracks. The trotters had first arrived not long after sundown yesterday, when the boar had died. Then they had returned... but nobody knew yet whether that was before or after the family had been slaughtered.
A bustle at the entrance to the throne room turned out to be a messenger. "Your Highness," he said with a little nervousness creeping in, "I have a report from the crime laboratory..."
"Give it here," she said a little sharply, her magic snatching the document out of the messenger's hooves a little more roughly than necessary. Perusing it, her mouth thinned into a hard line.
They'd arrived before. And a singular piece of scat was found...
Her eyes widened as she stared at the photo of it, her blood turning to ice. Then a flare of green resolved itself before her, making her blink. The picture fell to the ground as she caught the newly arrived letter from Ponyville. The messenger stared at what was in that image in shock.
"Thank you," he heard, and jerked his eyes up to the icy ones of Luna, "That will be all."
She ignored the fleeing pony as she frowned at Twilight's missive. Technically she was reading Celly's mail, but she would forgive her. Besides, she needed her sleep.
Princess Celestia was roused roughly from her slumber by a highly energetic hoof. "Who in the hay... Loo, what in the world –"
"No time sister!" Luna's expression killed the reprimand Celestia was about to deliver. "They are walking the earth, and They're after the Laird! They're heading to Ponyville!"