Whack.

Talib winced and rubbed his forehead gingerly, seeing his own, personal stars in addition to those which hung in the pre-dawn sky. He had already been seriously bruised by the stone Hayfa had tossed at him (or rather, his bedroom window) days ago – an event he suspected she still remembered with mirth. Now she was taking every opportunity to maintain and extend the bruising using the improvised combat staves they had manufactured from stout Everfree branches. This equated to roughly once every few minutes, twice a day, as they practised drills and sparring around the glade encampment which they now shared. Between this and his physically demanding job, Talib had never known such a symphony of aches and bruises.

“Good,” she nodded, “that was much faster.”

“Not fast enough,” he said, ruefully, casting a resentful look at his trainer. Lithe, wiry, toned, lean; tightly-woven muscles coating a compact frame. Her coat, fur and feathers, were always somehow kept neat and clean, even during training, but never adorned. He wondered about that, her complete lack of mementos. In the face of her capable, efficient movements, Talib felt lumbering and awkward, though he knew the lumberpony work had made him stronger and heavier than her.

“The pain will motivate your forelimbs to block more quickly,” she said, justifying her focus on his already-bruised forehead. “Once your muscles know you can do that, overall speed will follow.”

Talib shrugged, then nodded. Hayfa regarded him for a moment, then planted her staff on the earth. “That will do for this morning,” she said. “It may not feel like it, but you’re progressing quickly.”

“I wonder if the staff is really best,” Talib mused aloud. “It’s rather long and unwieldy.”

“It is the best for you, at least at this stage,” Hayfa replied. “Every weapon, natural or manufactured, has its use. Talons,” she continued, flexing her wicked claws, “are for piercing, for grasping and rending. Hooves like those on a heavy earth pony such as yourself can dent steel and shatter bone. Blades are for slicing, daggers for stabbing.”

“And the staff?” queried Talib.

“For the poor, the untrained, and the desperate,” she said wryly. Talib deflated, but Hayfa smiled and continued in her barely-accented, formal way. “A staff or spear is the perfect beginner’s weapon. The learner cannot easily injure themselves, and everything dangerous happens at the other end. One is forced to learn to use both… hooves, in your case, which develops ambidexterity. It also has excellent defensive possibilities. Precision, furthermore, is not required, as it would be with a foil or épée.”

“A what?”

Hayfa smirked. “A stylized sword used in regulated duels by noble griffons to defend their honour, by which synergy it attains the pinnacle of the ridiculous.”

Talib digested this insight into Griffon society, then shrugged again. “I still don’t really understand the point,” he said, looking away from Hayfa and towards the reddening morning sky, “it’s not like I’m going to beat Progress out of the Forest with a stick. I don’t think violence could ever help, really. I never have.”

Hayfa regarded him sharply. “Indeed, you are commendably peaceful,” she said, her tone belying the apparent compliment. “At first I imagined you were unique in your naïveté, Talib, but I know now that, for some reason, Ponyville has more than its share of overgrown, wide-eyed children. I imagine Progress would find that most admirable. And dragons, as we know, are renowned for their commitment to nonviolence. Rational discussion would be certain to carry the day.” Talib looked back at her disdainful expression, then down at the ground. And what could you or I do against a dragon? he thought, but kept it to himself as she continued. “I don’t know why Ponyville is so uniquely susceptible to this delusion – the rest of Equestria certainly knows that while peace has its place, so does conflict.”

He seemed to have struck a nerve with Hayfa – at last – but couldn’t help protesting. “We haven’t had a war in hundreds of years!”

“You haven’t needed to, which proves my point in a roundabout way. But nopony else denies their occasional necessity. I’ve met Princess Celestia – under her regal poise and charm lies a grim ruthlessness. Under the Ancient Castle of the Royal Pony Sisters lie hundreds of suits of pony armour, battle-tarnished full plate. You see only the surface, the peaceful status quo, and so you see nothing.”

“You’ve met the Princess?”

Hayfa started, as though caught out. She looked at him slowly before replying, as though she could will him to forget.

“Perhaps I have, briefly. A lifetime ago.”

But you’re so young, not much older than me…

Talib bit back the words, knowing he was on dangerous ground. Instead, he gestured to the cabin, changing the subject.

“There’s still some time before I have to leave for work,” he said, “shall we get more of the boarding done?” Hayfa nodded, and they set to work.

He had to admit, four… appendages… were better than two. Since Hayfa had moved in, early in the week, things were moving much faster. The shingling had been finished in a couple of evening sessions after work, meaning the roof was now weatherproofed. Now, once these boards had been hammered onto the wall frames, the worst of the weather would be effectively excluded and they could move in. Sleeping on a couple of loosely-arranged, temporary floorboards was still more attractive than the cramped shanty they’d squeezed into these past few nights, even if it would be a bit draughty. Hayfa kept herself busy during the day: hunting, butchering and preparing the various resulting products for eventual trade. There was no market for them in Ponyville, of course, but some roving traders or hunters, such as other griffons or the odd outcast diamond dog, weren’t squeamish herbivores and she could potentially make a tidy profit. Talib only knew this because, curious, he’d asked what she did all day, and quickly regretted it – thankfully, she kept her drying and tanning tacks, her jerky and bone carvings, out of site beyond the treeline. After the evening combat practice, the herbivorous pony and the omnivorous griffoness still shared vegetable-based meals, and Talib didn’t look too closely to check if she slipped anything… extra into her own bowl.

They had spent a couple of companionable if quiet evenings together, working on the cabin or checking Talib’s experiments, where the plants had nearly reached full growth. He was already taking some measurements in case something happened – like, say, dragonfire – and a rough analysis had further confirmed his earlier impressions: on average, the Forest plots were more “wild”, for lack of a better word, than the farm plots, irrespective of their species composition. They bore smaller and less palatable fruit, in greater numbers, than the plants in what Talib was beginning to consider the “domesticated” context. This was true regardless of the provenance of the plants: Everfree Forest or Sugarcane Farm individuals, growth location was more important than species or source. He even suspected that the effect was stronger on those plots deeper in the Everfree Forest, though he would not know for sure until he analysed the data from mature, harvested plants. The result was puzzling – the only explanation he could think of was that it was something to do with the soil. With any luck, between the magic-ometers (or whatever Trixie ended up calling them) and the complete growth data, something would suggest itself.

They spoke little as they worked, hammering long, broad boards onto the sturdy wooden frame. The slight tilt of the boards, the bottom edge of one overlapping with the top edge of the one immediately below it, should keep the rain out even in one of the Forest’s periodic gales. Although the boards were rough and un-sanded, a coat of cheap paint should protect them from absorbing too much moisture and warping in the humid summers. The interior was still a hazardous maze of floor-beams without a floor, but altogether Talib was quite proud of the progress he’d – they’d – made.

Eventually the sun began to fulfil the promise of the rosy sky, and peeked over the distant treetops visible from the raised hummock on which the nascent cottage stood. They packed up and went their separate ways, Talib with his pannier to the deep staging-ground, and Hayfa with her long knife into the cool shadows of the Forest.

Things were strange this deep in the Forest. Talib had been this far, occasionally, when out camping, but had never stumbled across such enormous trees. The whole area seemed somehow more secluded, undisturbed, and more than ever he had the sense of being in another world, far more distant from Ponyville than the few hours’ travel would suggest. Talib could see, however, why Sim wanted to come out here; the trees here might be healthy and monstrous, but their complete dominance meant that little else was afforded the opportunity for growth, with the exception of dense, ground-covering ferns. There was no vertical heterogeneity like elsewhere in the Everfree – just the canopy, far above, and then the ferns. Very occasionally a giant lay prone, rotted out from the dead, defenceless heartwood so that only the sapwood had remained until finally it buckled under its own weight, coming down with unthinkable noise and taking a neighbour or two with it. Only there was any variety evident, as younger trees desperately scrambled up into the open space, veritably gasping for light. Only one would ultimately be successful, taking its place among gargantuan peers and shading out all less-developed competitors. The silence was as of some sacred space – the silence of a place where giants ruled unchallenged, and the unending monotony of massive vertical shapes seemed to hold up the entirety of the world.

Talib and Sim only had time to bring down a few of these wooden behemoths; trimming them, loading them onto the logging wheel and skidding them back to the staging ground would take the remainder of the day. The logging wheel was a simple and startlingly-proportioned contraption; two reinforced wheels, twice as tall as even Talib, were linked by an axle from which hung a loop of sturdy iron chain. This would be slipped under one end of the trunk, and then tightened by a steel ratchet to lift it. From the axle a long wooden “tongue” projected forward; on either side the two lumberponies would harness up and drag their otherwise-impossible load. Though both were stout, work-hardened earth ponies by now, Talib knew his muscles would be complaining all weekend. Time being of the essence, Sim selected a target and they fell to work quickly. Rather than axes, Talib was finally getting to see the point of the ten-foot felling saw which had until now hung menacingly on Sim’s workshop wall; after an initial cut, each pony grabbed an end in their teeth and they began dragging the thin, flexible blade backwards and forwards through the tree. The amulet Moondancer had given him swung slightly behind the rhythm of his saw-strokes, bouncing lightly off his sternum. The work was more complicated than Talib was used to; specially-designed teeth on the saw were required to keep the incision (or “kerf”) free from clogging sawdust, but they still had to ensure each stroke was carried through to completion in order to eject as much as possible. At one point the weight of the tree began to close the kerf around the saw blade, and dragging it became even more difficult; some timber wedges hammered in behind the saw and periodically tapped in even further soon freed the blade.

Eventually the final, felling cut was complete: with a deafening, tearing crackling the giant was toppled. The ground shook violently as it impacted, but Sim was attacking smaller branches with his axe even before the echoes had died away. Talib, for himself, felt a melancholy, sudden and unexpected, wash over him as he looked at the magnificent life they had brought low. He tried to see the bigger picture, like Sim: now that the space was open, many more lives could have their chance. But it was difficult to keep things in perspective, looking up at the now-visible sky that was like a raw wound in the canopy. He caught Sim looking at him and hastened to work before the flinty stallion could formulate some sarcastic rebuke.

With the first intimidating trunk hanging under the steel axle of the logging wheel, the rest of the trees began to look less formidable, and they broke for lunch. Talib had brought along Everfree Forest Edibles and the two ponies fossicked through the undergrowth while nibbling on fresh sourdough, tart cherries and candied walnuts which Talib’s family had considerately dropped off at Sim’s cottage the preceding evening. Looking at the book, Talib wanted to try his luck again by asking about Pappy Timbers and the mysterious “help” he’d had in acquiring this improbable horticultural wisdom, but the hoary old stallion peering at his father’s book seemed even more snappish than usual. Talib wasn’t sure whether it was to do with his brother’s visit, or if Sim, like Talib, was finding this deep-Everfree experience a little spooky.

The answers certainly lay in Spruce Timbers’ journal, but Sim had made it clear that was off-limits. Must be some interesting family skeletons buried in those pages, thought Talib, and Old Sim’s not the type to let somepony dig them up, that’s for sure. I guess the only way would be to try to sneak a look without him knowing.

Not that I would.

In any case, he’s always at the cottage or out working with me.

Except... Except tomorrow, Talib realized, slowly. He’ll be out all day with the relatives, tomorrow. A pony could easily slip inside and read undisturbed for a few hours, at least. That’d be long enough to shed light on this mystery, for sure...

Not that I would.

“So,” said Talib, nonchalantly, “what’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

“You’ll need to use the large, lance-tooth saw for cross-cutting these things,” began the old lumberpony absent-mindedly, without looking at Talib, “Don’t worry if you don’t finish one by day’s end. As for a rip-saw, best grab the-”

“Ah,” interrupted Talib, “I meant with Huon and his family.”

Sim shrugged. “I’m sure Huon will set the agenda as soon as they arrive in the morning. Like always.”

Talib glanced at him sideways, trying to tell if Sim’s indifference was genuine. He seemed more prickly whenever Huon was mentioned, and Talib was curious. Suddenly the older pony stopped and stamped the ground impatiently.

“This is going nowhere,” he said, referring to their empty food-baskets, “nothing grows under here but ferns and fungus, and I don’t see any fungus worth eating. Let’s split up and get out from under this canopy. You take the book, and I’ll meet you back at the staging-ground in twenty minutes.” Talib nodded, and Sim smirked. “Biggest haul gets drinks paid for at dinner on market day.”

The wiry, buff-coloured colt tossed his auburn mane and grinned. “You’re on.”

Sim muttered and grumbled to himself quietly as he foraged in the undergrowth. Not far from the staging ground, he’d broken clear of the looming stand and into some younger, more heterogeneous growth. In truth, he’d known it was there from previous visits – his mental map of the Everfree Forest was far more comprehensive than he’d let on to Talib. Just as well, or he’d never have taken the bet. Sim flicked a grin from the corner of his moth, a rare display of mirth. Even holding the Everfree Forest Edibles, Talib would never outpace his mentor. Sim had memorized the book years ago anyway, having been out with his pappy, Spruce Timbers, during much of its writing. Sim didn’t care to continue down that particular Memory Lane, however, and so he forcefully turned his thoughts back to his immediate problems.

They were not vegetation-related. Sim’s hooves and mouth browsed absently but effectively among the autumn-freshened ground cover, set on autopilot by his eyes and nose. Frequently he would deposit some edible root, flower, or fungus into the basket hanging at his side. No, his problem was family. Talib had – probably without knowing it, well-meaning kid that he was – exacerbated Sim’s agitation over Huon’s impending visit, and Sim had been glad of the excuse for some silence when he’d seen the colt had brought the Edibles. Huon always got Sim’s goat, and not just because he was a know-it-all. Huon had money, and a successful business – about which Sim cared not one iota – but he also had something Sim desperately felt the lack of, even if he would only half-admit it to himself, and never to others.

Family.

It must be this time with Talib, re-awakening his old loss and longing for companionship, because there she was again, like a spectre in Sim’s mind, never far from the surface. Glade. He allowed himself the loveliness of her name, but not much more, not her face – even after all these years, the painful wound had never quite achieved the numbness of true scar tissue. Instead it lingered, red and brown and flaky like a rusted-on bolthead, screwed in deep...

Snap.

Just like that, Sim was back in the present; looking around sharply for the origin of the noise, he silently cursed himself for dropping his guard. No matter how familiar, the Forest was always dangerous, and never predictable. He stealthily flattened himself against the cool, slightly moist ground, only ears and eyes protruding above the bracken. Something had snapped that twig. Scanning the surrounding vegetation, he fought to control the imagination which tried to turn trees and shrubs into rockadiles and cockatrices – depending on what was really out there, panic and flight might be worse than immobility. With any luck, Sim thought doubtfully, it’s just a harmless leaf-hog, far from home. He waited, frozen, for long minutes, tense but patient and assessing each movement the cold breeze generated, each rustling that ensued. Nothing approached, and the sun-dappled, taught silence began to seem less desolate, the shapes and shadows less hostile.

Just as he was about to rise, a rank, foetid odour faintly wafted past his nostrils. There was no mistaking that smell.

Timberwolf, he thought. Gotta find Talib, he realized urgently. Well, they’d sniff me out eventually anyway...

Sim began to creep stealthily back towards the staging ground, hoping Talib would be there by now. He moved as swiftly as he dared, half-crouched and avoiding any crunchy, dry undergrowth, all the while seeking nervously the origin of that stench, hoping it wasn’t too close.

Sooner than he’d hoped, a howl, some distance behind him, sent sparkling, electric spasms up his back and the spry old work-pony broke abruptly into a gallop. He had to put some distance between himself and that horrible, ghoulish song as quickly as possible – for now the pack was summoned, they would follow their quarry’s scent-trail quickly. His only hope was to regroup with Talib and flee or face them together. That is, he thought desperately, assuming they haven’t already found him.

Talib, over on the other side of the staging ground, raised his head sharply at the noise, ears triangulating rapidly in surprise. He’d been unable to find an end to the huge trunks that felt, by now, like one of those monotonous dreams where walking produces no real movement whatsoever. Landmarks for navigation had been hard to discern, but some carefully-memorized irregularities had provided enough orientation. That was all pointless now, however, as his sensitive hearing identified and located the howl of a timberwolf somewhere back towards the staging ground. Automatically, he crouched and froze, remembering his first experience where he and Dawn had received their cutie-marks, and the several close calls over subsequent years. Then he realized.

Sim.

This time, there was no Dawn Flare to somehow save the teacher he cared about. Still not sure what he was doing, Talib started sprinting towards the staging ground. Somewhere along the way, he realized he’d snatched up a stout old branch, gripped hard in his teeth as he ran.

Sim grimaced in pain, backing up against the logging wheel. At least they couldn’t get him from behind, like that. The smallest timberwolf, the one he’d just dealt a solid blow to the teeth, rose groggily to its feet, recovering quickly. Sim used the moment to check the blood flowing from his flank – a claw, a sharp fragment of wood, had connected somewhere near his guts and left painful splinters. Thankfully it seemed shallow, the blow only winding him. Never once did Sim take his gaze off the menacing beast as he braced himself for the next lunge, which would be at his throat.

But the timberwolf didn’t attack. Worse, the menacing beast waited, as its three larger pack-mates approached to surround the old lumberpony. A part of him was still thinking analytically, and marvelled at this co-ordinated, tactical behaviour; abnormal in these half-mindless creatures of animated, dead matter. There could be only one explanation.

Oh, Glade, though Sim, sadly, what have they got you doing now? But the ring of sharpened wooden teeth was tightening around him, and there was no time for such thoughts. He braced his rear hooves against the sturdy frame of the logging wheel, to gain a little extra force when that next lunge came…

Just then a movement behind the timberwolves caught his eye, and Sim watched, amazed, as he saw Talib enter the small clearing of their staging-ground at a dead sprint, a thick, gnarly branch in his mouth. The timberwolves, focused on Sim, didn’t hear Talib coming until it was too late: just as they began to turn in surprise, Talib reared up on his hindquarters for the last couple of steps and swung the branch hard at one of the wolves, connecting with the side of its head and causing it to disintegrate with a moaning, desperate howl that faded into the trees along with the eerie green light that had animated it. Sim took advantage of the confusion and galloped abruptly at the wolf between him and Talib, hooves thundering over the spongy ground. Talib understood and attacked from the other side, keeping the wolf’s attention until Sim barrelled into it from behind, knocking it prone. Talib dove on top of its midsection to immobilise the creature while Sim pitched forward to deliver a blow with his hind hooves, an explosive kick which focused all the power of a hard-working earth pony. The timberwolf flew to pieces, wooden parts clattering and clunking loosely on the soil.

Sim turned back to face the grinning Talib just in time to see a huge yew-wood paw connect with the young colt’s temple, sending him flying. Sim started to run to Talib’s aid but found himself held at bay by the largest timberwolf, whose quiet confidence was infinitely more worrying than the snarling bravado of the smaller specimens. Talib had landed heavily on his side and was weakly trying to stand before the second wolf reached him. He’d lost his staff, and had only his shaky hooves with which to heave himself upright, but he managed it in time to make the approaching wolf pause, assessing the threat instead of diving blindly for the jugular. Sim furiously tried to think of a way to get around the alpha and come to Talib’s aid, but nothing came to mind. He slowly stepped sideways, trying to circle around, but the alpha crept ever closer, watching for a moment of inattention. Out of the corner of his eye, Sim could see Talib using his front hooves to fend off snapping, testing bites from the smaller timberwolf, and even get a couple of solid jabs in. But he was doing no real harm, and whatever adrenaline surge he’d been riding was slowly being overwhelmed by his head wound. The impatient beast finally leapt forward. With a clumsy swiftness clearly born of desperation, Talib dodged to the side and tried to turn for a counter-attack but the timberwolf had grabbed his pannier strap, and used it to drag the quickly-fading young pony to the ground. A heavy forepaw was placed on Talib’s flank as he struggled helplessly, and the wolf tore the pannier off the colt completely, tossing it aside and exposing Talib’s flank and cutie mark. There was no more time. Sim, hoping for the element of surprise, bolted straight at the startled alpha in a desperate attempt to get to Talib. Looking through his immediate opponent to where Talib lay prone, Sim could see that the smaller wolf had a triumphant, blood-crazed look in its emerald eyes as its foul-smelling maw opened wide and closed in on Talib’s neck.