Legio IX Hispania (19) (Patreon)

Lyra watched from the ground, body shaking with the shock and horror of what she had witnessed. Their attempts at stealth failed before they even began—but Stalwart didn't even care. Maybe we would be safer if he didn't have magic.

The pony muttered something under his breath, cleaning changeling blood from his blade against the grass. He rose a few seconds later, glancing back in Lyra's direction. "You were searching for a way to identify the changelings hidden in the ranks of friendly creatures. I believe this may be the method." 

He paced over to her, lowering a hoof. "The bugs jump at the chance to identify themselves—and die."

She took the offered hoof, weakly. Some small part of her was now afraid to do otherwise. If Stalwart thought she was his enemy, would he kill her as easily? 

"I... don't think that will work very often. This was a trade caravan, the guards were... probably here to keep ponies in line, not to fight."

"True." He laughed as he said it, looming over one of the slain bugs. All the while, ponies watched from the caravan, frozen in place. A few backed away from the road whenever Stalwart took a step further. Others watched with a very different expression, something like hunger. How long had it been since they felt hope?

"They fought like... barbarian slavers. Never expected the one struck to turn against the lash." He released Lyra, moving past each of the dead in turn. He prodded at those with less catastrophic injuries, using his hoof this time.

"When you were fighting..." Lyra whispered. "Not sure if you... noticed. You were..." She tapped up against her horn. "You stopped the crossbow, swung that sword without touching it."

"I suppose I did." He stopped beside the last of the dead, one he'd pierced with their own spear instead of dirtying his sword. "If you're waiting for me to admit I was mistaken in my beliefs, then I admit. This 'magic' you spoke of is clearly... within me, as you said." The sword lifted from his satchel, swinging through the air in front of him.

As it did, a few more ponies retreated from the road, cowering behind their wagons. Yet for each who retreated, there was one who moved closer. Such hunger and desperation Lyra had rarely seen. 

The changeling moaned, clutching at the spear in its chest. "P-please... help," it gasped, reaching in vain for the spear.

Stalwart froze, the sword poised in front of him, frozen in the middle of whatever ritual he'd been performing. 

"Don't kill them," Lyra whimpered, looking away from the fallen. After such swift and brutal slaughter, she knew exactly how the stallion would react. She pressed her ears flat, bracing for the squelch of blood. 

Instead, she felt the stallion shift, moving away from her. "Swear yourself to me," he said, voice low. "You are slave of Rome, until such time as I should free you."

"I..." The bug coughed, spluttered, one wing struggling and failing to move. "I don't... what..."

"Swear!" he said, louder. "Do you want to live or not, son? Oath, now. Give me your name, and your oath."

"I... swear," gasped the little changeling, his voice about as small and pathetic as Lyra had ever heard. "On my name. I am... Thorax. Please, don't... kill."

Finally, Lyra dared crack open one eye to look. Stalwart was on his knees beside the bug, a bug he had stabbed only moments before. Not into anything important, given the changeling was still alive. His sword was back in its sheath, not giving the bug a few fresh holes.

"Your oath is accepted, Thorax. I am... Stalwart Hope. If you live, you will obey me."

The bug nodded, spluttering blue blood from his lips. "As you... say."

"Medicus!" Stalwart stood up, shouting towards the expedition. "Is there a healer among you? Any herbalist or druid?"

At first, nopony reacted at all. Then one stepped forward, an older stallion worn down with lines. "What are you waiting for? Kill him!"

Stalwart ignored him, shouting. "Whatever useful herbs you are carrying, bring them! Or if any of you are healers, please."

None reacted. A few members of the caravan had united into a disorderly gaggle in back, eyeing a few of the carts. If Lyra had to guess, they were going to take what they could and flee. Could she blame them?

"Lyra." It was Stalwart, with urgency in his voice. "Clean cloth, water, and blade. Bring them, please."

She looked over at the bug, then back at him. Unlike the prisoners, she moved, dragging over their travel packs with her mouth and dumping them onto the grass.

It wasn't for her to second-guess his decision. If he thought the delay was worth the risk, then she wouldn't refuse. "Why him?"

He shrugged. "His brothers deserted him. Who would treat his wounds otherwise?"

Lyra saw another side of the strange soldier in the next few hours. His understanding of medicine was at once quite sophisticated, and at the next horrifying. Stalwart removed the spear without causing further damage, he stemmed the bleeding and patched the opening in the changeling's chest with poltice and bandage.

But in the next moment, he muttered about the need to bring someone so serious to the Medicus for a “bleeding,” whatever that meant. 

"I think he lost enough blood," she said, when the grim job was complete, and the creature lay still. Many ponies had left the expedition, looting what they could, or just fleeing back the way they came. A small number returned to their carts and continued on. Others gathered around Stalwart and Lyra, watching them like insects might surround a bright light at night. "He's barely breathing as it is. He needs healing magic."

"Like what you did for me." Stalwart straightened, holding a hoof towards her. "Go ahead. Your results were... effective, barring side effects."

She whimpered, tucking her tail between her legs. "Stalwart, I told you. I used the only magic I had to save you. I don't have anything left." And if I did, I'd save it for when we find Bonnie, she privately added.

"You are... probably right. I know little of ponies and less of changelings, but his breathing is feeble. He has not moved or said a word in hours." He glanced around the circle, raising his voice. "Do any of you wield magic? I require healing for this one, before he passes."

The ponies looked at each other. All shook their heads, or just looked away in shame. It meant the same thing.

"Alright. Lyra, instruct me. Give me the words, and I'll do it."

She choked back a laugh. She couldn't muster any real humor, not with half a dozen dead changelings lying in the grass around them. 

"Levitation isn't like other kinds of magic," she continued. "One comes naturally. Spells take... practice. It can take years to learn new ones. You can't just say the words."

He swore under his breath, one of those expressions that didn't quite translate into her language. Something about the parentage of a particular goddess, though the meaning made less sense the more she tried to think about it. 

"Can I just... give you the magic? Let you heal on my behalf."

She touched up against his neck with hers. Some fear remained, from the way he fought. Stalwart was still a primitive, barbaric thing, one that might be quite dangerous to an Equestria that still ruled itself. But what she didn't see was bloodthirst. 

Maybe this is how they experience compassion, or regret. He is more dangerous than he realizes. "I don't know how magic comes back after being taken. But if there's a spell to do it, you would have to learn that one too."

"And none of you know that either?" he asked, glancing between each watching pony in turn.

Again, there was no response, just confusion.

Finally, the bug moved, tilting sideways to look up at him. "I lost a lot of..." he croaked. "But now I... please..."

Light flashed, and the injured bug changed before their eyes. In an instant, he went from a stallion about her size to something much, much smaller. A little black cat, with pale splotches on his coat almost like holes. He shook off the oversized bandages, then curled up in the grass. 

"Need less... blood, this way," said the cat, in a much smaller voice. Almost the same as the one called Thorax. "Please don't kill me. Takes a long time to heal."

Stalwart watched with the same shock Lyra saw from him whenever they encountered some new magic. "He just... he just..." He glanced to the side. "You're going to tell me he's not a god in disguise, correct? Jupiter is not testing our hospitality. They can all do this?"

"Yes," she agreed. "Just rumors, I've never seen them get so small before. I guess... changelings must have variations in their talents, as ponies do. Maybe he was... their version of a wizard."

The stallion watched for a long time, before turning away from the cat. "Pack our belongings, please. I will search these carts for anything we can use. And all of you..."

"Royal Guard?" somepony asked. A mare, about Lyra's age. "You fought your way here to rescue us? Was Cozy holding you in Manehattan?"

Lyra obeyed the instructions. Thanks to all that fighting, they now had two pairs of real saddlebags to work from, scrubbed free of bug blood. She took the best travel gear from all, consolidating it down into two. She didn't mind doing that kind of work—but it would've been nicer if Stalwart at least asked first.

"I am not," he said. "I am... a traveler, from a far country. My blood is patrician, but not divine. The emperor is no uncle of mine."

It didn't take long to turn an audience of adoring ponies into baffled ones, watching him in complete confusion. Despite what he said, Stalwart wasn't a very good spy.

"But you're here to free us, right?" the same mare said, a little louder, more desperate. "You killed them. How many ponies can fight like that?"

They were running out of daylight. Stalwart paced his way down carts, throwing off the cloth covering each one in turn. 

"I hope you find freedom," he said. By the time he reached the last cart in the row, his little satchel overflowed with various things—food, maybe gold? Lyra couldn't see at that distance. "But I cannot fight to bring you with me now. Is there somewhere you could go? Some safe respite, so you aren't here when the changelings come looking?"

"Hollow Shades," somepony suggested. "There are rebels in there. But those who enter... rarely return."

"Because they're safe. Who would leave?"

Stalwart reached Lyra, then dumped the contents of the bag onto the ground before her. Most of what he gathered was grain of some kind or another, though there was a large, heavy bag of golden bits. 

Lyra eyed it. "What are we supposed to do with that?"

"Bribes," he said. "Put it all in mine, if you're worried about the weight. I will carry it."

"You're not an earth pony," Lyra muttered. But she did as she was told, again. The stallion was stronger, he could take more weight. But she wouldn't put everything heavy into his pack, or he'd be too weak when they had to fight again.

"We would rather come with you," said the young mare, following Stalwart with every step. "We need protection!"

"Not from me," he said, flat and cold. "Go far from this place. Carry what you can, and go." He waved one hoof towards the dead, where they were now gathered in a rough pile. "Remember, there were survivors. The changelings will be coming for me. The safest place for any of you is far away from me."

As he said it, the little black cat stood up, rising onto his paws. He nudged the flap open, then slipped into the saddlebags, and curled up atop the blankets bundled there. The changeling must be too weak to run yet. He wouldn't keep a promise, that wasn't in their nature.

He could only do so much damage with those little claws.

Stalwart hadn't forgotten him either, despite his apparent disinterest in watching the changeling to make sure he couldn't flee. As soon as he had the saddlebags on, he glanced back at the place the little creature was hiding. "Where's the hive?" he asked. "Where your kind live, I mean."

"Aurelia?" asked a tiny voice from within. A head poked out the flap, then pointed with a paw. "It's that way. But a long, long way. We should take a train."

"I have no idea what that is," Stalwart said. "Perhaps I want to keep it that way."