//------------------------------// // Chapter Two: Ut Prosim // Story: In Bello Praesidium // by Jean De Basse - Woolie //------------------------------// "I promise you, it's an almost universal agreement among us...the most jarring thing aside from the obvious magic, mythical beasts, and the general lunacy Equus seemed to contain would have to be the names of places. Those really hit home. It's a really arbitrary thing but, having to maintain your bearing as you're ordered to march to somewhere called 'Ponyville' is an utterly ridiculous request and was impossible to suppress any humor in it. It's a human bias, yes, but places like Manehatten...Stalliongrad...and Saddle Arabia? It took a few good months before any of us were able to suppress at the very least a smile during briefings. Horse puns on places back home? It was laughable! Still, we stopped laughing once we got there and got down to business. You don't see anyone making jokes about Stalliongrad these days do you? And of course, when it comes to naming, it's not like we were any better. The first thing we did when we captured that fort back in the day? Someone decided to name it 'New Stonebridge,' and it stuck. For a species that relied on creativity to survive its evolution and our time here, we're really not gifted when it comes to naming things. Perhaps the reasoning behind it has just been lost to us, but that's history for you." -Interview of Commander Elizabeth Jackson from Twilight Sparkle's "Anthropology: A New Study." CHAPTER TWO: UT PROSIM Victory felt hollow. Strange that the books always described it as hallowed instead; this was meant to be a moment of triumph for Sardonyx. The Saddle Arabian unicorn found himself rather puzzled. Hobbling his lithe form around his spartan quarters before he leaned a bandaged stump against a crude crutch to halt. Levitating the Picatrix to his eyes as he poured himself into its pages for what seemed to be the hundredth time since he’d liberated it from the Sultan's vaults, his focus on the notes distracting him from the phantom pain of his leg. He’d followed the spell’s specifications to the letter, or what he translated the letter to be. Heronglyphs were rather difficult to manage, but he’d spent years studying them alongside the bulls of Mooracco! He knew them perhaps better than the ancient Herons themselves! Even with each detail followed it had ended in failure! He had acquired each ingredient for the casting: roots taken from chaotic Everfree, holy water taken from the shrine of the gods in Saddilina, and the sacrifice of his own hoof! He had seen the display that followed as he completed the summoning circle! Never had he seen such light, as if the sun had been torn open across the night sky. It was a cascading flare that still seemed to cause him to squint even a day after. That damned griffon though... The tribe, those ‘humans’ were going to be his way to deliver true freedom. Knowledge had given him great plenty, and his family’s wealth took him as far as it could to claim a high position in the Sultan's court, but it was all hollow. He had no control: the keys to the grand palace were still held by someone else, somepony weak and corrupted. He couldn't stand to grovel at the 'great' ruler's hooves so that the Sultan might hold onto what meager power he had as so many lived in vast squalor in the cramped cities and desert wasteland. Sardonyx grunted softly as he hung his head low, shutting the ancient book as he floated it back to his desk. For all his effort, for all his work, and at the cost of his limb; he was left empty-hooved. Pausing for a moment, the stallion laughed dryly; “Perhaps this is the price I pay for my pride, no?” The knowledge of the Picatrix was not so easily acquired, and after last night's failure, he felt the spirits of those he damned digging daggers into his back. He had betrayed the sanctity of Saddilina’s holy site to take the water, he had raided an herbalists home in the Everfree to acquire the roots, and it had taken several captives from the surrounding griffon townships before he realized an error in his translation. It had to be his blood and not just anyponys. “It’d be a fitting end to a story, a mad pony failing in his efforts at the peak of his 'triumph.' Born to the desert to await death in the isolation of an abandoned fortress in the North,” said Sardonyx as he felt a wave of nausea overcome him: failure was sickening. “Boss, ya’ know I ain’t the type for no book learnin’, but that sounds like a poor endin’ to the story, ” Hummed out the rough, scarred features of a Diamond Dog as he stuck his snout into the room. The creature offered the stallion a weak smile before he lumbered his towering form through the pony-sized doorway. His arms carrying a small tray adorned with a simple meal, “Doc’ says ya’ got to keep up your strength. Won’t be gettin’ paid good no more if we lose good boss.” “Here I thought you and your compatriots loved me for my charming personality and faith in the cause...thank you Fido. Leave the food on the table, I'll eat it later. Tell Doctor Bones I’ll see him this evening to change the bandage…I do believe that the ending would be ‘poetic’ still; it’s not as if I can return home without that tribe. You and your lot are strong Fido, but they cannot defeat the Sultanate’s Janeighsarries nor hold off a legion of guards-ponies, and if the griffons come in more numbers for-” Sardonyx felt his voice leave him, the stallion suddenly feeling very tired as he leaned against his crutch. Nausea returning to him as he felt his face contort in pain. His face must’ve betrayed him to Fido, the large dog attempting to offer the stallion reassurance as he moved to guide Sardonyx towards his bed. “We got ya’ out in the Everfree against a lot of ponies. We got ya' out here against a lot of griffons. Only thing that change is that it’s cold here and that griffons got feathers. We got the fort. We have time and the means to finish what you start…promise.” The gruff dog felt a bit better as the black-coated pony offered him a small nod as his form slumped weakly onto the bed. Sardonyx was good to him, good to the other mercs in the company too. He had them do some rough things along the way, but that was in the job description. He always paid them on time and didn’t let them go hungry, that deserved admiration. Even with the featherheads tracking them down, they would find a way; they'd complete the job. Excusing himself with a short bow of his head, Fido strode out of the room and left his boss to his rest. Moving out into the courtyard from the small fort's keep, pushing through weakened oak doors barely on their hinges, the haggard mercenary offered an open palm as a panicked looking earth pony galloped towards him. Fido was rather confused. He’d assigned Dirt Hoof to relieve Horns down in the dungeon. “Dirt; what ya’ do back? Ya’ shift end when the moon ri-“ “S-she killed him!” Whimpered out Dirt as he collapsed before Fido, holding the top of his head with his hoof; the sentries on the walls arching their brows slightly as the mixed group turned to watch the commotion. Their voices ranging from whispers of concern to big annoying questions: "Is that Dirt?" "What's his deal?" "Where's Horns?" “Shuddaup! Who kilt who?” Barked out Fido as his eyes grew wide. He grabbed Dirt with his palms, and he lifted the stammering Equestrian up. Dirt had a notorious mean streak: a trail of bodies from Stalliongrad to Appleloosa had cemented a well-earned notoriety, and eventually a place among Sardonyx's band. He was an outcast among outcasts, one of the most brutal of them. He was one of the few Ponies that Fido could trust to handle dirty work, whatever had him whimpering like a pup was enough to bring concern. “S-sh…the Vogel! S-she…Celestia, I don’t know what she did to Horns! But he’s s-smashed up like a broken melon! Broke his arms into some kinda knot and bashed his head to bits! S-she's a psycho, and she’s gone Fido! The griffon escaped!” Dirt bellowed before Fido shoved him back. Fido turned his head up towards their boss’ tower. He caught the movement in the window as Sardonyx recoiled from the commotion; frowning as he moved towards the barracks, Fido found a small comfort that at least he wouldn’t have to break the news to the boss himself. He’d still have to have a nice, long talk with Dirt about ‘inside voices’ once he tracked down the featherhead. Danny Treptow was always proud of his enrollment at the Institute. Proud of his grades, faith, and abilities that had been honed under rigors of the academy’s system. And his appointment to bagpipes within the Band had only improved his outlook this year. Being in the Institute’s Pipe and Drum section was an honor! Wearing the traditional tartan of the section usually filled him with a surge of pride. They started every parade with the shrill call of their music and stood out among the rest of the corps in their unique uniforms of flat-caps and kilts. Standing in formation with the section, snow leaking into his low-quarters, and still reeling from the shock of the jump to the top of a mountain, however, caused his pride to be suddenly quite diminished. Treptow seemed to deflate more as the wind harshly whipped between his knees, and he felt part of his pride shrink again. He cursed at himself quietly, a hand meekly holding his kilt down as a cold brush of air prodded at him, “Didn’t even wear…briefs for this…” A drumstick tapped a bit of powder on Treptow’s shoulder; a friendly face offered him a warm grin as the short, snare player rested an arm atop her drum. “You aren’t usually the one to complain, Danny. Are you finally coming off your highly motivated high-horse to join the rest of us ground pounders? Didn’t expect one of the Chair Force’s finest PT studs to complain about a bit of a chill.” Sergeant Frontiero stood behind him with a rather smug expression plastered on her rounded features. She was always a sight for sore eyes; her banter usually helped him pass the time during the particularly boring parts of the band. There was always a lot of waiting; waiting for step off, waiting for the others to finish tuning, waiting for the final call to step off. Somedays it seemed rather endless. Plus, it wasn't a secret that he thought she was a bit cute. He didn't figure she was into him but, there was something in her smile that made him blush a bit. Chuckling lightly, Treptow flashed Frontiero his usual polite greeting of a middle finger before wiping his nose in a vain attempt to stifle off a growing cold; “Maybe if I had a pair of actual pants I wouldn't be complaining…don’t suppose you got an extra pair tucked away in your drum, Sharron?” “I’m fresh out…I’d offer you mine, Danny; but then again, I’m not so content to give them up so easily,” Sharron finished as she flashed her friend a small grin, her hand tapping the top of her drum in a quick beat as his heart skipped one. Behind them, another cadet let out a fake gagging sound, as if intent on dying of whatever plague he had before he eavesdropped on them anymore. “Christ, y’all two bumped ugly parts yet? You need some make some woolie cuddles...I swear I could smell the hormones all the way back in Delta…surprised you’ve even got the drive right now with that skirt in this cold Danny-boy!” Barked out Corporal Byrd as he approached the two wearing a wide grin, his rifle slung loosely over his shoulder. Treptow offered a sharp slap to his annoying friend's shoulder as he shook his head, ”Screw you, I don't have to take that from some Marine crayon eater..." Turning his head a bit to spit a bit of dip into the snow, Byrd turned towards Frontiero; “Danny-boy, I tell you, the purple ones are the best tasting…but we talk turkey later motivator. Right now I gotta chat up your girl,” Byrd cleared his throat as Sharron offered him a glare that was cold as ice, “Reg staff is in a tiff right now…DuPont is having Delta run messages up and down the battalions to pick up on the slack…plan is we’re going to start moving. Some Echo elves decided they’d run off to take a piss off and look around, turns out when they crested that ridge to our flank they saw some fort in the distance.” Tilting his head down to spit over his shoulder once again, Byrd seemed to quietly thank his lord for having him keep a tin of dip in his cover at all times as Frontiero raised her voice in concern; “A fort? What’s the plan there? Walk up and see if twelve-hundred hungry kids can stay the night?” “Would be the least crazy thing that’s happened today, wouldn’t you say?” deadpanned Byrd as he unslung his rifle presenting the weapon to her, “Look at this junk, none of our M-14s were loaded when we stepped off…now everyone with a rifle has got a fresh magazine locked in with two more jammed in their cartridge box!” Yanking his receiver back a round flew out into the blanket of snow, “And they’ve even got firing pins in them now…only the Color Guard gets issued those, and that’s to fire blanks once a semester! Going up to ask if we can stay the night at some little fort is the least maddening thing that’s going on today.” Blinking as Byrd finished his lecture, the Sergeant crossed her arms a bit as she arched a brow. Gesturing to her drum she shook her head low in amusement, “Yet Band keeps our instruments…” Sligning his rifle, Byrd threw up his arms into the air in defeat to surrender to the wind as he let out an exasperated laugh; “And they keep all of us in full parade dyke! It’s a miracle on ice, locked and loaded, but dressed to give Abraham Lincoln a good tug…sorry 'bout snapping on you like that...just pass along that we’re moving in fifteen…” Shuffling away Byrd once again hocked a bit of spit to his side as he continued up the different companies. “Of course. They get working rifles, I get frostbite, and Byrd still gets his dip...makes so much sense,” said Danny from over Frontiero’s shoulder, the woman holding the arch in her brow as she let out a snort. Flashing him a smile that made him feel at least a little warmer, Sharron tapped his shoulder with her fist. “What’d you expect? We get yanked who-knows-where that still isn’t going to stop that clown from packing a lip. Come help me tell the other sections what’s going down." Sauntering away from him, Danny shook his head as he followed behind her; "Maybe we get lucky and that forts got magic pants?" "I don't know. I think you look pretty good in that skirt...Danny-boy." Three magazines. Twenty rounds each. Sixty individual 7.62-millimeter rounds. His M-14 was capable of firing forty aimed rounds a minute. Cantwell would be able to, in theory, fire all three magazines off within three minutes; given time for reload and controlled aiming. That is if he’d ever fired the rifle extensively before. It had always just been a glorified club to him. Only became a weapon when they attached the bayonet to it for parade or drill. Even then, he had a suspicion the blade and rifle were older than most of his classmates and wouldn't hold up in an actual combat situation. Lost in thought Cantwell sidestepped in the snow and fell into Marshall. Apologizing quickly as he was torn, Cantwell fell back into step behind the now relaxed Corporal who suppressed a short laugh as he spoke over his shoulder, “Sweet marching Cantwell…lost in the sauce?” “No…just lost on top of a mountain somewhere,” murmured Cantwell quietly as the heavy beat of the bass drum sounded off every few moments behind them. Each beat signaled the fall of the Corps' left foot as they marched at a snail’s pace along the plain of the mountain. Nearly stepping on the back of Marshall’s heel once more, John found himself wondering what the point of trying to stay in step was. They were shuffling in a foot of snow down the side of a mountain. A few of them had already rolled their ankles on hidden rocks and were hobbling behind the rest of the formation. The fact that they were in a semblance of a formation was miraculous in itself, the fact only a handful had hurt themselves in the last two hours of marching was even more astounding to him. Aside from their situation as a whole of course. “It’s calming I suppose...” he said as he chuckled in almost a whisper to himself. His head tilted past a curious glance from Marshall to eye the front of the column. The Stars and Stripes were standing tall next to Stonebridge’s banner and the guidons of the other companies, each once bouncing with each step as they trailed ahead. “What...you actually lost in the sauce? Cantwell, do you got a flask on you somewhere? Are you holding out on me?” barked out Marshall with a loud laugh. The Corporal wore a loose grin as he adjusted the rifle slung over his shoulder, “Didn’t figure you were already mixing alcohol and parade…figure you’re still a bit green for taking that upper-class privilege.” The Institute was a lot of things, monotonous was one of them. Cantwell had figured out a long time ago that there were a lot of ways to pass the time: studying, training, and reading were among his favorites when things slowed down. Alcohol was usually top pick among others. Even he reached to it more than he'd admit. “What, no…just wondering about the drums; just seems kinda…superfluous. We’re not exactly discreet here…but maybe it’s just a show for whoever’s in that castle? Maybe it's calming us down?” pausing a bit Cantwell shrugged his shoulders,“I don’t know, sorry.” “Don’t apologize for that…you’re all good, you’re pretty sharp, so I’ll take your word on it. Makes sense they want us to keep calm, and I bet Reg staff wants us to look somewhat professional too. A sea of gray coming over a hill one day right to the front of your door? I’d be scared personally. Considering where we are too…some place all the way out here, not like they get company." said Marshall, taking a moment to push his glasses back up his nose. "You aren’t expecting twelve hundred armed people to show up without warning if you choose to live up on a mountain. Whatever whackjob decides to do that is probably some white-supremacist nut,” said Marshall with a light chuckle, falling back a bit from his spot in the formation to walk alongside Cantwell as their company pressed on. Offering Marshall a sidelong glance, Cantwell relaxed his shoulders a bit as the world seemed to make some sense again. He was here with his friends and if it was a shitty situation he could at least humor them too; “Corporal; if that's the case...we're going to be in trouble if they see you.” Laughing loudly, Marshall cocked his hand up to flip the top of Cantwell’s cover nearly sending it off his head. “Hey, they try to burn this piece of chocolate candy I’m letting them cook your kosher keister too! Some Klansman squatting in a castle isn’t gonna take too fondly to either of us.” “If he sees you that is...it's getting dark out," teased Cantwell as he caught his cover, flashed a broad smile, and brushed a bit of snow from his shoulder. A cruel joke, sure; but Marshall would fire back. He always did. “With your nose, you’ll probably poke their eyes out first.” Rumbled out Marshall as he shook his head, the man taking a moment to awkwardly shuffle over a rock that jutted out of the snow as the platoon began to move down a slope. “…your sister didn’t mind the schnozz too much when I took her to the formal ball, now did she?” Parried Cantwell with a short laugh, he shoved Marshall back up to his spot in the formation once he regained his footing. Marshall made a light ‘oooo’ sound as he reluctantly moved back to the empty spot in the lines. “Coming out with the big guns already? I know when I’m facing the heat; point to you John, point to you.” “Thanks…for that right there I mean, shooting the shit. It helped a lot George,” said John as he settled back into his spot, the man rubbing the back of his neck as he nodded his head at Marshall. “Looked like you needed to shoot the shit a bit anyway, I got your back man…of course, if you’re thanking me for setting you up with my little sister: we're going to have to have words. You haven’t called her back yet," finished George with another laugh. The two friends shared a grin as they lumbered forward with the winding column of cadets. The heavy bass drum was echoing along the rolling hills of the mountains as they pushed a road through the snow. The glint from their brass flicking off the bright sun as it pushed inquisitively through the clouds. The snowstorm slowly vanished as the fort in the distance grew closer with each loud thump of the drums. Aloisia was not a fan of cramped spaces, but her dislike of them was waning as the day progressed. She was taking a different approach than her last attack; as opposed to flying down into the middle of the courtyard to take out everyone at once, she was taking a more nuanced method this time. The narrow, suffocating, wing-scraping hallways and passages of the old fort were, unfortunately, perfect for that. It was more mazelike than she had expected, out of the dungeon one tunnel just lead to another. The more she thought about it, the less surprising it became, the old forts up here were just built on top of each other once one was taken over for centuries. Some of the nooks and crannies she'd been stuffing the bodies were probably from the First Kingdom. And there were plenty of bodies to stuff. It was only half an hour after she managed to escape when she heard the muffled cries of alarm. Then her little labyrinth began flooding with mercenaries. Now they didn't move in groups larger than two; any more than that and they'd just end up stabbing each other with their own weapons. She'll admit, the first time she saw it happen hours ago. It was rather humorous, but they caught on to it rather quick and only traveled in pairs now. She could handle pairs easily enough. "You got it, right? When I said, 'I took her out for some hay and then to the hay'..." roared out a mare's voice in a short laugh. Voices. Another group was coming. Snapping her head back to her work, she dropped the limp body of the mercenary into one of the seemingly empty boxes in the small storeroom and moved to stand against its door. Leaning her head against it, she knelt down to stare through the narrow slit under the door as she watched the pair's shadows pass. "The joke you said was not funny, and it sounds like the whole adventure was a waste of money." said a deeper voice, what she assumed to be a zebra mystic. Unfortunately for her, it was one of the ones that spoke Equestrian oddly. She still hadn't found her gear and only managed to salvage some crude armor from her conquests so it'd have to be quick or she'd end up getting cooked by a fireball. "Whatever man...best twenty bits I ever spent!" replied the mare as they moved further down the corridor. Slowly she began to crack open the door; sliding carefully out into the hall as she lowered herself onto her talons. She kept her sword drawn as she closely tailed them. Her hunch about the male was right. The zebra was holding a staff in his hooves, and the pony carried a crude looking hoof-axe. She could handle the pony easy, but the zebra was going to be tricky; zebra magic was always tricky. Unicorns you just had to break the horn; zebras you had to cut out the tongue. 'CLICK' Swiveling around the two mercenaries stared at her as the door she exited from shut behind her. Immediately regretting her decision not to prop it open she pounced. Shooting up to her hind-legs, her free talon shot out to punch the pony in her snout. The blow sent her reeling back into her friend before the zebra could raise his staff. Aiming her next attack low, her short blade swung to hack a deep gash into one of the pony's legs. The mare let out a sharp scream as she collapsed to her side. The zebra cried out angrily as he swung his staff in a quick strike to Aloisia's side. The attack knocked her against the wall just as the mystic skipped back on his hooves. "You'll find lightning to be very frightening!" chanted out the mystic, his eyes glowing in the dim lighting of the hall before a bolt erupted from his staff. The electrical blast charring the ancient walls of the catacomb as Aloisia threw herself into the other wall to avoid it. She grimaced as she felt the fragments of the stone tear against her back; ripping through the thin patchwork armor barely protecting her. Rolling off the wall as the zebra began to chant again, she dashed towards the wounded pony. Yanking her quickly up by her mane as a makeshift shield as the mystic finished,"Another bolt for a dolt!" The mare let out a wounded cry as the blast seared into her; the charge flowing through her enough to give Aloisia a small shock, making her feathers stand on end. The ugly smell of burning hide filled the tunnel as the zebra stood still, mouth agape with a look of horror etched onto his face. A long pause hung over them, Aloisia breaking it as she tossed the limp corpse of the pony to the ground. In a fluid motion, she picked up the mare's discarded hoof-axe and flung it down the passage, the weapon cracking into the top of the frozen zebra's skull. Standing between the two bodies, Aloisia let out a heavy sigh. She eyed the pony for a moment before quickly turning away, the charred edges of her rib were enough. She didn't need to see the rest. She knew that the mare wasn't getting up again. The zebra wasn't moving anytime soon either, but he might have something useful on him. Sure enough, after a few moments of navigating the few pouches that hung from his side, she managed to find a small bottle of healing salve and an adrenaline draft. Those would be useful later if she ran into more trouble, but she'd been below the fort running around for what felt like hours. Turning to look at the corpses she shook her head. There was no point in hiding them. It was time to make her way out. She must've thinned them out by now. Falling back onto her talons as she slowly began to stalk down the corridors, she could hear a quiet commotion going on overhead. Then it grew louder; a few voices calling out down hall to her, "Stripes! Toothpick! Get back here! They're here! The boss creatures' are here. We need all hands on deck: now!" A feeling of dread washed over her; her failure had been absolute. She must've only moved the summoning point farther away when she damaged the circle; and not even far enough. Maybe though, maybe she could stop them. Take out Sardonyx, the mercenaries, and his creatures before they left. She was a Black-Vogel, her order had faced worse odds in the past. Or she would at least die trying.