Changelings. Discord's parting gift to Equestria. Encased in stone for the interest and amusement of fillies, his rule had once spanned millennium. His realm was not to be wiped away so easily, even by the Elements of Harmony as wielded by the Princesses Celestia and Luna.
Their power, insurmountable, came to naught against the might of one young Changeling's will. While unnamed, thousands rallied to her side, dark of coat and smouldering of eye. Sheltered in the influence of her hatred of all light and good, Chrysalis found her voice and the aid of a young colt who had fallen in love with her.
Drawing incomparable strength from his devotion, she lead her people to victory on the shores of Gaitswain Lake. An early Equestrian settlement unprepared for a literal swarm of green winged Changelings. Yet, Chrysalis was hesitant to rely on force as her sole means of victory.
She had discovered that many of her kin could imitate the appearance, voice, and manner of 'the Equestrian' enemy. Biding her time, she dispatched those with sufficient talent to acquire allies by deception and other trickery.
Weaken the town and dwindle their numbers, she commanded.
In the autumn chill, the ponies of Gaitswain struggled to store food and hunker down for the harsh cold. Not days before the attack many loved ones had disappeared, softening the resolve of the townsfolk and burning away their morale. Chrysalis ordered the attack.
The sea-side town fell quickly to the unexpected assault, one late day in the middle of September. Swift as a tornado and brutal as a tsunami, all but Chrysalis' own love was ruined, sprawled out on the charred landscape. By morning it was over. Nopony learned of Gaitswain's fall, for visitors could not distinguish a Changeling enemy from ally by appearance alone. Damage to the town was easily blamed on local weather and the foalish stallion who believed he was the portent.
'I'll do it, you can't stop me! I'm gonna press it!'
The charade continued while the Changelings fared the winter with ease, storing reserves and preparing larger conquests. During the warmer months, they bewitched the hearts of more ponies come from afar as tourists and vacationers. Chrysalis rejoiced as her magic increased and the enemy swayed to her whim. Then she made a fatal mistake: She turned her beloved away. His guilty conscience had arisen and he had no desire to be a part of her designs for Equestria.
Betrayed and heartbroken, Grave Livingstone fled to Canterlot. His voice cried warning throughout the city, and Celestia's ear was pricked. She had him brought to her throne room and entertained his every word, for she recognized the spawn of Discord's vengeance. However, evidence had to be provided before she could mobilize her forces and face the consequence of panic spread throughout Equestria.
The peace of the land was not to be broken on the word of a lone, likely unstable, colt. Unfortunately, while Celestia brooded over her next move, the Changelings struck Ponyville. Her response was swift:
'To war.'
Her commands were clear as the midday sky: Under the cover of night, her greatest warriors departed Canterlot with all due haste to fend off the attack. All care was taken to ensure that knowledge of the event was kept to a minimum. A sphere of silence was erected over the battlefield, and a visual barrier to prevent others from becoming involved. Quietly, talented ponies from around Equestria were drafted into the defence force.
Fortunately Ponyville had an ace up its sleeve; the Patriarch of the Apple family. He spotted the incoming Changeling forces and with his family rallied every able bodied colt to defend their home town. If not for this, Ponyville would certainly have been razed to the ground. Then, reinforcements from Canterlot turned the tide and pushed the Changelings beyond the borders of the Everfree Forest.
Fort Shatterhoof was built in the subsequent months shortly after the camps were organized. Its name described the terrible, gritty circumstances in which the fort was constructed and the near ruin of the survivors-become-heros. The Changelings continued to fight, hindered but uninterested in anything less than 'absolute destruction'. Little in those times was understood about Changelings, but if they could not be stopped, then Equestria itself could be consumed.
The irony of the Changeling homelands was that they existed on a solitary island with but a narrow bridge of land for mainland access. While the Changelings could fly, their range was limited. Chrysalis, then crowned Queen of the Changelings, had lost her greatest source of power. To satisfy her pride, she gave Grave the title 'The Living Tombstone' as a callous tribute.
The sheer numbers of the Changelings became their sole threat. Once across the land bridge, they were simply too numerous to repel. The alternative was to barricade them just outside of the Everfree Forest and contain their assaults at the Fort.
As the years wore on, Fort Shatterhoof became Celestia's insurance policy on the peace of her country. Ponyville swore to provide the warriors, and quietly bore the strain of the prolonged conflict and the price it demanded:
Complete silence.
“So t' this day, nary a soul knows 'bout th' Whispered War.”
Doctor John Trotson had never heard such a wild tale. The dual toned, green maned and coated pony grinning at him portraying an unlikely evidence of fact. Of course, the salt they had consumed made everything seem unlikely. Slouched over a table, John lifted his head, squared his shoulders and ordered two tall glasses of water.
Fun's over. How does this 'Whispered War' connect to the threat against Princess Luna? Sun knows I took all this time to find this place, John thought, then gave a great belch. Forelock, what are you thinking, sending me here?
“Aw, that all? Sum kin'a light'oof, 're ya?” grunted John's companion. The basement suite of the Prancing Pony was stuffy and dry, not to mention nearly unoccupied but for five ponies. John shook his head in a vain attempt to clear his mind.
The tink of glass on the thickly lacquered table afforded him an opportunity to replenish vital fluids and lucidity of thought. Gradually an awareness of the time of day piqued his annoyance at having wasted so many tens of minutes on so useless a lead.
Rubbish, Forelock could make sense of this. “I was told you had answers, not tales,” John snorted skeptically. “You've wasted my time. I'll pay the bill and be on my way.”
“Hay, wait. Don't go. Sit,” pleaded the colt. “Forelock's a friend. Made 'im a promise, I did.”
“I'm listening, Glaze. Talk to me,” John replied in measured way that made the colt consider his words. Forelock has many unlikely contacts. As unlikely as that yarn he just spun me.
Glaze scanned the room for ears angled at them. There were none. Two at the table in the far corner appeared immersed in a game of two-hoof rookie, speaking moderately about inane topics such as loans and mortgages. Taking mental note of this, John leaned forward, pressing this pigeon for his feed.
“Either you've got a word for me, or I trot.”
Glaring at the challenge, Glaze's hard expression softened. “I see. 'What ya got' is it? Ears forward, friend. Do y' gander th' enemies of the twins? Not a week goes by wi'out a threat 'gainst summit 'r other up in the 'lot. Se'ret service churns the butter 'n flattens the hay, y'get me?”
“I'm thankful I understand your rough accent,” John muttered miserably. “All right, so what?”
“Tell me ya s'pose they've no wind of 'em. Camon, my coltish. The royal-eh, fillies have 'em all pinned. Dissidents 're eared for corn an' eyed for th' needle.” His slip of 'royal' momentarily attracted unwelcome ears, but following with nonsensical banter cooled any curiosity. The colt took a swig of water to widen the gap. “This 'uns knot on their rope. Got it? They'd no wind, fair or foul. Old anger, right? Old as the whisper.”
Instantly John understood what he suggested. “Your word's not enough. It was a long time ago, if what you're saying is true.”
“Yeh? Vallade's no mystery, no, not by any stretch. He's old'r 'n time. May be 'e's not from 'round 'ere, as folks are like t'say. Known well 'mong circles, 'specially when risky bits 're up 'n th' air,” he grinned, something more serious, almost dangerous. “What risk y' think the twins'll take t'break the silence? Won't let it happen, mark ya that. Mark ya. Risky bits is fair game in anytown. Good business fo' a savvy bloke.”
He is right, and the pieces just fit nicely, but what were the ends to the means? John raised his rear and reached into a pony pocket for some bits. “Thank you. You've been some help.”
“Oh,” chuckled the colt. “That ain' all. Colt-o, 'ave I got a site for your pie-dyed-eyes. A place, mind ya now. A place for a look-see.”
“Right then, we'd better hoof it without delay.”
As John Trotson laid out the bits for the salt and water, following Glaze out of the establishment, he was not surprised to hear the sound of two sets of hooves ending their repast, as well. A tickle along the back of his neck promised lots of excitement ahead. The shoulder sheath for his Sig Sorrel fit snugly under his shooting coat, and he was glad for it.
Glaze travelled casually, minding the midday afternoon sky with enough attention to interest John. They wove quickly through the main thoroughfare of Ponyville to a small cottage on the border of the Everfree Forest. A chill breeze wafted from the intimidating, ageless trees. Glaze chuckled again, that dangerous little noise he'd made back in the Prancing Pony.
Fluttershy lives here, Trotson noted, recognizing from photographs the red abode and the many animal habitats she kept. Glaze was half over a hill before he realized John had stopped following.
“Oy! Camon!” he snapped. “She's not 'ere. What ya figure they're all doin' the night o' the Gala, wit royal invites? What'm I tellin' ya for? You came 'ere from Canterlot, anyhow. Quit yer lollygaggin'.”
No, that's not it. That's not why I stopped, but... he sighed at having his train of thought broken. “A moment, Glaze. Something isn't right here.”
Glaze 'tsked' and scraped impatiently at the dirt. “Those thugs 're not far. Got 'em lost an' you'll be pleased for it. Won't take 'm long t' figure what we're about, will it?”
“They know where we're going?” John wondered.
“They're Vallade's colts. 'Course they know.”
“So they are his thugs. I've a mind to wonder now where you're taking us,” John began cautiously. “But I know you'll not answer that.” What he had noticed sprang to mind: None of Fluttershy's animals are here.
His meandering trail passed through some hedges, as if just to ruffle John's mane, and over a narrow hill into a winding stand of saplings. Inside this was a strange looking door, attached to nothing. No, attached to air by some means he could not perceive, maybe not even understand. The silvery-blue affair had no hinges and stood as though rooted to the earth. Cursory examination revealed that it was not.
It's not thick enough to balance upright, and there are no strings from which it might be hung. Is it magic? John's curiosity was piqued. Glaze's knowledge was proving to be worthwhile.
“Only one way in. We gots t'make ourselfs like we got scared'n gone. Can't get that door t'budge, not with any skill ponies employ,” Glaze provided courteously.
“So that's why you said there are rumours of him not being from here.” John listened for sign of Vallade's colts, but heard nothing. Inky blackness stormed in his guts. Something's wrong. They're not following.
The door opened.
“The 'ell!” Glaze cried, startled.
“The what?” John was interested in his language, which told him much about his character that intelligent conversation did not. What little intelligence there was, at this rate.
“Bell. The 'bell'. Bells of Fort Shatterhoof. Camon. Let's in with us.”
“Ah, of course. You first.”
John peered into the doorway which Glaze entered calmly. Somehow this was not reassuring. John followed, nonetheless. The room was a dome, red lit with black beams connecting at the ceiling providing a sense of structure. In the center was a white circle, to which his eye immediately was drawn. John suppressed a nervous shudder.
“What do you mean by 'bells of Fort Shatterhoof'?” Conversation was the surest measure to stem the unease of the strange environment.
“Chrysalis, 'fore she was Queen, ran up a shroud o' darkness. Clouds like a storm. Couldn't turn hair nor hide t' tell where the Changelings'd 'tack next, yeh? Skill a' hers she figured'd waylay us, waitin' on the fields 'fore her t' hit us.” Glaze was rambling against his own nerves, accent so thick John scarcely understood him. “Then come young'n with a trick, clever stallion. Summit Crier. Yeh. Summit found a bell breaks their control of weather. Who cares how he figured it? General Starshade plunked a big ol' bell up in a tower, had it built so it rang every hour. Called th' bell 'Stormcracker'. Once Chrysalis twigged we got her trick, we eased up, but when y' heard the 'clang clang' y'knew a legion o' Changelin's was on us.”
“You fought? You were there?”
Glaze grinned again, sorrow sheltered in his eyes. “Long time ago, t'was. Nopony carries away memories from th' fightin', John. I'm sorry.”
“What?” John's body tensed, the inky black unfaded in his gut. The threat had not abated.
“Doctor John Trotson. Esteemed ally of Forelock Holmes,” echoed a voice from somewhere in the dark. “Welcome to my home in space.”
“Oh, ponyfeathers,” John breathed.