//------------------------------// // And in Extremis, Just Plunge in Flailing and Hope For the Best // Story: Wedding March // by Carabas //------------------------------// A group of four hurried through the maze of corridors that made up the lower levels of the palace complex, and while it may not have been the most species-diverse group in Canterlot at that moment, it at least warranted mention in the category. Alloy, the mule servant, had taken point to guide them on. He craned his head down each new twist and turn, checking for any incoming unpleasantness, and paused every so often to mutter to himself and get his bearings. At his back, there trotted Tundra, the ibex servant, who followed Alloy’s lead and kept a wary eye on his back. She’d pulled the head off her broom and brandished it like a quarterstaff in a magical grip. Behind them, Goldtorc kept up a steady pace. In her own magical grip she held her longbow and an arrow, nocked and ready to be drawn and loosed in an eye-blink. At the back, Lyuba loomed over them all like a cantankerous stormcloud. Most of the corridors had been built only just large enough to take her, and those that weren’t found their straight walls being bent convex in her wake. The tight confines soured her mood past its already acidic depths, and her inability to get a sense of place didn’t help matters there either. The corridors they were in didn’t correspond to any maps Pachydermia’s intelligencers had provided to her, and seemed to have only a loose relationship with Euclidean geometry for that matter. No wonder the mule needed to frequently stop and get his bearings. “Where are you taking us?” Lyuba asked at one such stop. “There are lots of exits and entrances to the palace,” Alloy had replied absently, as if away in a daydream. He rapped a forehoof against the floor and looked down two identical forking paths. “Some more discreet than others. The one I’ve got in mind leads out into the gardens. We shouldn’t draw too much attention if we head out there.” He paused, repeated, “Shouldn’t,” and then bustled down the left-hoof fork. The others followed, Lyuba thinking to herself as she did so. Unfortunate, though unsurprising, if Canterlot Palace had levels and structures Pachydermia knew nothing about. The Lord Regent’s own intelligencers were few in number and preoccupied with keeping watchful eyes on the lesser shahs, the Utmost South, and the other Dactylian realms in any case, rather than nosing out secrets overseas. And in any case, there were only so many ways an elephant could discreetly infiltrate the strongholds of outlanders, few of them plausible. Lyuba would have to play intelligencer herself after this was all over and let the Lord Regent know all she’d seen. A fair decision on the servant’s part to take them out somewhere discreet, though. They weren’t as stupid as they looked. Lyuba thought well of her chances against any number of the little skinchanging beasts, but any blatant ruckus could place the Shahanshah in yet more peril, wherever he might be. Still though, the mule’s plan set off Lyuba’s sense of paranoia, well-honed by years among a courtful of bickering and ambitious noble elephants. He could have just been referring to servants’ entrances, but this seemed like something much more confidential. What was he referring to? What business did he have knowing about it? The answer revealed itself in short order as they moved down the fork’s left path, down a spiralling stretch, up yet another superfluous spiralling stretch, and into an empty, windowless room. Empty but for a little enchanted light bobbing about the ceiling, dusty plinths against each wall, and a statue. The latter took pride of place in the room’s centre, a nameless unicorn stallion sporting full pony-armour and the expression of a vulture with a bad smell under its beak. “What is this place?” Goldtorc said, eyeing up the room and letting her bow drop slightly. “Isn’t this a dead-end?” “No,” said Alloy, still in some sort of haze. He shook his head and looked back at the others, his gaze now somewhere closer to present reality. “Ahem. There’s a secret exit here, which leads out to the gardens. It’s not entirely clear how it’s activated, but it’s got something to do with this statue, I know that much.” “How do you know that?” Lyuba asked. Paranoia kicked its spurs in. “I like architecture. Old designs, maps, that sort of thing,” Alloy replied, with a hitch in his reply that would have been all but imperceptible if one hadn’t spent a good few years of their life surviving petty shahs and a good few decades before that surviving the southern steppes. “There’s a few copies of old maps out there of the first designs for the palace, when they were renovating after the Nightmare Wars, and Princess Celestia had a hoof in them. She made … suggestions. Ordered specific alterations.” “Suggestions?” “To quote one of her own notes in the margins of a first draft, ‘It’s not a proper palace until there’s hidden passages and trapdoors and whirly-chute-thingies all over the place’. Translating from Old Equish, of course. Now I’ll see if I can find the lever for this. Tundra, could you lend a hoof? Now then...” Lyuba drew back as the mule and ibex got to searching, tapping and yanking at the statue’s horn, ears, helmet plume, and sundry appendages, with the statue looking as pleased about the attention as it did most everything. She was aware of Goldtorc settling beside her, taking a moment to breathe. Lyuba didn’t settle, instead watching Alloy like a hawk. Either Princess Celestia of Equestria was astonishingly whimsical, headache-inducingly dense, or this servant knew more than he ought to. Secret entrances in and out of one’s palace shouldn’t be known to non-entities like him, and though the princess’s power likely meant she had little to personally fear, she’d surely still exercise some basic sense. Again, excusing whimsicality or density. Assuming neither, why did this one know more than he ought to? Curiosity for the sake of curiosity? Doubtful. Was he close to Celestia’s confidence? Again, doubtful, he didn’t seem that senior a servant. Some professional interest in snooping? Quite a bit more likely. And if she had to guess said profession, with her mind recently on the topic, she’d guess intelligencer. Spy. On behalf of where? Somewhere else in Ungula? None of her concern if so; let outlanders backbite and squabble. For the changelings, this sudden invading force? That was possible, and it lent itself to the prospect that the mule was leading them right into a trap. She kept a level eye on his back as he poked at the statue. She might be wrong. But she might be right. And if she was, she’d have to be ready to reduce him to so much flying pulp. What was the ibex’s game in all this? Lyuba had noticed the gazes she kept sending the mule as they’d travelled, wariness mixed with concern and other emotions she couldn’t readily identify on the odd goat face. Were they in cahoots? Was she planning something as well? Black clouds brewed in her head. Bloody outlanders, constantly keeping her on edge with questions like these. Perfidy and rank untrustworthiness, that was all they practised, as bad as any petty shah. At least some shahs knew their place and fell to their knees before the Shahanshah without having to be hamstrung. Outlanders didn’t even have that as a redeeming trait. This entire trip had been a pointless mistake, and she’d tell the Lord Regent so in no uncertain terms… “You’re keen to get your Shahanshah back, Dame Lyuba,” a soft voice to her side said, and the storm clouds thinned. Lyuba turned to Goldtorc. The cow had a reserved smile trained on Lyuba even as she drew arrows out of her quiver and straightened the fletching, one after the other. Lyuba considered the cow in stony silence for a second. The cow had some degree of quality, and was probably not plotting betrayal. She merited a response. “He is my liege. I will safeguard his person, no matter how many little skinchangers wish to contest the issue.” Another pause. Then, “You are eager to do the same for your own Bullwalda.” “Well of course,” said Goldtorc. “He is my own liege, in turn. And my leal spouse.” “Commendable loyalty, consort,” Lyuba said, slowly, fitting together words she hadn’t previously expected to have to arrange in this manner for an outlander. “I confess you are not entirely what I had expected.” The ghost of a smile flickered across Goldtorc’s features. “A common refrain, or something like that at least,” she replied. “I’m not the customary image of a consort. I am but a thane’s daughter, and most past consorts are the sons and daughters of … better bloodlines, shall we say. Higher stock than mine.” “Hmmph.” Lyuba thought back to the cow’s recounting of how she’d gained her position. And, to give her particular sort of outlanders more credit where it was due, it did seem like a very reasonable way to select royal spouses. Maybe something similar could be arranged for the Shahanshah. “You mixed their better bloodlines with the muck of a tourney ground. That proves quality. And if the high stock resent that, what of it? Your position is secured.” “True,” said Goldtorc. Her smile flickered away, and was replaced with pensiveness. Lyuba kept one eye on the cow and another on the statue under investigation. Alloy, in the throes of mounting consternation, was hunting out more exotic parts of the unicorn stallion to poke, twiddle, and gingerly tweak, while Tundra carefully didn’t look at what he was doing. Her own horns were lit with magic, and she seemed to be subjecting the statue’s face to especial scrutiny. “I confess that it does … it does get lonely, though,” Goldtorc stammered out. Lyuba’s full attention turned the cow’s way. “Hmm?” Goldtorc flushed and then pressed on. “A court half-composed of those you thrashed in a tourney to win the Bullwalda’s hoof in marriage makes for a cold social circle. Duchess Dunhide is worst amongst them.” “Who?” “And I call her enmity unfair. It’s not as if her collarbone and ribs and foreleg didn’t heal. Besides, she came at me with her guisarme first.” Lyuba absorbed this and chose not to pass comment, while Goldtorc studied something in the middle distance. Her voice, when next she spoke, came out increasingly strained. “My kin and old friends are distant now, and are rarely at court. My heifers-in-waiting are warm enough, but a distance between us persists, must persist. My daughter, Buttercup, is the delight of my life, and she grows so swiftly, but duties keep me away from her more often than I’d like. And Greenhorn ...” Lyuba hesitated, slightly stunned in the face of this outpour and wondering what she’d done to receive it (perhaps simply being a large, solid-seeming stranger was enough), as Goldtorc pressed on. “We have done our duty to each other. The succession is secured, and Buttercup shall one day be Bullwalda. But past that, he is kept busy by affairs of the realm. He works hard, and is conscientious to a fault, and … and I have seen how he worries. But … I suspect I would not have been his first choice, had he been able to choose. And whenever he has some time to himself and is in need of comfort, he goes to the Royal Concubine, Steel Thews, rather than I.” Goldtorc swallowed. “Steel Thews is the very soul of decency and unfailingly kind to me, of course. I shall not hear a word said against him. And comfort is the traditional duty of his office, after all. It’s merely … I wish there was more to things than he and my family. I wish I was better suited to my position as Consort.” Her voice fell low. “I could very much use a friend.” Lyuba floundered for a moment, uncomfortable with any social situation that couldn’t be resolved with forthright bellowing. Was she meant to impart sage-like advice to the younger cow? Offer clear direction, or mere platitudes? As she floundered, Goldtorc flushed again. “Apologies, Dame Lyuba,” she muttered. “I shouldn’t have prattled at you. It’s just that you seemed like a friendly ear. Or at least, a non-judgemental one.” She should say something. Sympathy was a good jumping-off point, wasn’t it? “I do understand something of the difficulties of marriage, Consort Goldtorc,” Lyuba found herself saying, somewhat stiffly. She hesitated, and then elaborated. “I myself have kidnapped no less than three husbands.” A echoing hush prevailed before Alloy and Tundra hesitantly resumed harassing the statue. “Oh,” said Goldtorc eventually. And then, “Well.” A moment more of silence, and then at last, in tones that exuded scandalised and eager curiosity, “So how exactly does that work…?” “These days among the mammoth clans, it is all by prior arrangement,” said Lyuba, internally delighted at the chance to grumble about something unrelated to current events and to indulge the Consort. “One must consult with one’s own clan chieftain and the chieftain of the kidnappee’s clan to be sure an entanglement shan’t cause strife. Then one must consult with the kidnappee and their kinfolk, so all may be assured they’ll be kidnapped into the manner to which they’ve become accustomed. Then one must sort out a suitable place and time for the deed, and make sure they can pack their bags for then. It would hardly do to have to rush up and throw them over your wither, and then rush all the way back to collect their belongings. And then there’s the ceremonial counter-raid to arrange, and it’s incumbent on the kidnapper to furnish all participants on either side with blunted weapons and magical fireworks and fermented spirits. I have the status and wealth to support many husbands, but frankly, I have never had the patience to go through the whole rigmarole more than thrice.” Goldtorc absorbed this. “...And when you say thrice, pardon my confusion, am I to understand a high mortality rate amongst your husbands, or …?” “What? No, no. My first husband, Yukagir, lives back in our clan steading and manages it, and Zhenya and Dima reside in the capital with me. I would have taken them all with me, but Yukagir would be miserable living away from home and among the northerners, I know.” “I see.” Goldtorc appeared deep in thought, as if considering her run-up at a delicate topic. “And … er, dare I ask, has the Shahanshah been betrothed to a kidnapee, or been pledged to be kidnapped, or …?” “No. The northerners — the forest and brush elephants — do things differently. Their idea of marriage comes closer to this Equestrian rigmarole.” Lyuba gestured expansively and dismissively round at the palace. “A strange way to do things, I think. What’s proved? What’s represented? Frankly, Consort, I’d sooner arrange your sort of marriage-tourney for him. That seems it would guarantee him a worthy spouse, though I suspect the Lord Regent wouldn’t concur.” “Understandable.” A smile crept onto Goldtorc’s features once more. “Between us, Dame, I wouldn’t object to just being called Goldtorc. Would you object to just ‘Lyuba’?” Lyuba considered this, and found she didn’t object much. “As you like, Co — Goldtorc.” That settled the conversation momentarily. Ahead, progress and interesting motion seemed to be happening by the statue, and Lyuba glanced back towards it. “If you don’t mind my asking, Lyuba,” Goldtorc said suddenly, drawing the mammoth’s attention back to her once again, “how does a clan mammoth enter the service of Pachydermia’s Lord Regent?” “Ah.” Lyuba relaxed and prepared to exercise dusty storytelling muscles. “There’s a long and twisting saga. If you’ve the patience for it, it all begins when —” “Got it!” The exclamation, as well as a sudden grinding noise, made both Lyuba and Goldtorc spin their heads round to face the statue and the efforts of Alloy and Tundra. The former was already rushing round to where the latter stood at the statue’s front, a pen in her mouth. The statue itself sported a dashing new ink moustache and monocle, gold-hued magic glittering about it. A stone section of wall at the back of the room was already slowly rising, the same magic radiating from it. Alloy galloped over, marvelling bewilderment flush on his features. “How on earth—” “We were trained to scrutinise back in Bellbylon. I thought there was something about his face, some subtle enchantment, and I was trying to make out the shape of it,” Tundra replied. Her voice practically bubbled forth, pleased with herself and excited as she plainly was, and she gesticulated with the pen. “And when I got a sense of it, I remembered what you said about Princess Celestia ordering a lot of these designs herself. And, well … I haven’t known the princess too long, but I wondered what sort of solution she might personally prefer for this sort of puzzle, and then everything clicked.” Alloy exclaimed delightedly, Goldtorc beamed, and Lyuba looked down upon them all, glancing at the scribbled-on statue before focusing on Alloy. She awarded him a stay of execution. Maybe Celestia was just that whimsical after all. “Depths, you’re brilliant!” enthused Alloy, wrapping his forelegs around Tundra in a brief hug. He whirled on the gradually-opening exit, leaving her flushed and grinning. “Right. Right, I know where this leads. Single file behind me, and stay close. The gardens are easy to get lost in. Some of the bushes will purposefully try to get you lost if you let them. And the new wandering pine saplings are still a bit skittish, so we’ll have to keep our distance if we don’t want to cause a ruckus.” Tundra nodded, still flushed even as she picked up her broom-handle and tried to suppress her smile. Goldtorc raised her bow and nodded in turn. “Lead the way. We shall follow. Apologies, Lyuba. Shall we finish our conversation after we’ve finished rescuing?” “By all means, C — Goldtorc.” The opening creaked open far enough that Alloy dipped his head under and wriggled into the open, muttering something about checking the area. The taller Goldtorc took up position just behind him, her bow ready, her eyes briefly closing, her breathing steadying. Tundra hovered just behind her, twirling her makeshift quarterstaff. Lyuba lumbered towards the back of the column, taking a moment to steady herself. One moment of calm before the garden, and whatever storm might lie beyond. One moment before she got back to the business of retrieving the Shahanshah. She breathed in the freshening air, and her gaze drifted down towards Tundra. The ibex kept twirling her staff, her gaze on the opening door. A bitten lower lip and a rapt stare betrayed some anxiety, and Lyuba could hardly blame her, considering what lay ahead... But no. Not just that, she realised, as who exactly was outside the entryway at that moment came up in Lyuba’s memory. She reflected on how Tundra had been regarding Alloy earlier. Belatedly, she realised what sentiments and emotions might have lurked under the ibex’s looks towards the mule. And though Lyuba could certainly query her taste, she could at least understand the emotion. After all, once upon a time, she’d been a young and reserved mammoth, as young as the ibex. And she remembered struggling to pluck up the courage to ask Yukagir if he wouldn’t mind being stunned, thrown over her wither, and taken for a nice, scenic haul along the riverside. Outlanders who proved their worth ought to receive some sort of reward and encouragement, and Lyuba knew what might help Tundra. Sage-like advice. “Heed me,” rumbled Lyuba, leaning down and whispering with all the delicacy of an avalanche. A strangled yelp escaped Tundra before she turned and calmed down. “I, ah, what is it, ma’am?” “Once this matter is done, be bold in your affections. Make your interest plain. Stride up to him with all the self-confidence you can muster, look him in the eye, and and ask him if you could heave him up and over your wither.” Tundra goggled, which Lyuba took as rapt attention. “He may insist on being stunned first. Somewhat old-fashioned, even when I was young, but bring a sap just in case. Make it a nice sap. Embroider it. Even if you don’t have to use it, he’ll appreciate the effort put in.” “...what?” squeaked Tundra. “When you run off with him, be sure to have arranged in advance where you take him to. Have a warm meal ready in your quarters and take him there. Alternatively, if there’s a scenic spot nearby where you can take him for a walk, then —” “Lyuba,” murmured Goldtorc, turning her head to speak from Tundra’s other side. “I’m not altogether sure that sort of courtship will work for them.” “Goldtorc, fain let me finish talking to her,” Lyuba said sternly. “I’m trying to impart advice and proper customs. She’s earned it.” “If you want my advice, Tundra, though I confess it doesn’t come from great personal experience,” Goldtorc said, pressing on, “show your interest by singing outside his window one evening. If that entices him and you begin a courtship, enquire whether he has any sworn foes you can duel.” “He might not have a sworn foe —” Lyuba objected. “Or beg a quest of him, and both take and return with his favour.” Goldtorc bestowed a reassuring smile on Tundra. “It worked for my own parents. My own father was a mere knight-errant, my mother was a thane, and he was given a quest by her and saw it through to completion. All he lost in the effort was an eye, and valour and true love were more than proven. Perhaps you could try something similar?” Tundra looked from one to the other, made a noise like she was trying to regurgitate a yak, and only stopped when Alloy’s head appeared under the rising entryway. “Coast’s clear,” he said, and frowned. “Have I missed something?” “No! No, nothing at all. Excuse me, ma’ams.” Tundra hurried for the entryway, her pace stiff and brisk and her features crimson, and moved past the confused Alloy into the green outdoors. Lyuba and Goldtorc took a moment to exchange looks. “I was trying to impart advice,” Lyuba said reproachfully. “Advice that could get her into some trouble.” Goldtorc shook her head. “A courtly approach might have been of more use. At least she received a few friendly words, though. With a little boldness, she’ll find a way that works for her.” She gestured to the entryway. “Shall we?” Lyuba nodded, and the two of them lumbered out into buzzing, rustling, flower-strewn green vastness. The trees towered high in this part of the gardens, and the distant sounds of battle were muffled. Lyuba strove to focus on them, and to put the recent kerfuffle from mind. At least she’d tried to impart the sage-like advice. They may not have been all as bad as she’d pegged them, the outlanders. But goodness knows how they even lived without mammoth sense plowing right to the heart of things. As Charity came scything down like the parting meteor from a particularly fed-up Creator, Burro found his life flashing before his eyes. Possibly his subconscious wanted to review the chain of terrible decisions that had led to this. Possibly it wanted to focus on anything other than its own oncoming annihilation. He’d gotten as far as the time he was almost pulled limb-from-limb by a zombie mob down in the Asinial Main (which itself came with its own nested and significantly shorter life-flashing), when salvation came in kicking. Simoom all but bowled over Gellert and the changeling as he propelled himself free of the scrum, his expression serene and detached and his eyes hard. His long legs tensed, crouched, and then one impossibly smooth and fast movement later, he had leapt right up through the air towards her. She tore right down at him, talons spread and beak agape and spitting flame. The blur that was Simoom did something impossibly dextrous, seeming finding purchase on empty air as he twisted aside from her and tried to snake a long leg around her. Charity screeched indignantly as she flew free with millimetres to spare, and sharply turned mid-air to aim for Simoom once again. The stallion landed on the grass with a gymnast’s grace, nigh-instantly recovered, and pivoted to face her, braced and ready to pounce up again. But with one hard flap of her wings, Charity arrested her descent and hovered for a moment, just up and out of jumping distance. Her red eyes glittered down at Simoom, her wings spread wide, and her beak cracked open like a door to Tartarus. And from her gullet, a torrent of flame came cascading out. Burro wheezed the alarm, too little, too late, as Simoom’s eyes widened and the stallion made to jump aside. But as the whole world creaked forwards in horrible slow-motion for Burro, the old jack knew Simoom wouldn’t be able to move fast enough. Something flashed yellow at one side, but he barely had eyes for it, transfixed with horror as he was. The fire tore down, flashed and flared in all directions suddenly, and dazzled Burro for a moment. His vision cleared, and to his shock, he saw Simoom still very much alive and uncharred on the grass. Between him and Charity, a new avian hovered. Burro recognised the sleek shape of Celestia’s phoenix, Philomena. Scraps of Charity’s fire petered harmlessly against her wings, and one dismissive flap dispersed them for good. Burro laughed with delighted relief. Simoom did likewise. Charity keened, the tone of it mixed parts indignation and delight at having a new thing to kill. And Philomena, inasmuch as avian facial muscles permitted it, smirked. Charity tore down the second after and Philomena rose to meet her, trailing fire as they snapped at and whirled around one another. Philomena swept free in an elegant arc along the side of the palace wall, and Charity lunged after her. Flames whorled and billowed in their wake, spiralling up into the sky as they battled. Burro peeled his eyes away from them, and with utmost effort, groggily propped himself up off the ground with one forehoof. He blinked to either side, to either tumult awaiting his attention. To his right, half-shadowed by the garden trees and past the pile of gardening equipment cleared out by the changelings, the faux-Sailears and the guardspony fought a furious duel. ‘Fought’ was a kind descriptor; it seemed to largely consist of Sailears snarling and lashing out again and again with seething slashes of acid-green magic, while the guardspony mewled and tried to deflect the magical onslaught away from himself and the children at his back. Said children, the fillies and dragon whelp and the actual Sailears, huddled behind the guardspony and watched with wide eyes. Every so often, they offered the odd bit of advice as well. “That’s right, get him! Get the fake me! My uncle says impersonating royalty’s a death sentence!” “Jump in there! Kick ‘em somewhere vital!” “Aaaaiiieeee!” “Yeah, Sir Wall! A good, martial war-cry! Try another!” “Stop putting off the inevitable and just die screaming, you runt!” Burro’s gaze turned left, over the gradually stirring form of the Bullwalda. Greenhorn’s eyes fluttered open and focused on nothing in particular. Great steel-shod hooves twitched and clawed at the grass. At the bull’s side, Burro noticed Fairy Floss as well, and guessed she’d slipped over in the confusion. She seemed to be doing her best to stay close and unobtrusive against the wall while stretching out one leg to insistently prod Greenhorn awake. Their gazes met briefly. Burro blinked befuddledly. She mouthed something heartfelt and profane, and then returned to her task. And to his left, Gellert had taken advantage of the window of opportunity afforded by Philomena and Charity’s distraction to finally batter the changeling flat with the Crown. He stood panting while the Crown swore at him and Simoom rushed up to see if any more help was needed. Gellert turned to where Burro lay, and grinned a weary grin before he turned to face the expanse of the green. At the far end, the changeling horde that had previously been deterred by Charity were giving the would-be escapees a lot more attention. Some wary gazes drifted skywards whenever especially fiery conflagrations erupted here and there, but before long, a authoritative hiss rang out. Slowly, cautiously, but with growing speed and purpose, the changelings advanced. Gellert eyed them, and then glanced back round towards Burro. His grip on the Crown tightened. He clapped his free claw on Simoom’s wither. “Viceroy, I’m about to do something incredibly clever.” “Rank bull-leavings!” hissed Burro, straining to make himself heard over the scream and clash of magic just to his right. He tottered upwards until he’d propped himself up on both forehooves. “You’re too bloody decrepit to be a hero! Just fly free!” “When I do said incredibly clever thing, regardless of the naysayers, tack left, Viceroy. Jump in and wrangle as best you can. They don’t seem quite as dangerous as your falcon, so you should have an easy time of it. With me?” “I, er, yes, chieftain.” Simoom swallowed and inspected the oncoming swarm. “Er, what are you doing?” “Me and the Crown’ll be doing something incredibly clever, as stated. What do you say?” Gellert waggled the Crown, now well-spattered with changeling ichor. “Into the very mouth of Tartarus, wherein death and/or glory await, and where only the brave live forever?” “NO. PUT ME DOWN.” “Can’t hear you! Tally-ho!” And with one rattling battle-caw, Gellert flapped up and towards the oncoming swarm, no matter how much yelling Burro and the Crown pitched in to try and dissuade him. Simoom yelped and shuffled left as bidden, tensing as he prepared to jump out hooves-swinging. Burro fought his way to standing, the sight of his old friend charging alone at a changeling horde enough to inspire one great burst of furious and futile action. Magic fire thundered and flashed to his right, and the skies burned, but he blotted them out. His whole world boiled down to that increasingly-distant sight. He’d grab something sturdy and sharp from the pile of tools, he’d join in, he had to — “Any last words to echo down the ages, Crown?” he heard Gellert call as the distance between him and the swarm shortened even further. “Choke on your own last words, you demented buzzard! I hope every last one of them hurts you somewhere novel! But before that happy moment comes, kindly let me go!” “With gusto!” said Gellert. He flapped hard, drawing himself to a sharp stop mid-air, bent his arm back to one side, and then lobbed the Capricious Crown like a discus right at the nose of the foremost changeling. The changeling flew back with a squeal and a visceral crunch, crashing amidst the changelings just to their back while the Crown fell to the ground. Chaos reigned momentarily in the changeling ranks, and in that moment, Gellert wheeled around and flew for the side of the palace that faced the green. Right for the gift-table. Another eruption from high above drew Burro’s attention for a second, and he looked up, and balked as he realised how the fight between Charity and Philomena had gone. The former had the latter pinned against the palace roof with a talon, holding the phoenix in place no matter how she flapped and struggled. Charity’s beak blurred down. Thin ash trickled off the edge of the roof. Burro opened his mouth to scream, to swear, both at once, why not, when he realised the ash was coalescing even as it fell. It took shape, flashed white-hot, and in the blink of an eye, a reformed and very-much alive Philomena flew back up towards Charity. The pyrefalcon boggled, seemingly paralysed with outrage. Hitherto, Burro hadn’t suspected that phoenixes could snicker. Battle erupted in the skies again between the two firebirds as an unrelentingly murderous force met an unkillable object. Below them, right at the base of the palace’s wall, as Burro let his breath out and his gaze drop with pure relief, other stricken entities were stirring to life. Fairy Floss’ prodding had paid off. Greenhorn had found his hooves, recovered his bearings, and now rose with all the stately unstoppability of a mountain range. He blinked this way and that, as if trying and failing to make sense of things. He looked briefly towards the green and the chaos of changelings there. Burro glanced that way as well, hunting for any sight of Gellert. He found him, perched atop the gift table, shredding the wrapping paper off something. That something revealed itself as the last of the paper fell away and Gellert flourished it. The lucky tribal sabre gleamed like a sliver of moonlight in his claw, and he sported a lean, wolfish grin. The nearest changelings already seemed to be having second thoughts, and drew back into careful ranks, concussive magic gathering about their horns. A first volley spat forth, and Gellert sprang right over the spitting torrent of green to come down on the changelings like a dervish. Screams and clangs and caws rang forth from that side of the field. At the other side, Simoom had loped in as well, long legs kicking out at any changeling that presented itself. There seemed to be something of the traditional Saddle Arabian beast-wrangling techniques to his motions, and although the changelings had a few less legs and mandibles and were considerably smaller than the traditional targets of such techniques, they still mapped on approximately well. Simoom drove forwards like a faintly bewildered whirlwind, several concussed changelings littering the ground at his back. Burro watched the two plough on, faintly impressed by Simoom’s showing, and relieved beyond words by Gellert keeping his form up. And the changelings were still holding back as well. They must have been ordered to keep beings alive, for the sake of the hive’s larder, and to keep the world-leaders alive in particular. Chrysalis’ orders didn’t seem like the sort of thing her underlings made a habit of second-guessing. But they were still just two against a great weight of numbers, and once the changelings regrouped and descended on them with concerted force, it’d all be over. He could still grab a trowel or a shovel or something and wade in, do what little he could … But before he could append anything to those trailing ellipsis, the flash-crack of teleportation blazed amidst the swarm, and out from its heart, there erupted Greenhorn. A shovel blurred in his grasp, presumably scooped up from the pile, and hewed about on all sides in controlled motions that were all but too fast for Burro’s eye to track. All discombobulation had vanished from the Bullwalda’s countenance; his eyes shone like fire reflected in steel. The surprised changelings reeled back from the armour-clad demon in their midst, trying to gain distance and a vantage point. But just as quickly, Greenhorn once again teleported right behind a pack of them, and their yelps of surprise were cut off in blisteringly short order. One armoured changeling lunged at Greenhorn, perhaps scorning his weapon, and learned all too late that when thrust forth at meteoric speed, the distinction between a longsword and a shovel is purely a class one. The changeling toppled to the ground, taking the splintered shovel with him, and Greenhorn wheeled on the rest of the swarm. He let loose a sky-rattling bellow that owed less to the chivalrous declamations of classical Bovish knighthood and rather more to the primeval lowing of whatever Bovish kings had hacked out their first kingdoms with bronze and spite, and he tore forwards, horns levelled. Battle was thoroughly joined. It was the custom in Asinia, even those most sympathetic and diplomatic parts of it, to regard Bovaland and the Bovish with something between condescension and pity. What other sort of reaction could there be to the little, landlocked, backwards place that still thought a suitably long family tree made a good substitute for actual merit, and that had a ruling class more inclined to maul quintains than crack open an economics textbook? Burro himself had never been immune to that thought either, but he resolved to clamp down on it the next time it arose. Not only because he’d rather swallow live hornets than crack open a textbook himself, but because all that quintain-mauling was suddenly coming in useful. Greenhorn was proving quite capable of handling threats when said threats weren’t a chaos god or an alicorn-felling horror. And so, things in check on his left for now, Burro looked to where he could do a sliver more good. To his right, where the guardspony wasn’t having a fun time of it at all. The faux-Sailears circled him like a stalking tiger. He tottered on his hooves, breathless and whimpering, his horn smoking with effort, and it was all he could do to keep standing between the faux-Sailears and the children at his back. “Bored now, runt,” snarled Sailears, and a last hammer-blow of magic smashed into the guardspony’s legs and knocked him to the ground. He sprawled there and gasped, helpless to do anything other than look upwards in mute desperation when Sailears loomed over him, tusks glistening with magic. One foot rose over the guardspony’s face. “You leave him be!” The faux-Sailears looked up, and just past the stricken guardspony, fresh champions presented themselves. The earth pony filly and dragon whelp were at the front, poised and angry and ready to come out kicking or scratching, respectively. To their sides, the little pegasus clawed the grass with a hoof, her wing-feathers fluffed with fury, while the unicorn filly furiously coaxed a few sparks from the tip of her horn. Actual-Sailears loomed behind them all, doing his best Dame Lyuba impersonation. “Get off him, you … you bully!” “Don’t you touch a hair of Sir Wall’s hide!” “He’s been a good servant, leave him alone! And that’s my face! Stop wearing it!” demanded the real Sailears. Faux-Sailears regarded them, slowly baring his teeth in a sadistic smirk. Magic built around his tusks. “Eeny,” he purred, pointing at one of them with his trunk, and then moving onto the next in line. “Meeny, miny —” Cue Burro. The old jack lurched forward, gaze intent on the back of the faux-Sailear’s head. He swept by the tool pile and, without looking, dipped one forehoof to where he guessed a sturdy-looking trowel with a socket grip to be perched. Speed was of the essence, and he moved faster than he’d perhaps ever done in all of the last two decades. Faux-Sailears barely had time to glance round before Burro was on him, smacking his forehoof and its contents right across his face. Faux-Sailears recoiled with a curse, but not in quite so terminal a manner as Burro had hoped for, and he inspected the contents of his forehoof with dismay. What he had hoped to be a meaty trowel was instead a hefty and now somewhat-flattened can of insect repellant. The can hissed reproachfully at him, and with a hearty Asiniol profanity of his own, Burro lobbed it right at Faux-Sailears’ forehead. It connected, eliciting a firm clunk and another curse, and Burro wheeled on the children. “Into the shed, this instant!” he snapped with the same degree of authority he brought to bear on truculent cabinet secretaries, and it was just about enough. They backed off into the shed, a hint of respectful awe in their eyes, and that left him alone with the enraged changeling. This was probably a good thing. He turned back on the tool pile and grabbed down at it, sifting past a novelty duck-shaped leaf-blower, a trimmer and harness that looked like it had been built during Equestria’s industrial revolution with the express intention of inducing hernias in its bearers, a coiled length of hosepipe. “Come on, come on,” he muttered to himself. “I know I saw something capable of ruining a being’s day —” A rising snarl at his back told him how little time he had left to find that something, and he slipped his hoof quickly into the first socket grip he found and whirled around on the faux-Sailears. For a moment, his eyes drifted shut as all the old fencing tricks and stances drifted up from the depths of memory like old friends. You bent your knees and lowered your stance like so. You fully extended your forelimb holding the blade thus. You moved your limbs on the ground into the triangular Espada Ropera stance, to provide both solidity and ease of hoofwork. And finally, you opened your eyes … ...at which point, Burro found himself brandishing a foal-sized pink watering can spangled over with sequins, the spout of which was at least held up in a proper ward to menace the changeling’s face. Faux-Sailears, alas, didn’t look especially intimidated. His eyes burned green. His tusks seethed with magic. His new bruise was livid. Oft-times, Burro hated his life, and as he shifted his mad-eyed staring between the angry changeling and his weapon, this was one of these times. With a yowl of purest frustration, he thrust forward with a fury and panache no mere cool and collected skill could have ever matched, and the changeling leapt aside to avoid the blow by mere inches. Burro flailed round to swat him regardless, wildly overextending. The magic about the changeling’s tusks lunged forwards and grasped at Burro’s collar, pulling him forwards and down. Burro crashed to the ground, a sensation which was fast losing its novelty value, and scrabbled frantically to right himself. His joints protested their ongoing shabby treatment. The strength and vigour he remembered once having in these sorts of fights, such as it had been, seemed to be somewhat diminished. There were reasons seventy-year-olds weren’t commonly associated with pitched brawls, he reminded himself. What dark forces was Gellert in cahoots with? Faux-Sailears’ trunk lashed down and cracked across Burro’s jaw. He yelped at the pain and coughed, the taste of pennies filling his mouth, and he looked up to see the changeling poised above him, ready to bring his trunk down again. To the Depths with decent form, then. Burro adopted the first and only principle of every fighter in a bind; namely, jettison all principles. He bit up at Faux-Sailears’ nearest ear and champed down. The changeling squawked, and Burro lost no time in lashing up from his prone position with the watering can and battering him about the head, aiming for his eyes, ears, throat, anything unsporting to aim at. The high of pitched combat filled his mind, made him briefly drunk. Depths and tides, he might well just win this ... With one pained wrench, Faux-Sailears tore himself free and sprang back from Burro. Burro lurched awkwardly forwards, taken off guard, before he felt the tingle of magic closing around his collar again. He looked up, saw a descending trunk, and then saw stars. The world wheeled around him, and he had just about realised what had happened when the trunk walloped across his head again. And again. And again, for good measure. And as he found himself pulled up by his collar, the world pained and muffled and sparkly all at once, he could just about make out the blurry shape of Sailears, several bruises on his face and an ichor-weeping wound on his ear. He looked displeased. His trunk curled around again. Behind him, someone who Burro had discounted from proceedings since she’d roused Greenhorn. Fairy Floss. A bottle in her mouth. Was that her crimpnac from the gift table? She must have been able to slip out there in all the chaos without being disturbed. Unassuming-looking old ewes who couldn’t possibly hurt a fly were capable of that. Anyjack’s guess as to why, though. Fairy Floss dashed the bottle’s base down against a solid-looking trimmer edge, and as a small fortune gushed out onto the grass, she stepped forward primly, and spun her head to plant the newly-made business end right behind Faux-Sailears’ front legs. The changeling started, his eyes bulging briefly as he turned on his assassin, before he crumpled to the grass with a look of surprised indignation frozen on his features. Burro, even past his current beating-induced lightheadedness, goggled at the Tyrant with no little shock. From the shed, there came a shuffling noise, and he redirected his goggle to find the actual and once-more-unique Sailears craning his head to observe the outcome. Burro was just about to yell him back inside before the Shahanshah saw his fallen double, quizzically frowned, and then beamed delightedly and announced, “Hurrah! Summary justice!” He paused. “Has he learned the error of his ways? Ask him if he’s learned the error of his ways.” “What’s happened? Shift a bit. We wanna see,” complained an unseen filly. “Stay inside!” snapped Burro, dredging up whatever gravitas he had left. A royal education in Pachydermia might warp a being beyond some conventional traumas, but still. And once he’d seen he was obeyed and the shed door swing shut, he turned back round to Fairy Floss. The ewe closed her eyes, dropped the bottle, tapped her hoof on it where it lay, and exhaled before opening her eyes again. “Haven’t had to get hooves-on in goodness-knows-since-when,” she muttered to herself before meeting Burro’s gaze. “When I said I was more of a lover than a fighter during my glory years, I’d argue that ‘fighter’ is a term with fairly rigid connotat—” It was then than a great rustling came from the greenery leading deeper into the garden, as if something large was headed their way. Burro and Fairy Floss turned on it, just as Dame Lyuba came ploughing out of the foliage. At her side trotted Greenhorn’s consort, a longbow in her grasp. Behind her in turn, an ibex and mule in the garb of palace staff. All of them stopped and took a moment to inspect the chaos on the green and immediately to their front. Regrettably, it was Lyuba who finished inspecting first. Her gaze turned down towards Fairy Floss. It dipped a little more to take in the fallen form next to her. Her gaze rose again. Any and all analogies involving storm clouds or other oncoming calamities wouldn’t do it justice. “Ah,” said Fairy Floss quickly, as her joined-up thinking reached its conclusion a half-second before Burro’s. A slight edge had entered her voice. “Ah, well. You can trust, especially in this context of all contexts, that thi—this isn’t what it looks like —” A volcanic bellow erupted from Lyuba, loud enough to make Burro’s ear drums melt and low enough to shake the earth underhoof; an outpouring of horror and wrath from some aeon before words. Black magic wreathed about her tusks in less time than it took to blink, spitting and uncoiling and glowing with a ghastly unlight. She stormed forwards, trunk raised. Fairy Floss stood frozen, her eyes wide behind her pince-nez, mouth creaking open to attempt elaboration. The situation was abruptly salvaged, as so many situations in Burro’s life were, by Gellert rocketing in from one side. Burro got only fleeting impressions — a brown blur whipping past his eyes, the clang of a sabre dropping by his hooves, a gabbled “Hold that for a sec, old boy!”, a breathless yelp from Fairy Floss, and another world-churning bellow from Lyuba. Burro lifted his eyes to see Gellert gliding up and back towards the green, Fairy Floss bundled up in his foreclaws. “Taking you somewhere safe!” he heard Gellert yell. “Or, well, safer—” “Less talking, more flying the rut away!” Fairy Floss screeched back. What came next was lost to Burro as Lyuba thundered just past his face, seemingly blind to everything else except the retreating form of the griffon. Bolts of magic volleyed from her tusks and burned black through the air, forcing Gellert into desperate loops and swerves. Several changelings were unlucky enough to be hit, and the rest looked up just in time for the mammoth to charge right through the central melee. Those in her path largely scurried out of the way; those too slow to add Lyuba to their list of concerns quickly ceased being concerned about anything at all. She stormed on, heedless and bellowing. The next thing to rush past Burro’s nose, while his mind still tried to recover from being in a head that had endured Lyuba at point-blank range, was the Bovish consort. “See to the Arch-Minister!” Goldtorc shouted, nocking an arrow to her longbow as she galloped at the changelings. Speaking of the changelings and the melee, Burro squinted at the situation as he tried to massage sense back into his temple with a forehoof. The swarm was reduced in number and much dispersed. Greenhorn and Gellert and Simoom had held their own, and though there was now a Gellert-shaped hole in their offense, there was now also a Lyuba-shaped hole in the changeling’s defence. Goldtorc galloped forward to fill the space Gellert had left. More of the changelings were fleeing as well. Whatever plans they’d drawn up for dealing with a breakout clearly hadn’t budgeted for a mammoth, and several seemed to be flying off to seek a second opinion. One concentrated for a moment before letting loose a great flare from their horn. It blossomed in the sky high above the green. Burro took in the melee. He saw Simoom, who had two legs wrapped around a struggling changeling each and looked as if he had no idea as to how to proceed. He saw Goldtorc make for Greenhorn, the latter battered and weary and almost caught off-guard by a changeling at his back before an arrow dented its enthusiasm. He turned to face her as she cantered up and placed her forehead upon his. For a quiet moment on the field, Greenhorn leaned into the gesture, his eyes closed. And then they pulled apart, and magic spat and arrows sang. In the sky, he saw the distant dots of more distant changeling swarms and pegasi guards, and the panicky blur that was Gellert and Fairy Floss. One didn’t need to see them to know where they were, of course, one just had to track Lyuba’s thunder from the ground below them. Charity and Philomena still twisted through the air like two firework wheels at war, neither tired yet, cutting snapping whorls of fire through the sky as they clawed and cawed and gouged at one another. Burro’s Cunning prickled. A bedraggled cough came at his side. The unicorn guardspony … Sir Wall, was it? … limped into Burro’s field of view, and Burro muzzily regarded him. “The kids safe?” Sir Wall groaned. Burro nodded, for want of capacity to do much else at the moment. “Oh, good.” Sir Wall looked pensive. “Um … it’s been an interesting and also really horrible day, in many ways. I, ah, I think I might excuse myself now if you and your fellow sovereigns have this all in hoof. Take this ‘hero’ thing slowly, rather than jump in the deep end. Lick my wounds. Hide a bit. Is that okay? That’ll … that’ll have to be okay. See you later, maybe.” Burro managed, “What?” before the unicorn sprouted wings and flew away. He plaintively said, “What?” once more in their direction in case it helped, which it didn’t. He slumped and let his heavy eyelids droop. If only his Cunning would stop poking him. “Arch-Minister?” Another voice from at his side. Burro blearily turned and saw the mule, his uniform rumpled and his crossbow jittering in his grasp. Behind him, the ibex angled her broom handle in the direction of the melee, keeping a watchful eye. “Arch-Minister, are you alright?” “Alright,” Burro repeated. He blinked at the mule, and thought he might have seen him briefly during the gathering on the green earlier. The ibex as well. “Possibly, why not. What’s your name, lad?” “Alloy, sir. This is Tundra.” A certain careful impassivity came to his expression as he regarded Burro. “We need to get you to safety, sir.” ‘Alloy’ rang a bell for Burro. One of Asinia’s own agents, keeping an eye on Equestrian court affairs. He’d be careful what he said; no need to blow the poor young jack’s cover on what was already probably a bad day on the job for him. “Safety,” Burro muttered to himself. He kneaded his temple again, his head still throbbing and his thoughts not lining up as nicely as they ought to. “Safety is … safety is still the length of the city away. My ornithopter is somewhere outside the main gates. And my pilot’s … brine and brack, she’s somewhere. Could be anywhere. A bar. A cell. The moon.” “Perhaps —” The door of the shed creaked open, interrupting Alloy, and a small draconic face appeared in the gap. “Can we come out now?” he demanded. “I still need to find Twilight!” “And our sisters!” other voices chorused past him. “Off-topic question, kinda,” one of the fillies added, “but why’s there a tied-up goat in here? He’s kinda cranky.” “Was that noise Dame Lyuba getting choleric?” came the voice of Sailears. “It sounded like her. This one time, a petty shah insulted my uncle, and when Dame Lyuba met him in a duel of honour, she pulled off —” Burro, who wasn’t up for mustering gravitas right now, simply tottered upright, leaned over, and slammed the shed door shut. Muffled protests rang out, as well as a few queries as to what exactly Dame Lyuba once pulled off, while he turned back to Alloy and Tundra. “W-we can’t take kids out there and through the streets. Not with all this going on,” Tundra stammered. “There’s too many changelings and angry mammoths and horrible falcon-things and suchlike mayhem.” “At the moment, I concur. You pair stay with them,” Burro said, jabbing his hoof at the mule and ibex. “Guard them in the shed, keep them there.” “I … us?” said Alloy. “What are you going to do, Arch-Minister?” Burro’s eyes drifted down to the sabre Gellert had dropped at his hooves. He was weary, so very weary and sore, but he stooped regardless to twist off the hilt. Once it was off, a socket-grip lay inside the basket-guard, and he slipped his hoof inside. “I,” he said, lifting up the sabre with some effort, “am going to have to come up with something damned clever if it kills me, and if not —” He paused, and tilted his head, aiming one of his nocked ears up at the sky. Past the general din, a strange new noise seemed to be asserting itself. A rhythmic flapping, underlaid with a deep growling that could have come from a powerful engine. Not strange or new, he suddenly realised. Familiar. Oddly familiar. Tundra squinted up at the sky. “What’s that?” “It’s ...” The answer leapt to Burro’s lips, but he bit down on it, lest the universe scupper his suspicions out of spite. And then the sight of it cleared the palace skyline, skimming over the tops of the walls and high tower. “...well, take me stern-wards.” The Cloud-Kisser came roaring down over the towers and circling over the fray, the great wingspan of it flapping as if in a gale. Those with eyes to spare for the skies were already gawking up at it and pointing and uttering various epithets. Stray bolts of magic careened off its fuselage, and behind the cockpit glass, Burro saw Pollina grinning like a madjenny. She twisted her head and shouted something to someone in the back, and there came a great clang as the cargo ramp at the back clattered open. At said ramp, Burro beheld bovish huskarls, Black Company sheep, and Berry and Asinara crowding for a shot, sighting down at the ground with longbows, spellfire about their horns, or crossbows in their grip, all while trying to not plummet groundwards. Others yet seemed to be jostling at their back. Burro stared up, pointed vaguely with the sabre, and let loose a brief, maniacal laugh. “Ha, look! The whole world’s coming to the wedding! Brought our get-away vehicle with them, even!” Tundra and Alloy didn’t answer, instead opting to gawp. There was the slight issue of this bringing the Cloud-Kisser right into the line of fire, of course, but that was outweighed, in Burro’s estimation, by the fact of the Cloud-Kisser being right there, and by all the nice dangerous entities that came with it. Though he had to confess, there was also the slight issue of the craft having to find a suitable landing ground. Perhaps it could remain airborne, and Gellert, once he’d finished saving Fairy Floss from annihilation, could render repeated service as a taxi service. Burro could repay him in more eternal gratitude, and also unfettered access to Parliament’s drinks cellar. It could pan out. “Down! Try and get down!” he yelled up, waving the sabre wildly. On second thoughts, there was such a thing as straining friendship too far, lest Gellert be obliged to restore equilibrium by clouting him. “Aim for … for wherever’s the least fighty! There’s a decent stretch by the west wall, aim for the west wall, aim for —” As he shouted to likely little effect, the Cloud-Kisser dipped as it swerved into another wide turning circle, coming closer and yet closer to the ground. It was now on a par with the tops of the several stubby towers that lay dotted around the perimeter of the green, linked in places by the palace wall, and it spun round to come between two of these towers back over the green. Changelings buzzed around it helplessly, their magic fizzling off the enchanted fuselage, and those that strayed round the back received an arrow or spellfire for their trouble. The ornithopter was taking its time in descending, but now it ruled the skies... Up until the point two established residents came barrelling to inadvertently assert their own claim. A screeching fiery blur, possibly Philomena, came pelting down through the sky, hotly pursued claws-first by another screeching fiery blur, possibly Charity. The first slammed onto the wing, and the second came crashing down the instant after, collapsing the first into a great puff of ash. The craft rocked slightly with the impact. A second later, however, the ash reformulated itself with a blindingly-white flash of light, and as Philomena flapped around Charity and pecked her right in the tailfeathers, bright new phoenix-fire cut across the sky. Across the sky, and into the Cloud-Kisser’s wing. The craft tilted alarmingly as the wing buckled and groaned, and the direction of its flight veered right into one of the stubby towers. Enchanted metal met polished tower stone, both bickered for an instant as to who exactly should yield, and they reached a compromise where the Cloud-Kisser began to helter-skelter down and around the tower by that wing. Shortly, it crashed into the ground, and cut a nice, wide semicircle out of the turf before grinding to a halt, the ramp facing the green. The guards there had somehow kept their grip and, professionals all, leapt off and made for their own charges, with only Berry pausing to throw up before she charged forwards. Any lingering changelings found their days getting that little bit worse as the guards piled in. Burro stared. He absently twirled the sabre. No way out, then, not without a lot of very quick welding and engineering and fussing. But a lot to work with, here and now, if the problem was to be solved at its source. No other chance. Not a thing left to be lost. It was exactly like being young and in his prime again, where constant desperate schemes in the face of terrifying odds had given every day a piquant adrenaline high. The days when it had just been him and Gellert, adrift in a boat that only escaped being called a colander by dint of having a mast. The sabre in his grasp even felt a little like a cutlass. And it felt lighter now, as well. Maybe it was just his second wind kicking in. Maybe it was the sensation of feeling properly young again. Maybe it was the lingering concussion. Maybe it was the rush of his Cunning flaring a solution to the forefront of his mind. Maybe all at once. Whichever it was, Burro found himself laughing. A viable-ish plan at last. “Right,” he said to himself. “Right, this might be the Gellert flavour of ‘damned clever’, but he doesn’t have to learn he’s been a bad influence, which is the important thing.” “Arch-Minister?” The mule looked concerned. Burro couldn’t imagine why. “Everything’s going to be fine, Alloy. Take it from me.” “But … but, Arch-Minister, there’s still changelings all over the city! Chrysalis still has Celestia captured! We’ve not heard from the Element-Bearers, they’re probably captured as well! And there’s now a berserkergang mammoth tearing after Ovarn’s Tyrant, and the pyrefalcon’s still on the loose. Some of those changelings sent up warning flares, and reinforcements will be on the way.” “All true. But with what we’ve got here, I reckon we can overcome such niggling concerns.” “You … not to be rude, Arch-Minister, but, ah, did you take a knock to the head, or …?” “Repeatedly, but that’s besides the point. You and Tundra stay here. Mind the shed and the little ones. I’ll go fix everything now I’ve had time to think.” “But sir, you’ll —” “Shush, shush. Embrace me for courage’s sake.” Burro rested his sabre-hilt on the ground and extended his free forelimb. Looking deeply confused, Alloy returned the embrace, and while he was proximal to the mule’s ear, Burro whispered, “Consider that an order from your Arch-Minister.” “I, er,” Alloy whispered back. “You do good work here, lad. Keep it up. Don’t you put yourself in the line of fire on my account. Asinia can always elect another.” “Ah...” “And tell Tundra there I was whispering scandalous things in your ear if you need a cover story, I shan’t mind.” Alloy emitted a strangled noise and nodded, stepping back from the embrace. Burro stepped back, winked, and flourished the sabre. Without another word, he turned and loped towards the green. Towards the maelstrom of chaos that awaited him. Beings clashed left and right. Some young griffon who looked like a darker, trimmer Gellert was introducing his own sabre to changelings overhead. Simoom was currently entangled with a double of Burro, and Burro casually poked a hole or several in himself as he passed by. “Arch-Minister!” The Viceroy kicked the freshly-perforated changeling away, before his gaze narrowed. “Wait, is that you?” “The Crown called you nasty things like ‘speck’ when Discord had us all imprisoned, and when we were in that shed, you insisted we leave Charity to you,” Burro blithely replied. “Since Celestia’s pet has taken your place, you can take Gellert’s place for a bit.” “I, er.” Simoom blinked. “Right-o. I saw the Crown on the ground back there. Should I pick it up and start hitting things with it, or —?” “Try it and see what happens, speck,” snarled a metallic voice from a few feet away at ground level. “See what happens!” “You doing fine there, Crown?” Burro called. “Why, just splendidly. Disregarding that I’ve been trodden on at least — what are you — don’t kick me, you creti—” Fine words, spoken too late. A huskarl rumbled past en-route to his king, and sent the Crown cartwheeling across the grass. It rolled between Burro’s legs, cursing the guard in particular and bovines in general, and vanished under the next scrum over. Simoom watched it go until Burro seized his wither. “The Crown raised a point when we were all locked in that shed. An important point, give it its due,” Burro said, the words vague and faraway even to him, as if some other donkey was saying them. Maybe they were. “You want to know Asinia’s contingency plan for a mad alicorn or the closest equivalent, inasmuch as we ever had one? Turn on ‘em, kick their teeth out, and hope the Creator’s fond of us. To that end, please go to the gift-table, get my toaster, and put it by the palace’s door. Don’t argue.” Simoom, who looked like he’d been about to prior to that last sentence, promptly turned and did as he was bid, loping out of sight between clusters of combatants. Burro breathed out, took a deep breath in, and then shouted, “GUARDS, ON ME! EVERYBEING, ON ME!” And every nearby guard and any spare being, those that weren’t preoccupied dispatching the swarm, turned. Asinara and Berry all but vaulted over a toppling changeling as they neared him. “Arch-Minister! Thank the tides you’re safe! We need to —” “We need to deal with all this, here and now,” pressed Burro. “And the being behind all this lies in the palace! The leader of these changelings, Queen Chrysalis, has Celestia and Equestria in her grasp! Will we let her keep them?! Now that we’ve got enough strength to match her?” A chorus of “No!”s from several corners, especially Greenhorn, Goldtorc, their huskarls, a Black Company ram, and Berry. Asinara blanched. “Arch-Minister, we have to get you out of —” “There is no way out! No escape-route that isn’t filled with these beasts! We do or die, here and now, before more come sniffing. We must get into the palace and lay this usurper queen low! Equestria has saved the world time and time before!” No need to mention that those times had their root causes in Equestria, one way or another. “I think it’s time we repaid the favour, don’t you?” A stronger, more emphatic chorus of “Yes!”s, (and one “To the Blackness with that!” somewhere at ground level). Greenhorn, run-ragged as he was, growled assent and pawed the ground. Goldtorc nocked another arrow to her bow. Berry whooped again. Even Asinara didn’t immediately object, save for kneading her forehead with a forehoof. The Crown obligingly objected, though, somewhere past Greenhorn. “And what about the barred doors in the way, you idiot?” “Royal Consort!” Burro thrust the sabre towards the distant door of the palace. “Can you set one of your arrows alight?” Goldtorc blinked, as if surprised to be addressed. The magic about her horns flared. “I may. To what end?” Burro eyed the great doors, and saw Simoom obligingly drop the wrapped toaster from his mouth and nudge it into a pleasing position. The struggling changeling he had in a leg-lock just added to the effect. “Then, if you would, please ignite that parcel by the doorway. And Viceroy, you might want to stand clear!” Goldtorc eyed the toaster carefully, even as Simoom briskly loped back towards the gift-table. Her horns blazed, and so did the arrow she had nocked, flames coursing about its head. She arced the bow up, aiming for the distant parcel, and looked briefly Burro’s way. Burro nodded. The arrow flamed and flew forth, and punched right into the toaster, and met the black powder within. Fire and heat and light thundered, echoed by a corona of splinters that pattered down against the magical shields quickly raised by some of the more quick-thinking magic-channelers. The dazzlement passed. And the way into the palace stood open, fragments of a door splayed all around. “On me! ONCE MORE, ON ME!” Burro broke the hush first as he lurched forwards, brandishing the sabre overhead and gesturing at the door. After a hushed moment, the rest of the beings about him started forwards as well. Bellows, war-cries, curses, and all erupted from their ranks. So maybe charging Queen Chrysalis wasn’t the best plan his Cunning had ever produced and his common sense had concurred with, Burro conceded to himself as his galloping legs bore him onwards. Maybe she’d be weakened. Maybe not. Maybe throwing enough bodies at her until she was overwhelmed was the only way to stop her conquering the continent before she got a proper base. Maybe it’d all be for naught. Burro charged, no matter what. Every ache and pain had stopped mattering, and so did all his concerns. Once Gellert was done rescuing damsels, they’d meet up again, whether in this world or the Hereafter, and tides, there’d be some stories to tell. Alongside a roaring mass of others, he loped across the threshold, sabre threshing the air. As he came into full view of the main hall, he beheld Chrysalis herself, standing upright and proud. He saw a roof lined with cocoons, the vague shapes of ponies stirring within. He saw the Element Bearers and attendant changelings, the former undoubtedly made prisoners. And he saw Princess Cadence and her betrothed, standing with their horns touching, unknown magic broiling up between them. Magic that built with every second. Burro’s mouth hung open for only the briefest of moments before he yelled, “Equestria, you’re bloody joking—” He got no further, for in that moment, and in a great flash of light that briefly filled the world, true love saved the day.