//------------------------------//
// 143 - Do you Know the Way? 
// Story: An Extended Holiday 
// by Commander_Pensword 
//------------------------------//

Extended Holiday
Ch 143: Do you Know the Way?
Act 23




Vital Spark smiled gratefully to the Zebra mare as she passed another bowl of water to him. “Thank you,” he mouthed. The mare barely stifled a giggle.

“Be nice,” Mkuta chided. “He’s trying. You know how difficult it is for them to replicate our language at first.”

“But his accent is just so funny. I can’t help it!”

“You’ll help it this time. He doesn’t need negative feedback. He needs a patient teacher and support. Do I make myself clear, Juadogo?”

The mare sighed as she lowered her head. “Yes, Mkuta.”

“Um … did I miss something here?” Vital Spark asked.

“Nothing of consequence. I was merely giving the young mare some instruction. She was just noting how you seem to have a rather heavy accent right now. That should smooth over in due time, once you’ve had enough practice to be more fluent in our language.”

“I still have to learn it first,” the Unicorn said dubiously.

“It will come with time, young one.” Mkuta smiled. “Just be patient.”

“By the way, how’s your ankle doing?”

“My … ankle? I don’t believe I’m familiar with that term.” Mkuta furrowed his brow in confusion.

Vital’s eyes widened with understanding. “Oh, sorry. It’s a term that refers to the joint on your hooves. I don’t know where I picked it up, but that’s the gist of it.” He smiled sheepishly as he avoided the shaman’s gaze. “I noticed you were limping, earlier this morning, so I thought I’d ask.”

Mkuta raised a curious brow. “How perceptive of you. I didn’t expect one of your kind to notice.”

“How couldn’t I?”

“Let’s just say that there are many of your people who would rather look after themselves.”

“Well, I’m not like that.” He rose and stepped over to the stallion. “You don’t appear to be experiencing any adverse swelling, so I assume it’s not a sprain. And based on the aroma on your breath, you’ve already taken something to dull the pain,” he said clinically. His horn glowed a light blue and he lowered it to the foreleg in question. The moment the horn made contact, the energy began to wrap gently over the joint. “One good turn deserves another. Heal the harm done to my brother,” he intoned softly.

The hairs on Mkuta’s foreleg rose with the goosebumps that spread along his flesh. The force that touched him was cold. Yet even as that sensation spread upwards, he could feel a warmth building near his fetlock. A feeling not unlike the wind on the sacred mountain flowed over his body, and he sighed as the magic connected with his own. In that brief moment, he felt a deep and abiding love shining from the colt’s spirit. And with it came the passing sense of a familiar patience, the scent of wild grass and rain and life. And then it was gone, just as quickly as it had come.

Vital Spark raised his head and smiled. “Better?” he asked.

Mkuta gaped at the Unicorn.

“Um, Mkuta? Is … everything all right?”

“How … did you do that?” he finally asked.

“Do what?”

Mkuta raised his hoof and shook it a few times. He tested the range of motion. Not even so much as a twinge of pain occurred. “That was magic, but … it is different than the kind I have seen your people use before.”

“I don’t know. I just sort of … did it.” Vital Spark frowned as his horn glowed again and he raised the bowl he’d been drinking from. “I guess I just needed something to spark that part of me,” he mused. “Say, Mkuta?”

“Yes, Vital Spark?”

“What’s magic?”

Mkuta promptly flipped onto his back as a sound not unlike a goat’s bleat escaped his muzzle. Juadogo was there in a matter of moments.

“Mkuta. Mkua, what happened? Mkuta!” She shook him lightly, then finally grabbed the bowl out of Vital Spark’s magic and dumped its remaining contents on the shaman’s head.

Mkuta spluttered as his hooves waved frantically in the air. Finally, he gasped as he came back to himself. “That colt needs training, immediately,” he coughed.





Pensword sat at a table sipping his tea, while Lunar Fang nuzzled lovingly at his cheek. He stared off idly into space as his brow furrowed in deep thought, a slight downturn of his lips the only indication of his disquiet.

Hammer Strike was the first to enter, still reading from an old book he held in his hoof. A few seconds later, Grif was in his seat. Neither of the pair had seen him enter directly. He produced a bottle and cup from his bag and poured himself a drink, took a pull, then sighed. “So, what do we do?”

“I don’t know,” Pensword finally sighed. “I got totally outplayed. Herne gets to go to New Unity alive. How about you two? Did we get our little revenge? Oh, I also confirmed your lead. House Glass or Glass House was the contact, but given how small the house is, they had to have somepony pulling the strings behind them.”

“There certainly is,” Hammer Strike commented as he finally closed the book in his hooves and placed it back in his coat. “And Pensword, don’t be hard on yourself. Herne isn’t going to get far with that contract.”

“I sure hope not. The whole thing leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I’m not that cut out for interrogation.” He turned and nuzzled Lunar Fang’s nose. “I’ll leave that to you, my little Thestral.”

Lunar Fang sighed. “I don’t think now is the time, dear,” she said. “We still have issues to solve.”

“Pensword, I am telling you, right now, I’m not going to hit you,” Grif said suddenly, staring his friend in the face. There was a long, quiet moment. And then, suddenly, Grif’s paw shot out and kicked the Thestral’s leg. “Did I lie?”

Pensword winced. “No, you didn’t,” he groaned. “But what is that supposed to teach me?” 

“If you read the contract again, try to think of something that perhaps stood out a little,” Hammer Strike commented. “Trust me, I wrote it in a very particular way.”

“All I know is that he gets to live in New Unity for the rest of his days,” Pensword muttered. Then he broke off. His eyes widened. “Wait, are you saying his days might be numbered?”

“Until the end of his life, Pensword.” Hammer Strike gave a soft smile. “I didn’t say the rest of his natural life, now did I?”

“And now I can see why you are Lord Protector of Equestria,” Pensword said. “I should have seen that the first time I read it.” He shook his head. “But then again, I suppose it’s a good thing I missed it. It left Herne thinking he got off with the better deal.” He smiled for the first time in the meeting. “Very well done. I’m glad we’re on the same side. I’d hate to think what might happen, if I had to fight you, Hammer Strike. But that still leaves the matter of House Glass. I want to take care of him, but I don’t want to start off the festivities without Vital Spark.” He frowned. “He has a right to be a part of this.” Just then, the ground beneath their hooves rumbled and a nearby pane of glass cracked moments before a loud shockwave swept through the house.

“Huh. I wonder if that was too big of a crystal,” Hammer Strike muttered to himself.

“Whatever that was, I’d say House Glass just stopped being our problem,” Grif said.

Pensword looked Ashen. “Grif, Hammer Strike, House Glass had sixteen Thestral servants that were paying off debts. They were supposed to report to Princess Luna this evening with information that could have helped us track Vital Spark down, not to mention links to whoever may have orchestrated this plot in the first place. If that really was a crystal. Oh, sweet Luna, you just destroyed their souls, Hammer Strike.”

“I know, Pensword. There were also fifteen Unicorns, thirteen Pegasi, and ten Earth Pony servants as well that you’re forgetting about, not to mention the twenty foals in general, five being the heirs apparent to House Glass. All of them are currently safe from the destruction. The crystal was simply a means of empowering a spell, not a detonation,” Hammer Strike replied calmly.

Pensword breathed a sigh of relief. “That makes me feel better. Though it does also leave me wondering. Now that they’re out of the job, how can we help them pay off their debts?”

“Facing the fact all holders of their debts went up in flames, meaning they are no longer indentured servants? Rest assured, they’ll be taken care of, Pensword, just like the servants who survived the fall of Flame. But we are in a crisis at the moment, and we won’t be putting valuable time to that train of thought, until it is over.”

“I know, which is why I’m taking a prison train back to New Unity tonight with Herne. I got drawings and pictures of the staff that the historical society released to Princess Luna and Princess Twilight. While I’m down there, I’ll check with Zecora about it. She might know something about the staff.”

“I’ll be heading back, too. Something tells me we’re going to need to gear up, and all I have right now is knives,” Grif noted. “Knives and my sidearm.”

“Glad to know I’m not the only one feeling that,” Pensword said, then nodded. “What about you, Hammer Strike? What do you feel?”

“That I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me,” Hammer Strike sighed. “I’ve got an idea, but I need to look through it more, in order to make sure I’m right.”

“If you’re going away again, then we’ll need to make sure the secret stays quiet. I don’t want to imagine what the blue one would do, if she found out,” Lunar Fang noted.

“I’m sure the damage wouldn’t be too bad,” Hammer Strike commented as he pulled out his book once again.

Pensword looked to Lunar Fang, then shuddered. “I’m with you on this one, dear.” He looked back to Grif. “I think you can do the best at keeping things silent and secret, till we get back.”

“For now, we should see if the explosions caused the trains to stall. If it has, we’ll be flying tonight.”

“Thankfully, it should be resolved quickly, as there isn’t too much for debris from a detonation like that, and their house wasn’t close to the station,” Hammer Strike replied without looking up from his book.

“Then I’ll head for the station. The rest of you get everything you need. We can have the rest brought over later,” Grif noted.

“I’ll see you all when I return. Hopefully, I’ll have a plan sorted by then,” Hammer Strike sighed.

“Sounds good.” Pensword nodded decisively. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish those arrangements to transport Herne, ask Luna to see what we can do with the homeless servants, then get back to New Unity to talk to Zecora about the artifact and set up the first meeting of the military council. Then I’ll have to talk to Kahn and Rainbow about the future, and during all that,” he took a deep breath and let it out explosively, before resuming his narrative. “Check in on my family.” He chuckled. “It’s nice being able to look forward, rather than living in the past.” He looked about the room. “Well, I need to get moving. And Grif, do me a favor and get some chariots ready, just in case the trains can’t run, if you don’t mind.”





The cool morning air whipped at Vital Spark’s mane as he struggled to keep his vision clear enough to see what Mkuta was doing. Even worse was the fact he had to watch where he stepped, since the pair were standing in the middle of the healer’s herb garden. Naturally, Mkuta didn’t seem to show much concern over the matter, trusting to the Unicorn to be mature enough to pay attention, despite the distractions.

“Magic is a term used to define a certain kind of power that is invoked by all the creatures of the world. It manifests in many forms to match each of the species’ specific desires, needs, and theologies. Your kind has a unique kinship with this magic, because you are able to channel power from within as well as draw on outside sources. Your people call this form of energy mana,” Mkuta explained as he used his staff to draw a diagram in the dirt portraying a Unicorn. “This power is channeled through a focal point, namely your horn. It acts as an extension of your will. You may even say that by utilizing this power, you are extending a piece of your soul to accomplish it.”

The Zebra proceeded to draw another diagram into the sand, this time giving it a series of stripes and a mohawk of a mane. “We Zebras function somewhat differently than you. We do not have the ability to manifest our wills in such a manner. As such, we rely on other forces to invoke this power, namely in the form of various spirits found within nature. With enough time, meditation, and diligence, a shaman is able to learn to commune with these spirits. It is in this manner that we are able to learn hidden truths, unlock potential, and even bring miracles to pass.” 

A dim blue light glowed around Mkuta’s hoof as he lowered it to the ground. A light green light flowed up from the earth to mingle with it, followed by a series of girlish giggles. Mkuta smiled and began to pull his hoof upwards. As he did so, a sprout rose out of the empty dirt and sprung into life, swelling and spreading as its leaves erupted out from a rapidly thickening trunk, until what was once an empty patch of earth had now been occupied by a stout and healthy bush.

“This is but one application of our gift. It is one that I hope to eventually teach you. However, before we can embark on such a journey, you must learn to control your own power again. It is clear, from your little display earlier, that you at least have a basic grasp over it, one that is likely the result of reflex and muscle memory. Your power is an extension of your nature. As such, it was able to heal me. However, there is a coldness there as well. And if that cold remains unchecked, it can do great harm to yourself and others. Be wary of that cold.”

“But I don’t feel cold,” Vital Spark said.

“One does not have to feel cold to make it,” Mkuta countered. “We Zebras are drawn to the spirits of the earth. Your affinity lies with the spirits of air and water. The aura of your spirit draws them to you. This elemental affinity, much like the other branches of magic, is a thing unique to every creature. Those who are aware of this nature and learn to master it, may eventually evolve beyond those limits to commune with all the spirits of nature. That is what I hope to teach you, once you learn to master control.” His face suddenly grew grim. “This will not be an easy path, Vital Spark. The road will be long. You must learn not only to master the powers you draw with your horn, but also the powers that reside within your own body. Once you have mastered that, we can begin to teach you how to commune with nature.”

“So, where do we begin?” Vital asked.

Mkuta smiled as he led the Unicorn out of the garden and over to a small watering hole near the edge of the village. He then proceeded to toss his staff, so it landed perfectly straight, standing perpendicular to the ground. He bunched his hind legs. In an instant, he flew through the air to alight atop the tiny tip with one hoof, while maintaining perfect balance. “We begin at the beginning, with morning meditation.”

“How did…?”

“Meditation,” Mkuta said simply. “Come. Fold your hind legs together on the ground by the watering hole. Then I want you to take a series of deep, controlled breaths. The point of meditation is to clear the mind and control the senses to gain greater mastery of self. Do this and you will learn, or perhaps re-learn, control.”

“If that’s what it takes, Vital Spark said. He did his best to follow the Zebra’s council, but the act proved far more difficult than the words implied. Each time he nearly managed the pose, one of his legs would snap out of place, and he’d find himself falling face-first into the mud.

Mkuta sighed and shook his head as he leaped off his staff and approached the stallion. “This is going to take a while….”






Pensword sat in the seat of the coach car, while the train clattered down the rails. He looked casually across the way at his friend and partner, who was currently busy running a whet stone over a dagger. “I know the Thestrals are being folded into Luna’s personal retinue, but what of the other servants? Did any plan on taking jobs in New Unity?”

“Pensword, one of our best friends is currently missing, after being attacked. I really, really! Could care less about this right now. They are servants in the city with the largest job market in the country. I think they’ll be fine.”

Pensword sighed. “I know. I’m worried, too, but frankly, … we can’t do anything, till we get to the station. I’m just trying to make small talk to avoid going insane.” He fluttered his wings in agitation and sighed again. “I just have a bad feeling about all of this. And the worst part is, I can hardly do a thing to help with the search that really matters. If I don’t have someone or something else to focus on, I WILL snap at either somepony or something,” he growled. Then he pulled back and groaned as he shook his head. “Sorry, Grif. I know I shouldn’t growl at you.”

“This isn’t small talk, Pensword,” Grif said. “There isn’t anything on your list that’s even in the same galactic spiral as small talk. Rainbow and Kahn, the servants from House Glass, Herne, none of this is small talk. Whatever we’re heading towards is going to be big, really big. Now isn’t the time for distraction. I’d say it’s time to plan, but I don’t even know what we’re walking into. I feel antsy, jittery, pretty much like I used to feel before a raid or the day I left the island, before meeting Hammer Strike for the first time. To be perfectly blunt about it, diverting our attention from the issue at hand feels like it will be a mistake, anyways, possibly a fatal one.”

“Right,” Pensword acknowledged. “I feel the same way. It’s like when I had to send marching orders, before I took the main force to attack Fort Triumph. It’s like I’m guarding myself, because I think an attack might come from the rear, even though I know it’s stupid to think it will. I mean, Vital Spark was the target. And we lost a good soldier to try to prevent that. I just don’t want that to happen again.” He sighed, shook his head, then set his face in a stone mask. “When this is over, I’m leaving you with Herne. I’m going to fly directly to Zecora with the file. I have a few ideas on what could have happened, but nothing concrete If Herne gives you any grief at all, you know what to do.”

“No,” Grif said flatly as his dagger let out another steely rasp. “The minotaur is your problem. I need to go home, speak to my clan, pray to my gods, get my armor suited, and arm myself. If there’s time afterwards, I’ll have errands to see to that are also important, but not more so than preparation. If you wish to ignore the drumming, till it’s at the doorstep, that's your choice. But the drumbeats are already too loud for my liking.” He raised the knife to the window, then nodded appreciatively, before sheathing it and pulling out the next dagger.

“That’s exactly why I’m antsy to get to Zecora. For me, the drums are leading me down a road that I hope won’t take me where I think it will, but it’s looking less and less likely by the minute. My armor is ready, my wing blades are sharpened, and my tomahawks are all set to go. We only need the path. Hopefully Zecora’s help, combined with their report will give us something to go on.”

“Speaking of your family, Pensword,” Grif said seriously as he laid the dagger and whetstone aside, “you do know you’re going to have to release them soon, right? They’ve already lingered too long in this world too be healthy”

“Grif, I tried it with my sister already.” he shook his head and shrugged his wings helplessly. “She refused and said, and I quote, ‘We’re your guardian spirits.’”

“Then let me be clear, Pensword. A spirit who overstays their welcome in the realm of the living can only become a wraith or a poltergeist. They may seem fine to you now. They may be entirely benevolent. But eventually, they’re going to begin feeding off your negative emotions. It will be unintentional, of course, but it does happen. And once it does, well, soon, they’ll start to change. 

“Eventually, you’ll find Ponies you’ve had the slightest grudge against begin to suffer terrible misfortunes. A nasty fall down the steps, a falling chandelier, a carriage accident, or perhaps something more … permanent. You can try to stop it, but time has proven again and again that all spirits eventually follow that path, if they don’t move on. When those enemies and acquaintances begin to die mysterious deaths, you will have to decide if you’ll fault me for killing them or not, but regardless of what's between us then, when they turn, I will do it.”

“Grif, I know that. I looked into it myself. I even begged them to move on, after I found out. I’m their unfinished business, Grif. Me. Until they’re satisfied that I’ve moved on and have a proper support system, they won’t leave me. I managed to get Mom and Dad to promise they’d leave, once the baby is born. They want to be sure I have a proper family.”

Grif slammed a book at Pensword’s hooves. “Bargaining is one of the worst signs a spirit is falling, Pensword. You already have secured your line. You have a daughter. Their oath was fulfilled long ago. Guardian spirits do not come from the dead. From the earth, fire, nature, even the dark of night, yes, but never from the dead. How much longer will they need, after your next foal?” He shook his head and leaned back in his seat, folding his arms to stare his friend down. “You have five moons, Pensword. Five moons to make your peace and send them away. If you haven’t gotten them to leave by then, I’ll exorcise them myself. I’m telling you this as your friend. Let them go, so they can let you go.”

Pensword looked at Grif. Silent tears glinted in his eyes, though his voice remained unbroken. “They will move on within the hour of the birth. If they linger, I’ll send them to the Glens, myself. I told them, and they know I can do it. I’ve been ready for them to move on, since Moon River.”

“They have been around for over a thousand years,” a voice commented as Death appeared nearby. “Your connection to them has yet to diminish. It is not just them sticking around.”

Pensword froze and slowly turned to face the embodiment. “Then how do I diminish it? I want them to have rest and peace. I just don’t know how.”

“Stop bringing them along with you,” Death sighed. “You bring them to you far too often. If you wish to diminish the tether that binds them, you must stop calling them to you.”

“But I’m not calling them,” Pensword insisted. “I only asked for their help with this, because it was an emergency. Most of the time, they come to me. Are you saying I call them subconsciously? How am I supposed to stop that?”

“Stop calling for them and stop interacting with them,” Death repeated. “Ward yourself, if you have to. Whatever it takes, you must weaken that link.”

“I … I’ll do my best,” Pensword said weakly. “I just,” he sighed. “Why do I always mess things up when I try to be helpful?” He looked up again, expecting an answer, but the skeletal Pony was gone.

“I don’t know for sure, but I’m guessing by the cold chill down my spine that Death was part of that conversation,” Grif said. “I’m bringing this up with you as your friend, Pensword. For now, think about whatever you’ve been told and let it sink in. I’m going to sleep on the roof.”

“You do that, Grif,” Pensword spoke darkly. Once more, the specter of his shadow leaped to the forefront of his mind. When Grif had left and shut the catch behind him, Pensword growled, then smashed his hoof against the cushion repeatedly. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” he berated himself. He let the tears fall. “I have to send them away.” His breathing caught in his throat as he fought against the involuntary urge to sob. “I have to let them go.”

He cried, until the tears wouldn’t come anymore. When the storm of weeping was past, he stared unseeingly at the unoccupied seat in front of him. He wouldn’t speak for the rest of the ride to New Unity.





“Good. Good,” Mkuta complimented the Unicorn in Zwahili as he levitated a series of rocks around in various patterns in the air. “You are learning.”

“I … didn’t quite get all of that, Mkuta. I got the good. And I understood the you. That last part of the sentence, though….”

“I can understand your confusion,” the Zebra said as he switched back to Equish. “The present participle is more difficult to master than the other aspects of our speech. I was saying that you are learning.”

Vital Spark chuckled. “That’s a lot better than the other option.”

“Indeed. Give yourself a little more time. In a few months, you’ll speak as fluidly as a native.”

“I think I’ll stick with understanding first.

“A wise decision,” Mkuta agreed.

“Mkuta?”

“Yes?”

“Why is everyone so on edge? I can’t seem to take a step anywhere, without a pair of eyes following me.”

“You do tend to stand out.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Vital countered. “I can feel the warriors watching me, Mkuta. I’m not stupid. I think I’ve been here long enough to establish that I’m not a threat. So why do I still feel like I’m being treated like one?”

Mkuta shrugged. “Because we are slow to trust outsiders, and because I requested it,” he added calmly.

“You what?” The stones yielded to gravity as the Pony’s concentration was disrupted. Several of them wound up thudding against Vital’s back and head, before plopping onto the ground.

“Merely to ensure you don’t hurt yourself or go to any areas that are forbidden,” Mkuta assured him as he leapt down from his perch on his staff. “You awoke in a place that our people hold sacred. It is a mistake that the villagers would rather you not repeat.”

“Then why not just say so?”

“Because that usually fails on principle?” Mkuta suggested.

Vital winced as he rubbed a welt that was starting to rise near the base of his horn. “Wait, it does?

“More than you can possibly begin to imagine. Your Star Swirl the Bearded was one of the worst. It took a direct command from some of the oldest spirits in our nation to stop us from taking his life in retribution.”

“You would do that?”

“He defiled our sanctums in search of the secret to our magic. That stallion was, by far, one of the most arrogant of your kind we have ever met, and that arrogance will be his downfall one day, mark my words.”

“Um, consider them marked….”

Mkuta sputtered, then shook his head dismissively. “Consider this an unexpected lesson, Vital Spark. Never allow yourself to lose your humility. The humble often see what the proud can never hope to comprehend.” He tapped his hoof and his staff leaped into his grip. “Oh, and on another note, make sure to ready yourself tonight. I’ve arranged for a pack of supplies to be prepared for you to carry. We depart for the holy mountain at sunrise.”

“So soon?”

“I cannot afford to wait any longer. The pull is too strong. You have learned enough of the basics to master most of your abilities, at least enough to contain and channel them. The rest of your training will have to wait, until after we arrive at the village there. There will be others who can help translate, so you needn’t be worried, if we have to be separated for a time.”

“Why does that make me even more worried?”

“Paranoia?” Mkuta suggested.

Vital Spark stared flatly at his teacher and current mentor. “I should shut up, while I’m ahead, shouldn’t I?”

“I wouldn’t put it so crassly, but … yes. Yes, you should.”





Hammer Strike sighed to himself as he rubbed his forehead and viewed the wreckage from the explosion at the society. The majority of the debris had been cleared, while leaving as much of the scene intact as possible. It was inconvenient, but not an unworkable situation. His head ached from the aspects he was controlling, and it wasn’t going to get easier. After a few minutes, he held up a small purple aspect crystal and continued his work as he watched the area around him shift from day to night.

He was doing his best to keep himself rooted in his place in time, while searching for the event to watch what happened. After some time, he managed to find the point in which Vital had vanished, watching as he taunted Herne with the staff.

“Well now, did I forget to lock my toolbox again?” a familiar voice asked from behind. “Still, gotta respect that, boy. Never back down from a bully. Give him the old one-two.”

Hammer Strike grit his teeth as he continued to watch over the scene. It was only a matter of time, before Father Time showed up. He knew that. But the headache of having two forces of time nearby was a lot more stressful than he would have liked.

“Why don’t you let me take over, sport? Your mother wouldn’t be happy, if you burst a blood vessel,” Father Time offered.

“Don’t you dare,” Hammer Strike warned. “Every time an embodiment has interacted with me, it either doesn’t work right or ends up giving me an even worse headache.”

“Easy there, kid. Just trying to help.” Father Time chewed on his pipe as he took a step back. Meanwhile, not far off, a tall slender mare was walking around the crime scene. Her fur was a light buttery yellow, and she sported a deep red mane. A scale stood boldly on her flanks. Her eyes were covered by a white cloth. A small purple filly guided her carefully through the streets. Her mark was a broken sword. Chance ran around the area chattering excitedly about something as Mother Nature engaged in some kind of glaring contest with certain pieces of Zebrican art. “You’re not the only ones befuddled by all this,” Father Time finished.

Hammer Strike sighed as he let go of the vision for a moment to rest his head. He had a lock on the event, so it would be a simple matter to return to it again. And besides that, he could use a small break, especially when his quiet space had become so crowded. “That’s a comforting thought,” he muttered. “If all of you are confused, then I’ve got work ahead of me….”

“Confusion isn’t the same as ignorance, kiddo,” Father Time said. “We have a pretty good idea what happened, just not how they managed to do it.”

“The nature of the staff is definitely abnormal, to say the least,” Hammer Strike commented as he pulled out a charred fragment. “Whatever was on it left with Vital, so I can’t scan it at this point.” He put it away, before pulling out the aspect of time once again. “I just need to broaden my thaumic vision beyond this present moment, and I can figure it out.”

“I can tell you what was on the staff,” Father Time said. “Or rather, what wasn’t. The staff had no time. I couldn’t even see it, until after your friend vanished. It wasn't an entity to me. Nothing is a non-entity to me,” father time said, making his point. “Whoever made the staff, somehow, removed it’s connection to me, until your friend used it.”

“It was shielded from most of the embodiments. I’m certain of that fact. With what it potentially did, it wouldn’t make sense that only one of you couldn’t see it,” Hammer Strike frowned as he focused once again on the scene.

“It wasn’t shielded.” Father Time said seriously. Suddenly, his persona seemed to shift. Instead of the semi-dapper middle-aged stallion, Hammer Strike found himself standing before a very old, yet remarkably strong-looking stallion. His mane was gone, and a long, lush beard reached down to the floor. “That staff hadn’t had one second touch it since whoever enchanted it did so. It was not a minute older, when he took it in his hooves. And then he used it, and all that time came back to it. That is a lot of time. The timestream wasn’t immediately able to handle it, so it created a tear from the past. Your friend must have been taken through it by the suction, before time repaired itself.” As the rant finished, his form quivered, and then the middle-aged stallion was back.

“Great,” Hammer Strike frowned. “Then I need to locate him, so I can work on getting there.” He continued his search, watching second by second after Vital grabbed the staff. At the last moment, just before Vital vanished, Hammer Strike broadened his vision as much as he could, taking note of the aspects that made up that second, both in the staff and Vital Spark. As soon as he marked an exact copy, the aspect in his hoof shrank rapidly as he broadened his search farther and farther back in time. After a full minute, the crystal vanished with a crack as everything came crashing back together on the stallion. There was a moment of pain, followed by a blur of aspects as his vision swam.

It took him a few minutes to realize that Father Time was waving his hoof in front of his face. A few moments later, he rubbed his nose to clear the blood. As things continued to clear, he became aware of the pain in his head and how most of the embodiments around him were currently staring right at him.

“You need to be more careful,” Mother Nature said as she proceeded to check his forehead, like she would a sick child. “You might have hurt yourself. And then where would we be?”

“Continuing about your lives,” Hammer replied, before giving a shuddering sigh. “I would say I’ll be careful when I’m dead, but let’s be honest. That would be a lie.”

“Yeah, thanks for that,” Death deadpanned.

“I’ve got to make your existance entertaining somehow,” Hammer Strike replied. “It’s got to be dull, when others just accept the fact and go to whatever afterlife they deserve. At least when I fight, it’ll have some value.”

“Well, it beats that year-long chess game,” Death sighed.

“You’ve been around for ages. I’m sure a year was nothing to the guy who’s been around for thousands,” Hammer Strike replied, rolling his eyes.

“Only four or five,” Death said.

“Still proves my point,” he replied simply. “You know what, I need to get the question out of my head, before you vanish.” He turned his attention to the two new embodiments. “Could you please tell me who you two are?”

The one with the covered eyes lifted her hoof towards a wooden statue that stood in front of her to Hammer Strike’s left. “Greetings, Hammer Strike. I am Justice.” She reached out to shake a hoof.

“To your right,” the filly said.

Justice blushed slightly as she corrected herself. “I am Justice, and this is my guide, Mercy.”

“A pleasure,” Hammer Strike replied as he shook her hoof. He then directed his attention to Mercy, offering the same.

Mercy just gave the hoof in question a level stare. “Charmed,” she said in a bored tone.

He sighed, placing his hoof down. “Should have expected that,” he muttered.

“Mercy’s indifference aside,” justice said, “it is always pleasing to meet one of the few who wield great power, yet have not been touched by corruption.”

“I think I don’t fall into that category.” Hammer Strike rubbed the back of his neck. “At least in the literal sense.”

“Nopony is perfect,” Mercy said, surprising the Pony lord.

“Be prepared,” Justice told him. “I know not what you will face to find your friend, but I sense many injustices in your immediate future. Some, you will fight. Others, you will witness. But be assured, what you will do in response will be just.” She moved her head in the purple fillie’s direction. “Even if they are not always merciful.”

“I can only do the best I can.” Hammer Strike gave a sad smile. “Sometimes, things just … get the better of me.”

“I must go now. So many things to look into,” Justice said. 

Hammer Strike raised his hoof to comment, before settling on, “Until next time.”

With a nod, Justice and Mercy faded out of view.

“I can only do the best I can,” he muttered to himself one last time as he exited the room and the embodiments faded behind him.





Vital Spark shook his mane for what felt like the hundredth time as another dust cloud rose out of it to scatter in the midday sunlight. A simple set of saddlebags woven from grass fronds clattered to either side of him, while a water skin sloshed against his chest. His horn ignited, and the bag raised to his parched lips as he took a few sips, before putting the stopper back to it again. He let the water sit there in his mouth, allowing the interior to rehydrate, then swallowed the rest to aid his parched throat.

“I hate to ask this, but how much farther do we have to go, before we get to the Moyo Wa Roho?” he asked. “This heat is killing me.”

Mkuta didn’t bother turning his head as he strode calmly and confidently forward, despite the sun’s unrelenting barrage. “We won’t see the village for another day. Then it will take us approximately two more days to reach it.”

“Seven days?” Vital balked.

“You sound so surprised. It takes Unicorns just as long to travel between villages and towns, without the aid of flight. The only difference, in this case, is the temperature. Our lands are much hotter than the climate in your homeland of Equestria.”

“Mkuta, can you tell me what it’s like? Equestria, I mean.”

“I have never been there in person, but I am told it is a lush place, filled with trees, plants, and bushes of all kinds. Herbs, spices, and various other rare magical ingredients are simple to forage for, if you know what you’re doing. The few Unicorns I have met before have spoken of their capital of Unity with great respect as a golden pinnacle of strength and culture with great libraries and two powerful rulers who govern the sun and moon themselves.”

“Luna and Celestia.”

“So, you remember their names. That is good.” He turned back briefly to smile at Vital Spark. “No more questions for now. There will be plenty of time to talk tonight, when we make camp. And we won’t have to worry about the sun baking us to death.”

“Oh. Right.” Vital Spark’s ears drooped. He hadn’t accounted for that possibility. “Then tonight, it is. I’ll hold you to that.”

“I know,” Mkuta finished in his native tongue.





“I shouldn’t be gone long, at least to you,” Grif said as he double checked the straps on his armor. “I’ve left plans with the council for most situations that might come back during my absence, so you should be fine until I return.”

“You’d better come back safely,” Shrial said, “or so help me….”

“I’ll be back,” Grif said, looking her in the eyes. “If I have to crack the Gates of Hell to do it, I’ll be back.” He turned back to his weapons and began stuffing several extra bandiolers of throwing knives into his pack.

“Trust him,” Gilda said simply as she pulled one of the cub’s toys aside to keep them occupied with pouncing, even as she rested her other taloned hand on her swelling side. “Besides, if worse came to worst, we could always ask Cheshire for help. Knowing her, she’d have some fancy trick up her sleeve that leaves the rest of us with headaches for a week.”

Grif opened a box and dumped out an assorted pile of bits and gemstones. He quickly sorted the bits back into the box, before sliding the gems into a bag. He didn’t know if bits would be any use, where they were heading, but gemstones had value anywhere. “Not a word to Trixie,” he warned. “Keep everything from Clover, if you can, but Trixie cannot be allowed to find out what happened.” He opened his ammo stockpile and began counting out bullets.

“She would try to blow her way through the space time continuum, wouldn’t she?” Avalon mused as she raised her beak out of one of her new grimoires.

“I don’t want to take that chance,” Grif said as he tied Vigilance and Vegence’s twin sheathes onto his back and slid the blades home, adding his katana just under his wing. Finally, he checked his quivers and his bow. “Am I missing anything?”

“A benediction, perhaps? It might help take care of certain misunderstandings with the Winds, if you have to call on them in a hurry. After all, depending on where and when you go, they may not have actually called you as their Avatar yet,” Avalon noted.

“As much as that makes sense, I fought in wars without their help before. If need be, I can do it again. But I appreciate the thought.” Grif made his way to Shrial, brought her head to his, and let their foreheads touch for a moment, before he kissed her. He repeated this process with Avalon and Gilda respectively. “I love all of you. Never forget that.”

“Hard to do, when you keep reminding us,” Avalon said with a playful, albeit worried smile. “We’ll be praying for you and your safe return.”

“That's all I can ask for.” He turned to head for the door, but as he took a step forward, he heard something scrape. He turned his head and scanned the room. He couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and was about to turn away again, when he caught the sound once more. This time, he caught movement. A case stood near the end of the armory, where Graf’s axe lay. Grif had not had time to return, and had left it carefully preserved in an engraved display case. The scraping noise had come from the glass. It had cracked. The crack continued to spread outwards, until the glass shattered. A loud whooshing filled the air as something heavy cut through the intervening space. Grif quickly raised his talons to block whatever happened, only to feel the sensation of thick wood settling in his palm. The axe had come to his hand with his talons resting comfortably under the head. Spirals of runic formulae Grif couldn’t even begin to recognize strobed across the handle in a soft blue light.

Grif was startled, to say the least. He had never known the axe had been enchanted. Then again, he’d never seen the old bird use it in real combat before. He’d never used the two-handed weapon in his life, yet couldn’t deny some comfort in the weapon’s feel. He slid it carefully into a metal loop in his harness. It was an uncomfortable fit, but he could modify it another time. “We’ll discuss … whatever that was later.”

It was at that point that a large ring of fire appeared in front of Grif. A scroll popped out shortly afterwards, completely unharmed, and tumbled across the floor to his feet.

“I swear, if one more strange magical thing happens,” Grif grumbled threateningly as he picked up the scroll and opened it.

‘Grif, if this note made it through unharmed, please throw it through again. ~HS’

Grif shrugged and did as he was bid.

A few seconds passed, before Hammer Strike’s head appeared through with a shudder. “That’s not a pleasant feeling,” he commented, before stepping through, allowing the portal behind him to vanish. “May or may not have figured out a few things. Long story short, I can make a portal to marked things, including Vital.”

“Well, that's convenient,” Grif said. “So what's the drawback? Because if there was none, you wouldn’t be figuring this out now.”

“It’s somewhat draining to just transfer matter across an area. Next one I make has to … kinda go through time as well,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well, you should head for your armory, then,” Grif said. “I was just going to finish last minute preparations.”

“Planned on it,” Hammer Strike replied casually as he cracked his neck.





Pensword looked to Lunar Fang to his left, then Fox Feather to his right. Moon River was still nomming his left ear, a bad habit that he had thought she had broken by now. Cristo and Inigo were with him, along with Day Moon, who was ahead following a game trail. He reached a familiar crossroads and sighed remorsefully. Lunar Fang nodded to his older sons, who smiled supportively at their second father.

“The boys, Fox Feather, and I can handle this, dear. I know you need to see Zecora,” Lunar Fang said. 

Fox Feather nodded her agreement as she reached over with her wings to pull Moon River onto her back. Unfortunately, the young foal wasn’t having it as she grabbed tightly to Pensword’s mane and refused to let go.

“Daddy leaves so much. I stay!” she demanded. “Daddy needs me.”

Lunar Fang leveled a warning glare and took a deep breath, but stopped as Pensword held up a restraining wing. “This time, she will stay,” he said. “If I cannot trust Zecora with keeping her safe, while I counsel with her, then I’ve misjudged her.” He ruffled his wings as Moon River started to cheer. “As for you, my little troublemaker, I need you with Jackpot on the lookout to keep my saddlebags secure.”

Moon River gave a determined salute, and the expression on her face left Lunar Fang and Fox Feather both smiling as only a mother doting on their child could. “Okay, Daddy,” the foal said.

“Okay. I’ll meet you all again at either the camps or at the long house.” He kissed both his wives, then ran a wing lovingly over their noses in a gentle caress.

He waited for them to leave his sight, before he started down the path to the woods, and ultimately Zecora’s hut. The scent of herbs and spices was the first herald to his arrival, followed closely by the familiar light of a glowing fire flickering from the tree’s windows. The familiar masks and totems welcomed him, and he smiled at the positive energy from the spirits therein. True, they weren’t the kind he was used to interacting with, but he could still sense their presence. He stepped confidently up to the door and knocked, while Moon River shifted to keep a better eye out on their surroundings.

The sound of hooves clopping on the wooden floor of the dwelling grew louder as Zecora approached and opened the door. She smiled at the Pegasus. “Well, well, Pensword. It’s been a long time. What brings you to my step on this evening sublime?” Then she reached up and booped the filly’s nose. “And how do you fare, little one? Have you kept out of mischief, while you have your fun?”

Moon River giggled and grinned. “May we come in?” Pensword asked. “I have something I need to show you, and any information you can give would be greatly appreciated.”

“I deal in knowledge mundane and unique. Come in, Pensword. Tell me what you seek.” The Zebra turned and trotted back inside her house, motioning behind for Pensword to follow as she approached her cauldron.

Pensword walked in. “Moon River, can you hand daddy the file in my left saddlebag?”  He smiled as the foal reached toward the wrong pocket. “The other one is left,” he chided gently. Moon River giggled mischievously as she handed the pages over. “Thank you,” Pensword replied, patting her on the head with a wing tip, before taking the file in his left wing and making his way to the table. He bit down on the file’s edge, withdrew it from his wing, then placed it on the table and flipped it open. “I need to know if you recognize or identify any of the images or characters from this file. It’s part of a vital investigation, but one I can’t share the details on.”

“There’s no need to fear being open with me. I always respect Ponies’ privacy,” Zecora noted with that wizened smile of hers. She looked down at the photograph, then frowned as she lifted it in her hooves. “Where did you find this?”

“It was in the historical society in Canterlot. I don’t know how they got ahold of it, but it appears to have been the focal point of certain events that unfolded there recently. We were hoping you might be able to tell us about it, since the design was Zebrican in nature.”

Zecora’s hooves began to tremble. “Hidden in plain sight for all this time,” she breathed. “Was the staff stolen? Was that the crime?”

Pensword eyed the walls carefully. “Can you make sure we can’t be eavesdropped? The situation is extremely delicate.”

“More than you know,” Zecora said gravely. “That staff and its power are not meant for show.” She strode around and closed the shutters, then locked them. “We are alone. You need not fear. No dark secrets will be taken from here.”

Penword took a deep breath, then nodded and began. “The staff was destroyed in some type of, well, the best way I can describe it is a self-inflicted explosion. It involves one of our mutual friends. Since the artifact was Zebrican in nature, and you’re clearly familiar with it, we need all the information we can get.”

“Then the time has come. It’s as I feared. Vital Spark has disappeared.” Her shoulders slumped, as if a great weight had fallen upon them. In that one moment, the fatigue of centuries shone in those deep jade eyes. “I had hoped–.” She shook her head. “Nevermind. This magic is of a special kind. To call a hero, it was designed. When war and destruction would end us all, one who was chosen would answer the call. The magic invoked cost a heavy price: many lives given as sacrifice to ensure the staff would last through the ages, till chosen was found, then turn back the pages.” She turned from Pensword and opened a cabinet, where she removed a blue-green stone with a carefully cut chunk of tourmaline sitting in its center. A series of ridges rose up in familiar winding patterns that swirled, like the currents of a river. She stroked it fondly, then sighed as she returned it to the cabinet and shut the doors again.

“That confirms a bad fear. Vital is in the past. That means I need to discover what era he would up in,” Pensword muttered. “That could mean days of research, unless you know of a time when a white Unicorn foal or adult showed up in the past.”

“There are many Unicorns who have come to our lands through rolling seas and shifting sands. If your friend, you wish to see, find history’s incongruity and answer the question that plagues all races: how, at the same time, one can be in two places.”

“Great….” Pensword rolled his eyes. “Thank you,” he harrumphed. “Anything else I need to know or be warned about?” he asked as Moon River leaned over and kissed him consolingly on the head.

“What is to come, I wish I could say, but that is for you to decide today.” She shook her head disconsolately. “I want to say more, with my words be free, but all I can offer is an apology.” She clopped over to the door and slowly creaked it open. “Good luck, Pensword. I wish you well. May you find what you need and save Vital as well.”

Pensword slowly nodded, while Moon River hugged him around the neck. “Find Uncle Spark?” she asked.

“Yes, we’ll find him,” Pensword promised. He looked to Zecora and nodded gratefully. The drums of war seemed to echo back in his mind. Wherever and whenever Vital went, from the way Zecora looked at him, it wouldn’t be an easy operation. This rescue would be made in blood. “You take care, Zecora. Know that next you see me, we will have Vital Spark with us.” He spoke with conviction as he exited the portal. Then he raised his head to look lovingly up at his daughter. “You take care, okay? We’ll bring back Uncle Spark.”

Moon River nodded her head as she moved to give her crossbow to her father. “Take?”

“No, you need it with you here. I’ll take mine.” Then he reached up and patted her gently between the ears as they passed through the protective field the totem poles gave off. “You want to come with me to report what we learned from Zecora?”

Moon River nodded gravely. “Yes.”

Pensword spread his wings as he felt Moon River wrap her forelegs more tightly around his neck. “Then let’s go.”





Vital Spark looked in awe as they passed through the city of tents. Zebras of all sizes, ages, and genders were busy passing back and forth between one another. Some were tossing pieces of carved wood, stones, or other such materials onto reed mats dyed with various symbols and glyphs. Others labored over pots that released green wisps of steam into the dry air to dance on the wind, before dissipating. They would stare intently at the patterns, then toss more herbs and spices into the brew as needed, before stirring and peering again. The youngest giggled and laughed gleefully as they streaked through the many makeshift paths that existed between the temporary structures. 

“You should consider yourself lucky,” Mkuta’s voice suddenly broke through Vital Spark’s reverie. “This kind of gathering occurs only once in a few generations.”

“So many people,” Vital Spark marveled.

Mkuta smiled. “This is only a fraction of our full numbers. Our lands are great, and our tribes and villages spread all across the savannah.”

“And these are all the shamans and diviners?”

“The more accomplished ones, yes,” Mkuta said. “Others are likely still on their way, and those who are in training reside in the huts farther in, alongside those residents who are permanent additions to the village.”

“So, are we going to be staying in a tent, too?”

“Possibly,” Mkuta allowed. “We have to report to the village chief first. It’s proper manners, after all.”

The two eventually arrived at the heart of the village, after passing several gardens and fields overflowing with vibrant green shoots and delicate blossoms. Herbs, weeds, spices, gourds, corn, peas, melons, and great thick-trunked trees with curious yellow fruits. Some were long and fuzzy, ranging in color from a healthy green to an almost wrinkled brown. The others sprouted in bushels with upwards of twenty of the fruits bunched together at a time, jutting out in curves. Vital Spark marveled at the sights and smells as the Zebras tending the gardens went about their work tending the soil, watering the ground, and harvesting the plants that were ready.

“How is all of this possible?” Vital Spark asked.

“We are blessed by the spirits who tend the land. Water from the sacred mountain spreads throughout the continent to provide all the nourishment our crops need to survive. It is through these trees here that we harvest the water.” Mkuta approached one of the stout trunks of the gnarled fruit trees and removed a cleverly placed piece of wood. Seconds later, fresh water poured out into his empty water skin. When he’d filled the container, he replaced the stopper again. “The tree is called the baoba, and its fruit gias. They are a gift from the spirits. The water provides them life and nourishment, allowing them to grow to great heights at incredible speeds and shelter us from the sun with their boughs. And though it may be difficult to harvest at times, their fruit sustains us, granting health and stamina, among other things.”

“Incredible,” Vital Spark said as he stared up into the leafy canopy.

Mkuta smiled. “Don’t let yourself become overwhelmed just yet. We’ve only just begun.”

A series of tall totems sprouted from the earth with carved and painted masks portraying the faces of Zebras staring outward. Some glared. Others smiled. Some were in the act of laughing, while others wept. A large fire pit surrounded by a ring of sparkling white stones laid within the totems’ protection. It was only too obvious they held some spiritual significance to the people of the village. The chief’s hut sat just a few paces away, right next to the great meeting hall that was the largest structure in the village.

Each hut had been surmounted by a mask or shield of some kind, and the chief’s hut was no different. This one portrayed a series of vast roots stretching out from a green heart. Mkuta knocked respectfully at the frame and called out in his native tongue. It didn’t take long for the answer to come. Two tall, well-built Zebras in red robes barred the way with their spears as they stared down at Mkuta. Their ears were pierced with a series of slim silver bands that jingled as they struck one another, while a deep murky green war paint had been brushed over their fur in intricate designs.

Mkuta spoke with them in calm and measured tones that bespoke a ritual, though Vital Spark couldn’t tell what they were saying. Finally, the two guards seemed satisfied, and stepped aside to allow entry; however, when Vital Spark sought to pass the portal, they crossed their spears again and glared threateningly at the Pony. Mkuta turned in surprise and spoke at some length to the pair, but they were not to be swayed. They stomped their hooves stubbornly and growled something at Mkuta. Mkuta growled something in turn, then sighed as he looked back to Vital Spark.

“I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. They won’t allow you to enter the chief’s presence uninvited, and regrettably, I don’t count. You’ll need to wait here, while I speak with the chief. Just keep to yourself until I get back. I shouldn’t take too long,” he promised.

Vital Spark sighed. “Guess I should’ve expected this by now.”

Mkuta smiled sympathetically. “Things will improve with time. You will see,” he promised. And then he was gone, leaving Vital Spark to stand alone in the middle of a village that he could hardly understand.

Vital Spark rolled his eyes. “Great. This is just great.”





Pensword landed at the Castle of New Unity and walked right into Hammer Strike’s armory with Moon River still clinging tightly to his neck. “I learned some things from Zecora just now,” he reported spoke as he walked deeper into the armory. The glint of leather and polished steel shone in the torchlight as he passed through the rows of weapons racks to reach his lord in the back. “I got a hint as to when Vital might be. I quote, ‘If your friend, you wish to see, find history’s incongruity and answer the question that plagues all races: how, at the same time, one can be in two places.’”

“I already pinpointed where Vital is, actually,” Hammer Strike replied as he continued collecting his equipment.

“Oh…” Pensword frowned. “I seem to be slow, no matter what happens.” He winced as his daughter wacked him on the head. “Ow.”

“Daddy not slow. Daddy Smart,” Moon River stated adamantly. “Daddy….” Her face scrunched in concentration. “Coloberated?” she asked.

“Corroborated, honey. But that was a good try,” Pensword complimented. Then he looked back to Hammer Strike’s questioning gaze. “She is insisting on staying with me, till I leave. She always seems to know when we’re about to go somewhere.”

“Kids can be quite clingy,” Hammer Strike replied. “We’ll be heading out soon enough. I’ve just got to create an anchor for this point. Then I’ll be able to send us back to as close a time as I can get to where he is. You’ve dealt with Herne already, correct?”

“That is correct. Although he has refused to leave his room, something about preparing himself for this new home. I think we’ll fully deal with him, after we get Vital back.”

“No. He will be dealt with as soon as possible,” Hammer Strike objected. “In fact, I’m put off that he’s still alive right now.”

“He’ll only stay alive for the next three hours or so. All the drink he has access to has been treated by a poison that’s undetectable. He should start feeling the effects within the next ten minutes or so. A bit on the slow side, but not nearly so much as arsenic.”

“If it takes longer than three, I’ll kill him myself,” Hammer Strike replied sternly. “I refuse to let him stay alive any longer than that. He’s already on borrowed time.”

“Why does he die?” Moon River asked. She paused. “Did he vanish Uncle Vital?”

Hammer Strike gave a soft sigh as he looked to Moon River. “Yes, he made Vital vanish, so we’re going to make him vanish.”

Moon River nodded her head sharply. “Good.”

A flicker of pride passed through Pensword at the foal’s words, and he smiled slightly, despite himself. “So, where is Vital, then? Based on what Zecora said, I’m guessing Zebrica, in the past.”

“Around the time of the Third Gryphon War, to be precise,” Hammer Strike clarified.

“Oh joy. So it is double for all but Vital,” Pensword muttered.

“And me?” Moon River asked.

Pensword chuckled. “You were in mommy’s tummy during the war.”

Moon River’s blinked a few times as she processed that information. Finally, she spoke. “That makes me oldest foal.”

Pensword chuckled. “I guess so.”

“Is there anything else you wish to discuss?” Hammer Strike questioned.

“I was hoping to meet up with you here and then meet up with Grif to disappear, hopefully in the basement to avoid certain Ponies. Who do you want with us?”

“Next to nobody else.” Hammer Strike turned back towards his equipment. “I’d prefer to keep it just the three of us.”

“Understood.” Pensword nodded. “That means no telling your mommies, okay?” Pensword told Moon River.

“Okay, Daddy. Only we know.” Moon River nodded her acceptance.





Herne’s living quarters were more like a closet. He had to hunch slightly to avoid smashing his horns against the ceiling, and a simple sleeping pad lay against a blank stone wall. A single candle was all he had to offer light in what he suspected was once a storage facility of some kind. He sighed and snorted heavily as his tail swayed back and forth. His meager meal of gruel and a bucket full of water sat off to the side, hardly touched. He was living, all right; just not living well.

Pride had always been his stumbling block, or so he’d been told growing up. A bull could only take so much, before he had to defend his honor, though. It wasn’t his fault the old cow interfered. If she’d kept her nose out of things, they never would have banished him in the first place. He snorted in frustration as he lashed out with a hoof, kicking at the floor with a mighty clop. Lineage should never have mattered in the herd. He’d earned his way to fame, earned a proper living, and now, just as he was ready building up his herd again, some idiotic Unicorn had to come into the picture with a death wish.

It was supposed to be a simple job. Snatch, deliver, get the buck out of town. With the pay involved, they all would’ve been rich. Now that Hammer Strike had gotten personally involved, though, he had no delusions. The Pony may have been small in stature, but his stare was legendary, and his presence was enough to silence a crowd with a simple action. Herne knew it was only a matter of time, before he had to face that legend himself. Part of him wished he hadn’t signed the contract. A fast death may have been preferable to moldering away in a closet, until nothing was left.

A low sputter sounded in his ears as the candle’s wick neared the bottom of the holder and the flame guttered in a desperate attempt to stay alive. Light and shadow spun and twirled in a waltz-like dance as the bull eyed the display. A low familiar crooning carried through the vaults of his memories as he thought back to the gourd his mother had carved him when he was just a calf. Stars, suns, moons, bulls, cows, and so much more would spin slowly around the wall of his tent on the spinning wheel she had prepared, just like this. Herne sighed as he sat down and leaned forward to enjoy those last hints of warmth. And then the candle flickered. The shadows spun again, lashing up the walls in a dreadful mockery of lightning.

He never noticed the Pony standing in the corner on black-wreathed hooves. He never noticed as the Pony raised his foreleg and the shadows writhed. He never noticed as the sigh passed his lips and his shoulders slumped forward, snuffing the last spark. He never noticed as his head toppled into his lap to stare with mouth agape at the Pony, while the blood drained, dying his fur a deeper scarlet that dried to a crumbly reddish-black. It blinked once, twice, three times, and then closed its eyes, never to behold the world of the living again as the blood spurting from its former resting place finally slowed to a burbling trickle, and then to a steady drip that ran ever so slowly down his fur to pool on the floor beneath his head.

Herne the hunter mercenary was dead.

“Poison,” Hammer Strike muttered disdainfully as he looked to Herne with glowing eyes. “Quite indirect, and far too slow.” He nodded in satisfaction as he wiped a cloth stealthily along the blade Gakushu had made for him, then sheathed the katana respectfully, before he entered the shadows once more, leaving the room in utter silence.

Justice had been done.





The chief’s face was grim as he stared Mkuta down. A hat woven from living wood and green grass shoots stretched back around his head, accentuated by a variety of feathers and flowers that spread a sweet scent throughout the room. His baggy eyes and sagging back were clear signs of the toll his years of leadership had taken on him as age continued its deadly advance. A vivacious mare with a longer mane and a series of golden bangles down her neck looked up at the old stallion with concern.

“You’ve brought an outsider into the Moyo Wa Roho at the time of the great gathering. I assume you have a reason, Mkuta?” the chief asked.

“Yes, Mwalimu,” Mkuta said with a respectful bow. “I have several.”

“And they are?”

“For one, the village where he was found is not one likely to be visited by his kind, and no one spoke his tongue there. Secondly, the colt has amnesia. He remembers nothing of his past life, save for basic knowledge I’ve been able to coax out of him through our interaction.”

“Then a messenger will need to be dispatched to the nearest settlement for his people to reclaim him.”

“I don’t believe that would be wise, Mwalimu,” Mkuta said as he reached into his saddle pack and gingerly removed a charred fragment of wood. “He was found by Mwokozi Cave, with this in his possession.” He handed the remnant to the chief. “From what he tells me, he woke inside the cave with no memory of how he got there. You and I both know that entrance is protected. No stranger would be allowed to enter that place without permission, no matter how powerful their magic may be.”

Mwalimu examined the fragment carefully. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, Mkuta?”

“I am.”

“The odds are very unlikely. His kind are far from charitable.”

“He is different.”

Mwalimu narrowed his gaze. “That remains to be seen.”

“What do you intend to do with him, then?”

“We will test him,” Mwalimu said simply. “When the remainder of our numbers arrive, the conclave can begin. Then we will see what we will see.”

“And in the meantime?”

“He will be watched. You know the rules. We don’t show them our magic.”

“He isn’t–.”

“This isn’t open for discussion,” Mwalimu said as he slammed his hoof on the floor. His chest heaved and the mare at his side rose to lay a hoof gently against his forehead.

“Father, you need to control yourself. You know these outbursts aren’t good for your health.”

It took a few moments, but Mwalimu finally managed to regain control of himself. The bout settled into a gradual series of meditative breaths. He closed his eyes for a time, then finally opened them. “Thank you, Zecora. I’m fine.” He nuzzled the mare gently and gave a weak smile. “My time hasn’t come just yet.” Then he turned back to Mkuta. “You know as well as I do that the council ruled against showing anything to another of their kind.”

“He isn’t Star Swirl.”

“No, he is not. But he is a Unicorn. All of them are drawn to power in one way or another. We cannot risk Equestria learning any more about our arts than it already has. If he is the one our brothers and sisters gave their lives to be able to summon, the diviners will be able to tell it, as will the spirits.”

“You really do intend to go through with this, then?”

“I must. Or have you forgotten what happened the last time one of Equestria’s ‘nobles’ came to our lands?”

“And what is to happen to him in the meantime?”

“He is to be watched closely. We can’t afford to take any chances.”

Mkuta gaped. “Surely, you don’t intend to imprison him.”

“Tell me, Mkuta. Is he fluent in our language?”

“No, but–.”

“Then he will be taught. And until he becomes fluent, he will be confined. Will this not serve as a just compromise?”

“He may not stand for it.”

“He will, or he will face the consequences. You will explain this to him.”

“And who is to be his teacher? I will need to attend the conclave. You know this as well as I.”

“Zecora will serve as a teacher and judge. She shows great promise and has yet to have her path revealed by the spirits.”

“And should he need to be summoned to be read?”

“Then he will be summoned. I am cautious, Mkuta, not unreasonable.” Mwalimu shook his head, then turned to Zecora. “Will you do this for me, daughter?”

“If that is what you wish, Father.”

“It is, my daughter.” Mwalimu leaned down to kiss her gently on the forehead.

“There is one other piece of evidence that should be presented to the council, Mwalimu, before they decide.”

“And that is?”

“The colt’s name. In the Equestrian tongue, it is pronounced Vital Spark.”

Mwalimu stiffened. “You are sure of this?”

“I am.”

Mwalimu sputtered, then snorted and shook his head. “My decision still stands. I will not be swayed on the matter, until we have more information that I know can be trusted.”

“If that is your wish. I defer to you wisdom, Mwalimu.” Mkuta bowed his head once again. “Have I permission to depart and explain the situation?”

“You do. Take Zecora with you. They may as well get to know each other now.”

Zecora looked uncertainly at her father, but then she braced herself, rose, and strode over to Mkuta.

“Be well, Mwalimu,” Mkuta said by way of farewell.

“May the spirits guide your path,” Mwalimu returned. Then he frowned as they left. “And may they preserve us, if he is the one,” he muttered to himself as he sank wearily to the floor again. He sighed tiredly. “I’m getting too old for these surprises.”





Hammer Strike tapped his hoof impatiently as he stood waiting for the others to arrive. He was currently in his forge, having just finished the last touches on a small dagger.

Grif arrived quickly, though his body clanked with the new addition of the axe. It was quite obvious he’d left little up to chance, opting to take as much as he could carry and hope to not need it.

Hammer Strike eyed his friend for a moment, before returning to the dagger in his hooves. “I see you’re quite prepped.”

“I can’t put a talon on it, but I feel like we’re in for something big with whatever’s on the other side of the portal. I don’t want to take chances,” Grif said as he twisted his neck to crack it.

“Fair enough,” Hammer Strike shrugged. “You might have to help me somewhat, afterwards. Just transporting matter is one thing, but trying to focus it through time is going to drain me significantly.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I hauled your ass out of a tight spot,” Grif chuckled.

“Well, I hope I can still add my wings to the endeavor,” Pensword said as he clopped through the great double doors into the sweltering heat. Fox Feather, Moon River, and Lunar Fang stood in file behind him and he sighed. “Moon River insisted that they come as well, despite promising to keep our departure a secret. I couldn’t exactly tell her no.” He smiled sadly. “She wants to see Daddy off.” Then he frowned. “She seems to have reached the tantrum stage. She acts more like a two-year-old than her actual age. As for talk of inventory, I’ve also got my short sword and other weapons packed, on top of my wing blades.”

“Fine enough,” Hammer Strike replied simply. Then he rolled his shoulders and snorted heavily. “All right, let’s get this rolling,” he finished, pocketing the dagger. To ensure as much safety as he could, the air around the three of them began lingering with embers, leaving them in a separate dome to make sure nobody tried diving in at the last second. After a few seconds, the thaumic fire in his hooves began to spread up to his shoulders as he focused more and more energy forward. Slowly, a small ring of energy took form in front of him. It spun and swirled with the thaumic energies he held so tightly in command as he eased them into the space, gradually widening the hole to the point where it could fit a fully grown Minotaur. After a minute of sustained size, the ring of fire flared purple, and he let off with a heavy sigh. “All right, follow after me,” he told the group as he stepped forward into the ring, vanishing along with it.

It was at this point that another ring of fire appeared several feet away from the first one. Following that, Hammer Strike stepped out of it and glanced to the group. “Great. Well, that explains why you took your time,” he muttered to himself.

Moon River giggled and clapped her hooves as Pensword realized something. “Uh BYE!” he shouted diving into the first ring as fast as his wings could carry him. He did not want to meet his future self and create some crazy time paradox.

Hammer Strike frowned as he shook his head. “That’s the reason I told you guys to stay behind a few minutes. I expected this to happen,” he commented as he looked to Grif. “Well, go on now. I could really use the help.”

Grif drew a stiletto and stalked into the portal, readying himself for whatever lay on the other side.

Hammer Strike dropped onto a knee as he took a few steadying breaths. “Divine above. This will be the death of me, if I keep this up.”





“The waters of life flow from the sacred mountain,” Vital Spark said slowly.

“Good. Good,” Zecora encouraged. “Now let’s try that again. You were a little harsh on a few of your syllables.”

Vital Spark sighed as he rubbed his throat. “Zwahili is a difficult language.”

Zecora shrugged. “You simply need to develop the range for it. That always takes time.”

“Say, Zecora?”

“Yes?”

“What’s it like? Being a shaman, I mean. Do you really talk with spirits?”

Zecora tapped her chin as she considered the question, causing the golden bands around her forehoof to jangle. “I wouldn’t exactly call it talking, at least not in the way you and I converse. It is rare for a spirit of nature to interact in such a manner. Occasionally, they will, if the situation demands it, but they prefer to make contact through our instincts and our connection with the land. In that way, you could say we are very much like your Earth Ponies. But … there is a time once a year, where those who are ready to come of age are brought here to the mountain. It is during this time that we are allowed contact with other spirits. Those who have passed, those that dwell in nature, and even those who have yet to be born. That contact awakens something within us, and marks us in a way that can never be undone.”

“It sounds like a cutie mark,” Vital brayed, then coughed, much to the mare’s amusement.

“Perhaps a small respite,” Zecora allowed as a knowing smile pulled at her lips. “I doubt Mkuta would approve, if I left you unable to speak at all.” She turned and spoke a few words to one of the guards who maintained a watchful vigil day and night over the Unicorn. One of the two nodded and left to return a few minutes later with some water for the two to share.

“Say, Zecora?” Vital finally asked.

“Yes?”

“What are those things the guards are holding called?” He pointed to the long staff with a bent gnarled end that looked to be part stone and part wood blending seamlessly into the other resting rigidly in the guards’ grips. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen something like them before.”

“They are rungu, a ceremonial weapon that can be used for all manner of applications. A skilled user can take out an enemy from a distance and have it return to their grasp in time to use again. We haven’t had to make war in millenia, though, so I can’t say for sure how true that last boast really is.”

“Are they hard to use?”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. I’ve received basic self defense training, but my main focus has been on the arts of my ancestors. Our family have always been shamans from the beginning.”

“So, if the spirits are the ones who show you your potential, then … why haven’t they shown you yours?”

Zecora’s head suddenly snapped up from her drinking. “What?”

“Your flanks are still striped in a regular pattern. That means the spirits haven’t shown you the way you’re supposed to take yet, right?”

Quite suddenly, Vital Spark found himself staring off to the side of the hut as he sprawled on the ground with a throbbing pain in his cheek. His vision swam slightly as he suddenly felt the heavy weight of a rungu on top of his head. A hint of blue light faded from Zecora’s hoof as she looked down on him. “What did I say?” he complained.





“You did what?” Mkuta exclaimed as he, Zecora, and Mwalimu sat in council together in the chief’s quarters.

“He insulted me.”

“He was asking a question!” Mkuta raged. “That colt is literally that, a colt. I didn’t choose the word for play. He remembers almost nothing of his past and knows only a smattering of our culture, from what I was able to teach him on our way here. He is like a child. He wants to learn, to understand, not mock an insecure filly on the cusp of marehood.”

“Mkuta,” Mwalimu said gently, “I think you’ve made your point.”

“With all due respect, Mwalimu, I haven’t even begun to make my point,” Mkuta fumed. “Your daughter has let her fear of social ostracization blind her to her purpose.” He rounded on Zecora again. “If you had lost even the slightest hint of control, that blow you struck could have damaged his brain or rendered him blind. You could have crippled him for life, if not killed him outright. We do not use our gifts that way, except in the direst of circumstances!” He slammed his hoof angrily into the ground. “The mark that you long for so desperately is inconsequential. For the land’s sake, you’re the chieftain’s daughter! You stand well above your peers in skill and craft. You’ve already proven yourself multiple times. Stop acting like a child about this and start being a leader!”

“Mkuta,” Mwalimu barked. “That is enough!”

Mkuta’s nostrils flared, and he snorted multiple times as he struggled to rein in his temper. “It will be enough for her to think about, true enough,” he said as he turned towards the doorway. “I am going to check on our guest. I expect an apology, after you’ve had enough time to reflect on my words, Zecora.” He nodded briefly to the chief. “Mwalimu.”

Mwalimu sighed as Mkuta took his leave. “He’s right, you know. You’re still impulsive, Zecora. Wisdom will come with time, but if you wish to be able to lead someday, you must learn to acknowledge when you are at fault and make up for past mistakes. Enough reactions like that and you’re likely to become a tyrant, rather than a leader.” He approached the seat where Zecora had been sitting stone-faced as she took the brunt of Mkuta’s words. Then he laid a hoof on her shoulder and caressed her mane lovingly. “It’s often in times like this that the true nature of our character can be laid bare.” He smiled then and backed off a ways. “I’ll give you time to ponder over that. I know you prefer to leave the village, when you need to think. You have my permission, should you feel the need. Just make sure to come back safely.” He paused as he approached the door and turned to face his daughter. “And Zecora, I love you. Never forget that.”





Vital Spark’s sleep was anything but peaceful. His head still throbbed from the blow Zecora had landed on him, and that pulsing ached deep in his skull. Mkuta had been kind enough to provide an herbal remedy, but it only helped to dull the pain somewhat.

“Sleep will be your best healer,” Mkuta had insisted.

The Unicorn wasn’t so sure of that.

Whenever the darkness took him, strange images and faces would stalk his dreams. Living shadows surged from a cave wall, eager to consume him. A frightful looking Unicorn with streaked hair fired bolts of lightning between his legs, daring him to speak out against her. Then came the demented cackle of a mind unhinged, and a terrible cold that burned against the hide beneath his fur as his body shuddered again and again. A strange creature’s face appeared with a broader, bulkier muzzle and two great pointed horns curving up from its forehead. Suddenly, that face contorted in rage, and the eyes glowed red as it charged. It warped into something unearthly, and Vital Spark moaned, before starting awake. The cool night air danced over his fur, and he shivered as he scanned over his body. There were no signs of damage. No burns, no blood, no scars. Still, he shuddered. In his sleep-addled state, he could almost swear he heard the shrill whinnies of Ponies driven to a frenzy. But whether they were real or merely a figment of his subconscious, he could not tell as he dropped once again into that restless slumber and the fitful dreams that haunted him.





The days wore on, and with each passing night, more travellers would arrive. Some bore the fanciful trappings of a lush green land, their garb layered by a rainbow of colorful feathers and aromatic flowers. Other Zebras arrived as Mkuta had, having only the bare essentials to fulfill their craft. Others still carried great masks that obscured most of their body, each bearing a unique expression portraying anger, rage, sorrow, compassion, and much more. Some bore intricate convex shields bedecked by feathers and beads with various symbols painted along the tanned hide in unique patterns and shapes.

Finally, after a month of waiting, the tent city had swelled to capacity, and the preparations began. Torches were spread through the many paths, stretching out from the great meeting lodge at the center of town. Crystals sat bathing in the sun’s light for hours as incense was lit and Zebras meditated. The great fire pit was prepared and loaded with dried wood to burn, and more crystals had been laid around the fire in a series of rings for the ceremonial dances that were to come.

Day carried into night, and with the last rays of the sun, the crystals flared to life, glowing and pulsing like a frozen flame. On that unspoken signal, the procession began. Each of the Zebras from near and far strode from their tents in their respective garb. Many bore special body paints in intricate patterns as they marched solemnly with their staves. Others wore the great medicine masks, while the greener Zebras simply walked patiently. The diviners each strode forward with their pouches and special mats for the casting of lots and formulae for various divination rituals to utilize in the great fire.

The rapid beat of the drums flowed through the air from the center of the camp, calling all to enter and join the communion of the conclave. Due to the unique size of the gathering, a tower had been constructed for Mwalimu to stand on, so that he could address the host properly. He walked up to the platform on wobbly legs with the assistance of a pair of warriors bedecked in their finest garb, a set of red robes that could be discarded at a moment’s notice for ease of movement and a pair of ceremonial spears bedecked with ebony and pearls held in place by a finely woven net.

At last, the ways into the center of the village were filled to capacity, and the spiritually inclined stared up with baited breath as the rapid beat of the drums came to a thunderous crescendo and then broke off to die into the swelling night. Mwalimu cleared his throat.

“My brothers and sisters,” he began, “long has it been since the great call was sounded and the gathering commenced. We have enjoyed peace and prosperity in that time, sharing the wealth and knowledge that we have accrued one with another at the behest of the spirits.” He looked gravely at the gathering. “But now, that peace is threatened. The land cries out, and the spirits have issued their summons to our tribes and villages far and wide.” He raised a hoof and spread it across his field of vision. “You all have felt it. You all have seen the signs of change, of fear, of doubt and cloud. Our lands, our very way of life, may be in danger.”

He sighed and ran a hoof tiredly down the bridge of his nose. “And on top of these fears, a new concern has come to light in the form of an Equestrian outsider brought to us from Mwokozi Cave.”

Several cries of outrage poured out from the throng, paired with the murmurings of fear and demands for an explanation. Mwokozi let it go on for a time, then raised his hooves placatingly and called out again. 

“The outsider is in custody. And from what we are able to ascertain, he has no memory of breaking our laws or even seeking to overcome the taboo that was set on that cavern. It is for this reason that I stand before you now. To understand this outsider, we require a proper diviner, one who is able to judge one’s character by seeing beyond the outer flesh, one who is able to peer beyond the veil of time to foretell the portents of what is to be. I call for the wisest and eldest among your number to step forth, and I call for the youngest and humblest to join. The two together shall use their gifts to ascertain what is to be done.”

An elderly Zebra covered in ragged dusty robes stepped forward. He had a string of red beads that hung loosely over the sides of the hood of his robe and connected to an aurix skull that rested above his head. In his hoof, he carried a gnarled branch from an elder tree that hung with many pieces of colored glass.

“I am Mustafa the Walker, he who has traveled the lands beyond and returned. I offer my long days to the conclave for whatever wisdom they can bring.” He bowed his head low.

“I thank you on behalf of the conclave,” Mwalimu said. Then he turned his gaze over the remaining Zebras. “But what of the young? Will none step forward? Will none seek to aid us in this time of fear and uncertainty?”

No one stepped forward. Nobody answered.

“Very well, then.” Mwalimu nodded to his guards, only for Mustafa to release a dusty ancient chuckle.

“Forgive me, friend, but you yourself have requested the humblest to join us. Had anyone spoken up, would they really fit what you asked for?”

Mwalimu smiled gratefully to the diviner. “That is why we must rely on a different source to choose.” 

He reached over and seized a gnarled walking stick with three fruit pods tied to its edge. He shook it a few times to test the heft, then tapped it solemnly three times on the floor of the tower. The knocking reverberated with the titanic boom of a great iron door, and the winds began to pick up as the dust rustled and played with the eddies that blew through the gathering. Finally, a young mare with gangly legs and a dead eye tumbled into the dirt with a cry of surprise. A single golden ribbon had been tied around her neck, and she blushed violently as the gathering stared down at her. A clattering rattle sounded from a ragged pouch crafted from rough sack cloth. The lines along her flanks flowed like broad brush strokes to form the image of a great seeing eye staring out into the unknown.

“I believe we have our diviner,” Mwalimu said with a satisfied smile. The earth that had been below where she once stood writhed briefly, then settled back into its flat, static state.

“But, but … I’m not good enough,” the mare whispered as she shuffled her hooves.

“You would not fit the picture, if you believed you were,” Mustafa laughed as he took a seat on the ground. “Come, girl. Did the spider shy away from capturing the great boa? Come, and do not fear. You are in good company.”

“So, y-you want us to … divine what, exactly, bwana?” the mare asked as she approached on shaky legs to stand next to the elder stallion.

Mwalimu nodded to his guards, and they offered up a sealed container. He opened it briefly, reviewed the contents, then nodded. The guard took it back and delivered it to the pair. When the vessel was opened again, the two diviners peered inside to behold a series of golden hairs. “These were taken from the outsider, with his consent. It is your task to use them to divine his past and future respectively, with the spirits’ aid.”

Mustafa smirked a bit as he withdrew one of the hairs. “Gold seems most fitting. In the lands beyond, gold is highly priced.” He laughed, before setting it before him and concentrating. The glass chimed musically as the pieces collided in some unseen breeze. Without warning the hair smoked as an invisible flame burned it in an instant and Mustafa inhaled the fumes. He sat back and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were clouded, as though they themselves were filled with smoke.

“The spirits tell me this outsider comes from far, much farther away than any would truly believe. He was taken against his will. He was changed out of necessity, yet even now he clings to those he called friends in a realm alien to him. The spirits tell me he has traveled through much hardship, but has not let it darken him. His coming may be a boon to us.” Mustafa blinked, and the smoke in his eyes vanished. “That is all they say.”

“Your words are appreciated, albeit troubling, Mustafa.” Mwalimu frowned. “Thank you.” Then all eyes turned to the young mare.

The little diviner gulped heavily as she reached into the bowl and withdrew the hair, then spread out a simple woven mat onto the ground. She wove the hair gently through the fibers, being careful not to snap it. Then she pulled out her pouch and removed a plain wooden vessel with a small lid. She took a deep breath and exhaled onto the container and the mat beneath it. Then her hooves began to glow with blue light. She shook the bowl rhythmically and the blue light flared, licking up her hooves like fire as she stood on her hind hooves and began to step slowly at first, then faster and with greater confidence.

The tempo of her shaking became a vivacious percussion as her hind hooves also ignited. Soon her strutting became a dance as her belly shook and sparkling dirt puffed up with each step. The light raced up her black stripes like gunpowder, igniting the eyes that rested at her flanks, while the ribbon took on new life, streaming outwards to surround her body in a gauzy layer of what looked almost like magic mist. Her short mane flowed out behind her with extensions of the same blue light reaching all the way down her back and tinged with white as her eyes opened. The dead eye glowed brightly, while her good eye had become as black as night. She stopped at last, staring sightlessly into the distance, before deliberately pulling the top off her makeshift maraca to dump a series of carefully carved wooden figures onto the mat below.

The mat began to glow and the lots with it as the mare spoke out in a clear, ringing voice. “The instrument of prophecy is come, and the colt shall be a herald of woe, for within a full cycle of the seasons, the sun shall burn hot, and the land will wither. No part will be spared this desiccation, and the earth will weep, but none shall comfort her, save one. 

“The Spark of Life will set things right, but it will not mean the end, rather a beginning. The fires of war will rage, and the ancient feuds long since left shall be renewed. Only with the aid of the spark will the true children of the earth be revealed and the long war laid to rest on sacred ground. Therefore, hear the will of the spirits. Guard well the spark. Train him. Teach him the sacred arts and show forth love. By so doing, the land will be spared and our people will weather the storm. 

“You shall know him by the sign he bears, the sign which even now lies in the possession of the chief of chiefs, the elder of the conclave. Prepare you, therefore, every elder, every shaman, every warrior, every healer and cultivator; for the time of the great conflict is nigh at hand, and you shall know its coming when the ice of the mountain is brought to the plains of the savannah and the usurpers are cast out. Thus shall life flow freely once again and the land be saved. But who shall tend it? Know that that question will be settled with blood and steel, with wood and bone, with sacred stone. And this conflict shall decide the fate of the divided land once and for all.”

The mare dropped slowly to her hooves, then lowered herself to the ground. The light faded from her coat. Her mane retreated to its short cropped state. The ribbon returned to normal, and she let out a weary sigh as she blinked her eyes back to their usual appearance. Beneath her, a trace of greenery had grown up to intertwine with the mat over the Unicorn’s hair.

The conclave stared in utter silence at the mare. She blushed heavily and quickly darted behind Mustafa to try to avoid all the gazes that followed her.

Mwalimu gauged the gathering as he withdrew the charred fragment Mkuta had given him.

Mustafa laughed. “It seems our little friend has a gift for not just spirits, but the old ones as well.”

“Then it would seem we have little choice,” Mwalimu said huskily, then cleared his throat. “In accordance with the prophecy and the word of our diviners, the Unicorn known as Vital Spark shall live under our protection and tutelage. He will spend time in each of the three great settlements, starting and ending here at the Moyo Wa Roho. Will any Zebra object to this?”

None did.

“So be it. Tonight, we praise the spirits and the old ones for their guidance. Tomorrow, we must send the strongest and fastest among us to the chiefs of the warrior camp to the northeast and the cultivationists to the southwest. The council of elders must convene to plan for what is to come and to decide the order of the outsider’s training.” He smashed his staff against the floor of his platform. “Let the communion begin!”





Vital Spark’s welcoming smile soon faded as he watched Mkuta drag himself through the doorway that led into his guest quarters. “You look awful,” he said hesitantly in Zwahili.

Mkuta smiled weakly. “A conclave always ends with a communion. It often leads late into the night, sometimes reaching to sunrise. I will recover, after a good night’s sleep. I thank you for your concern, however.” He nodded towards the mare attending the Unicorn. “Zecora,” he acknowledged. “Thank you for taking care of him.”

Zecora inclined her head. “It is my duty, after all.”

“It may be now, even more so than before,” he said seriously. “Have you spoken with your father yet?”

Zecora shook her head. “It’s better to let him rest, after a night like that.”

“Perhaps so. There will be much for him to do in the coming days. The boy’s lessons will have to be accelerated.”

“What? Why?”

“Because we now have a time limit, Zecora, and he needs to be fluent, before that time is up. Until then, it will fall to you to be his teacher in language, and quite possibly the ancient ways as well.”

“What?” Zecora balked.

“Is something the matter?” Vital Spark asked as he looked back and forth between the two, uncomprehending.

“I’ll explain tomorrow, assuming your father doesn’t beat me to it. Treat him well, Zecora. Help him learn how to act in our society. His stay is to be extended. That’s all you need know for now.”

Zecora glared harshly at Mkuta. “Your explanation had best be a good one,” she said curtly.

“If you are so eager to know, ask the spirits yourself,” Mkuta said tiredly. He let out a heavy yawn and rubbed at the bags under his eyes. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time I made my way to bed.” He turned to Vital Spark and smiled goodnaturedly. “No need to fear, Vital Spark. We’re just going to be focusing more on your education is all. I do need to get some sleep, though. I just wanted to make sure everything was all right.”

“It’s wonderful,” Vital said in his heavy accent.

Mkuta chuckled as he turned back toward the door. “Good. Good.” And with that, he passed back out into the early morning. The temperature had already begun to rise dramatically, and he sighed in disappointment. “Keep that enthusiasm with you, Vital Spark,” he muttered as he plodded heavily through the deserted streets of the village. “You’re going to need it.”