An Extended Holiday

by Commander_Pensword


148 - Test Your Might

Extended Holiday
Ch 148: Test Your Might
Act 23


“All right, gentlemen, today’s the day. Are you ready to take the fight to enemy soil?” Vital Spark asked of his companions. The graves had already been dug and filled with the bodies of the fallen Minotaur troops. True to Grif and Hammer Strike’s orders, none had been left alive.

“We’ll finally be able to get to work,” Hammer Strike replied simply.

“I still can’t believe we’re actually dealing with deities from ancient Greece. It’s crazy, but in a sort of awesome way,” the Unicorn said.

“Really? We’ve dealt with everything else,” Grif said.

“Correction. You two have dealt with everything else. I came in late.” Vital winked at his friends. “Then again, I guess visiting with a certain love bird would have counted, huh?”

“Amongst other things,” Grif nodded.

“So, Hammer Strike, you think you can push that solar wall ahead of us, when the opening pops up? I’m guessing the Minotaurs are going to want to try hitting us, while we’re traveling through.”

“Easily.”

“Good. And the shamans will be alert to counter any attempts to use boulders or other aspects of earth against us. We should probably brace for heavy resistance. The Minotaurs would have sent a lot of troops to the wall by now, trying to find a way to break through again.”

It took another hour, before the ground began to shake and wobble beneath the army’s hooves and talons respectively. Then came the crack as, piece by piece, a section of the escarpment gradually collapsed into the earth, like a giant sinkhole.

“And that’s our cue, I suppose,” Vital said. “Grif, if you would be so kind, could you sound the horn?”

Grif retrieved an old war horn and blew, filling the air with its rising call. Three times, he blasted; and with that opening salvo, the troops advanced. It was a simple matter for Hammer Strike to shift his barrier and convert it into an unstoppable battering ram. Solar fire burned ahead of the soldiers, scorching the earth in its passing as the thunderous bellow of what had to be hundreds of Minotaurs sounded all at once.

“Archers, make ready!” Vital Spark cried. “The moment we clear the passage, let loose with a volley. Target only the bulls. Leave the cows unharmed, unless they deliberately try to attack. Spearstallions and mares, brace for combat. Same rules of engagement apply. Guards, make sure to protect Fjüra. We owe it to the Longhorns to keep her safe. If you want any other orders, you look to Hammer Strike or Grif.” He pulled out his rungu and hunga munga, holding both in his magical grip as they continued their advance. “Good luck, gentlemen,” he said to his friends as they approached the other side of the escarpment.

When the last of the escarpment finally gave way, the invasion party wasted no time. Row upon row of Minotaurs stretched back, and the loud bellows that were their warcries combined with the dust rising in the distance heralded the rapid approach of reinforcements. The blazing light of the solar fire and the trembling of the earth had given the troops enough notice to organize. Unfortunately for them, that organization meant nothing as the final portion of the wall burned red-hot. The earth finally gave way, and chunks of molten rock burst out with the inferno, vaporizing all the units before them, right to the very rear of their forces. Arrows soon followed as the Zebras began to pour forward, bursting enemy tendons and liquifying bones.

Despite the incursion’s valiant first strike, however, the numbers of the Minotaurs were still vast, rising into the thousands. The shock of the first dramatic blow had only lasted for so long, before they rallied, closing ranks around the opening in an attempt to secure the choke point.

“This isn’t looking good, guys,” Vital Spark said as his eyes darted back and forth between the troops, while he fired off beams of magic to freeze or otherwise hinder their opponents. Already, the troops were running out of room, and more Zebras were still trying to push their way in from behind.

“Fall back and stay out of my way,” Grif ordered.

“Where to? There are still troops trying to make it through the opening,” Vital pointed out.

“Just keep everybody behind me,” Grif ordered as he rushed ahead, drawing both swords.

“Is he going to do what I think he’s going to do?” Vital asked Hammer Strike.

“Probably.”

Grif crossed his blades for a moment. His eyes began to glow as the wind picked up around him, battering and blasting anything that got too close. The breeze became a gale and the gale a tempest. Grif let out a roar as he uncrossed his blades. The air around him shot outwards in a whirlwind of power. Black air mixed in with the regular winds, creating a mesmerizing effect. Grif swung outwards to his nearest target. The breeze off the sword blades cut right through the Minotaur’s bulk and traveled onwards, alicing both arms off the warrior and everyone behind him. Grif batted his wings forward, and minotaurs began grasping at their throats, trying to take in air as it was pulled back and ripped from their lungs to join the tempest that was Grif Grafson. And still, the Gryphon continued to strike out at anything still standing.

Blood dyed the ground beneath the dark warrior, his armor, his fur, leaving little but a crimson blur as the he threw everything he had forwards, turning the would-be-attackers to ribbons. Soon, those not close enough to attack bellowed a retreat and the air was filled with the stampede of scared minotaurs trying to avoid the battle-crazed Gryphon. Grif chased after them, cutting down opponents as they tried to flee, until both he and the opponents were lost in the distance.

Finally, several minutes later, the air seemed to relax and something told Vital it was over. He had witnessed the culling at the choke point, but the sight that greeted his eyes as he stepped farther into the field was nothing short of ghastly. Severed heads and other limbs littered the ground. Fearful, unseeing eyes gaped pleadingly at the troops that approached. The copper scent of blood hung heavily in the air, and only the years of intense personal discipline kept the Unicorn from losing his breakfast. Off in the distance, Grif sat panting amid a pile of bodies, his patch of earth the sole eye of the storm, untouched by the blood of his victims. Vigilance and Vengeance lay impaled in a cadaver as the Gryphon clutched at the hilts. His arms were shaking as he panted from his exertions.

Vital Spark levitated a damp cloth mutely before the Gryphon as he and Hammer Strike approached. The remainder of the troops tarried by the wall, ensuring the caravan finished passing through the escarpment to prepare for the next leg of their journey.

Grif said nothing, but nodded with thanks as he took the cloth to wash his face.

“That … was a lot of kills,” Vital finally managed to say as he looked over the sea of corpses. “Did any of them manage to get away?”

“Count them up, Vital. There’s a few hundred here. They had thousands. That outburst was to make them run, not wipe them out. Honestly, I’m not sure I could kill them all by myself.”

“I don’t know. Build up enough discipline and power, and you probably could,” Vital said as a hint of a smile pulled at his lips. Then he let it fall. “We’ve got a foothold now, but you look pretty tired. How long do you need to rest to recover?”

“Six hours,” Grif said. “Maybe seven.”

“A simple nap, and you’ll be back,” Hammer Strike shrugged.

“Do you have enough strength to move or do we need to set up camp over here?” Vital asked.

“I can move,” Grif chuckled. “Just don’t ask me to fight.”

“Please. We both know you could still whoop my sorry butt like this,” Vital teased as he pulled another cloth from his pouch. “Go ahead and clean Vigilance and Vengeance. Then we can go.”


Pensword narrowed his eyes as he listened to the murmurings of the crowd. There were less than usual. He would have thought his novelty was finally beginning to fade, but the actions of his keepers had changed. Rather than relax, the opposite had proven true.

His wing twitched as the itch of growing feathers once again pulled his attention away from his musings. The soreness had ended, which was a definite plus. His wing had finally stopped hurting as well. He wasn’t sure if that was the result of his thaumic field speeding things up or not. That being said, based on the way his wing stretched, it was clear the limb hadn’t healed properly. A solid lump of hardened tissue bulged against the veiny skin. Despite his best efforts, the bone hadn’t set properly. He’d definitely need a healer, when they got back to the present. The question was which one to ask for help.

Luna was certainly at the top of his list, both for physical and mental healing. Her gifts in combat medicine and dream walking would make her the prime candidate to assist with any lingering scars this particular adventure might leave behind.

Clover…. Well, the very idea made him shudder. She was certainly skilled enough as a healer, but her bedside manner left much to be desired. He really didn’t need someone threatening to hit him with a bolt of lightning every few sentences, if any of Vital Spark’s jibes held even a grain of truth.

Suddenly, his eyes widened as his ears perked. He jerked his head. He could have sworn he heard the shrill cry of an eagle, a cry he knew only too well from two years of sharing the fields of combat and friendship.

“Grif?” he murmured. Then he shook his head. No, if it had been Grif, the guards would be dead, and the wall would have been ground to dust. The Gryphon would have whisked them both far away in the blink of an eye.

All the same, the idea that the others could be on their way provided a certain element of comfort that he welcomed. Even if it was just his imagination, was it really such a bad thing to hope for the best? With that in mind, he put himself to work, jotting a tally of the changes down in his head. If rescue was indeed coming, he was certain he would see greater evidence to support the fact soon enough. After all, nopony in his right mind would stand long against a vengeful Avatar of Winds and the quiet rage of Celestia’s Ghost.


Disiungitur bellowed with rage, his hooves smashing the ground before him as he let the body fall limp before him, its head twisted at an unnatural angle. His flaming pelt practically glowed in the fires of the setting sun. Still unsatisfied, the great leader leaned down and clasped the messenger’s horns in either hand, before twisting his wrists almost negligently to break the bone and keratin from the surface of the younger Minotaur’s head with a wrenching double crack that echoed through the peaks, like a gunshot. Then he stabbed them into the younger bull’s torso, followed by kicking the corpse into the air and against the wall with all his strength. The violent snap of bones breaking on stone and the following cracks as the mass and velocity dealt their returning blows finally lessened his haze enough to think clearly. He stomped over to one of the many hidden stone doors that stretched into the endless maze of galleys spreading throughout the mountain. Two guards stood on either side of the passage.

“You,” he snarled at the first one. “Get me the lead cow. I don’t care what she’s doing. Bring her to me immediately.”

“But, Sir–.”

“Are you questioning my orders?” Disiungitur’s voice had suddenly become soft and surprisingly level. The lead bull stared flatly at the perceived upstart, then raised a single brow.

The warrior shuddered once, the only sign of the trembling he was working so very hard to hold back. “At once, most revered Herd Leader.” He turned and quickly made his way down the hall.

Then Disiungitur turned to the other bull. “And you, there is trash in my quarters. You will dispose of it, before the sacred cow arrives. We wouldn’t wish to offend her or her young heifers.”

The other bull gulped as he noticed the hints of blood drying on the fringes of his lead bull’s arms. “O-of course.” He bowed his head in submission. “As you command.”

About a half hour later, an older cow was rather hastily ushered into the hall. She wore a thick robe of a deep green, and was followed by an entourage of younger cows. “This had best be important, Disiungitur. The gods do not appreciate those who push their messengers around.”

“The gods also do not appreciate invasion,” the lead bull snapped as he approached the cow and narrowed his gaze. “I have just received word. How is it that the four-legs have managed to cross into our lands, when all of your combined power proved unable to breach the great wall again?”

“Perhaps your war was not supported by the gods, like you claimed? Perhaps this is their retribution.”

Disiungitur bellowed violently, causing the younger heifers to flinch under his harsh gaze. “We acted on the word of the Longhorns. They were attacked, unprovoked, and it was not until after our assault began that the land began to heal. These are not rumors, but facts.” He slammed his hoof down, causing many cracks to span out from the floor. “Not only do they dare to infringe upon our grounds, but they have allied themselves with the sky shriekers, ones who command the spirits of the air. You know the ways of the earth. You listen to the voices of the spirits. You craft the finest weapons and armor our people have ever known. If these invaders continue their path, then it is only a matter of time, before they come for Labyrinthian. Have your heifers and cows craft all the weapons and armor that they can. We must be prepared.”

It was not a request.

“We both know, had you not stirred them into a frenzy, the Longhorns would have sent a delegation to settle the matter, not a disguised raiding party,” she said as she turned to walk away. “What will you do, if your actions wake the gods?”

“They did send a delegation. I didn’t set the four-legs to attack them. As for the gods, let them judge me as they will. I have nothing to fear from them.” He snorted in disgust as he turned back to a gnarled black stone hammer with red leather spiraling down on either side of what appeared to be crimson geodes. The crystals acted as a window to the heavy tempered metal that lay beneath. Two wicked spikes were mounted, one to either side of the hammer’s face, and a third on top. A final spike jutted out from the butt of the shaft. “Let the four-legs come, if they dare. It will be through their own blood.”


The very next morning, Pensword woke early. The pity party he had given himself was over. He knew the tides had changed. The bulls’ restlessness was evidence enough. So, that morning, while keeping his bad wing tucked at his side, he began to perform one wing pushups. While it was a little odd using mostly flesh and not a magic infused feather, like the other Pegasi, he couldn’t afford to wait for his feathers to grow again, before rebuilding the lapse in muscle training. He managed about twenty in the time that the visitors realized that their little pet had changed attitudes again. Feeling the effort pushing the limb towards collapse, he switched to using his hooves.

The guards watched and jeered at the Pegasus as he continued to push himself. The distraction was a welcome sight, further evidence of the changes Pensword had noticed. The room had begun to smell lightly of his exertions, after a week with neither shower nor bath offered. But seeing as his hosts didn’t seem to care, the warrior pressed on. He wouldn’t give them any more satisfaction than they had already achieved.

As the warrior worked his body, he also worked his mind, running potential escape scenarios. Like it or not, with the way he had been limited to the ground, it was quite likely he would need to wait for a suitable distraction to have any chance of a proper escape. Thaumic crystals would serve as a strong enough explosive, provided he didn’t use too many of them at once. Assuming he utilized the wind crystals, he could at least avoid destroying the Minotaurs’ souls, though he could say little for their bodies. That still didn’t provide him an easy means of escaping the guards, though. If he couldn’t work that out, he would be dead before he could get to cover.

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, when the Minotaurs entered with his meal. The scent of hot porridge made his mouth water, but he didn’t let up. There was still more to be done, before he was ready to eat. Besides, every warrior knew it was best to wait for a time, after working out, before consuming a meal. He did stop, however, when a sudden deluge of warm water smashed him to the ground. He growled in frustration at the soaked bandages, then glared at his keepers. Were they trying to ruin his recovery?

“Idiots,” he spat quietly as he shook the water from his mane. There wasn’t much he could do about the wraps, except lay in the sun and hope the damp wouldn’t have a negative effect as it air-dried. However, since the brutes had disrupted his workout anyways, he figured he might as well make his way to the table. It would give him an opportunity to examine the doorway more closely, anyways.

The porridge was filling, if a little bland. Rather than risk revealing his plans, the Pegasus opted for pretending to savor the meal. This allowed him the opportunity to close his eyes and focus on clearing his mind. It didn’t take long for his thaumic senses to stretch out to the walls. He felt the earth aspect easily and probed ever so gently, in search for any signs of air pockets he could make use of along the door’s frame. The seam was very small. About the only way he’d be getting crystals in there would be to manifest them directly inside the crevice.

Now, how to do that, without raising suspicion?

Pensword looked idly down to his bowl. A bright red pomegranate shone dully in the light, next to his place. A smirk pulled at the commander’s lips. His ink stores were running low. If he were to make it look like he was trying to produce a new means to draw along the entry….

Yes, that would work nicely. That would work very nicely, indeed.


Vital Spark looked regretfully back at the rising pillars of smoke curling from the latest city. For such a warlike culture, their architecture was surprisingly advanced. It was a pity to have to break down the structures. Their weapons were another story, however. The Longhorns took whatever they thought would prove most useful. The rest were destroyed either by Hammer Strike’s hooves, Grif’s wind, or Vital’s own ice, before Hammer Strike finished the job with his flames.

“Does it always have to be this way, Grif? The burning and destroying, I mean,” the Unicorn asked as he turned away to look out at the horizon. Far in the distance, a great mountain range loomed into view. It was a long ways off yet, but the fact they appeared so large already was a testament to just how immense the edifices were.

“They made a statement. We’re simply answering in kind,” Grif told Vital.

“I know.” He sighed. “I just wish it wasn’t necessary, you know?” He looked back towards the mountains. “It won’t be that long, before we get to the capital, will it? Do you think Pensword is all right?”

“He’s alive. That’s the best I can give you right now,” Grif answered honestly.

“How can you tell that?”

“If he’d have died, Hammer Strike would know.”

“How?”

“Death?” Grif said after a moment.

Vital Spark stared off into space as he deadpanned. “You know, I’d kind of forgotten about that,” he finally said as a red blush showed under his fur.

“So, finally starting to understand it?”

“War or the embodiments being a thing?”

“War,” Grif said. “This is the first time you’ve actually ended up fighting on the front lines.”

“Almost front lines,” Vital smirked. “As I recall, a certain birdbrain and his lord have been trying to keep me in charge of groups with the least likelihood of direct combat.” The smile fell then, and he sighed. “Honestly, it seems like such a big mess. I know everyone has their reasons to fight, when war comes: Family, livelihood, food, resources, influence, conquest, and sometimes battle lust. It just feels wrong, and yet, there’s no other choice here, if we’re going to reclaim what was taken. Saving Pensword, protecting my adopted family, those are my reasons. So, even though I don’t like the fighting, I’ll still do it, and I’ll endure what has to come, because I guess that’s what you have to do in war.” He chuckled ruefully. “It sucks, but there it is.”

“Now you get it,” Grif chuckled.

“Egads! Praise from Grif the Heckler? Should I be running for shelter about now? Is the moon about to fall on our heads?”

“Take it, while you can,” Grif laughed. “You’ve still got a lot to learn.”

“Naturally. Tis part of the eternal round, don’tcha know?” Vital winked at his friend. “We’ll never stop learning and growing; not ever.”

“That’s how you stay alive.”

“On the contrary, Taze. That’s how you live.”


The eldest of the sacred cows strode slowly toward the mountain entrance, then turned to face her escort. “While I appreciate the Heard Leader’s concern, we must press on alone here,” she insisted as she looked to the young warrior guard. “Our protectors lie within. You may report to the Herd Leader and assure him that you fulfilled your duty with my thanks.” She nodded gently to the bull as the twin heifers that had been enclosed by the guard emerged timidly from their living cages of muscle and fur to join the priestess.

The bull bowed his head. “I have been ordered to leave a detachment of warriors at the main entrances to the sacred mountain, Priestess. These warriors will remain to watch for any unusual activity. More will come in due time to bolster the mountain’s defenses.”

“And for a fitting, I would suppose,” the Priestess added. Her voice creaked with age, but still held the vigor of strength tempered by years of acquired wisdom.

The warrior coughed uncomfortably.

“Go on,” the female sighed tiredly. “We will send for you, when we are ready to commence the armament.” She leaned heavily on her staff. “Girls, if you would be so kind.”

The two heifers immediately sidled up on either side to offer their arms and shoulders in support, should the elderly bovine stand in need. They slowly shuffled their way into the darkness of the caves. When they were certain of being out of sight, the cow nodded to the pair and straightened her back, striding confidently to the inner chambers.

The rough exterior of the walls soon gave way to fine smooth stone filled with rivers and veins of sapphire, ruby, emerald, jade, diamond, gold, and other precious ores and gemstones. Thick columns stretched up into a vaulted ceiling suspended by gothic arches connected to the pillars. The priestess was swift to act, striding forward in a rigid, measured pace that echoed down the passages in a bold staccato. Then she raised her head and began to sing. The melody had no words, but with each step, flashes of red surged from her hooves into the smooth stone to spread along the channels of precious metals. Stones came alight as the steady thrum of her contralto permeated the caverns to reach the farthest portions of the caves.

The song continued as she strode through the caverns towards a mighty set of double doors, engraved with fifty hands on either side, lovingly clasping at the handles, where a single Minotaur stood with its head bowed in the embrace. At the rise and fall of her cadence, the sound of ancient gears and bolts long since forgotten cracked and snapped. The hands pulled back from the handles as the locks on the doors disengaged. Dirt sifted from the ceiling as the portal swung ponderously on unseen hinges, the stone grating against the dust of ages.

Without hesitation, the cow pressed forward, and great crystalline sconces ignited in radiant reds and golds to replicate the cheerful light of a torch. The two heifers gazed in awe as they followed their matriarch into the great chamber. As they passed, the light from the crystals ignited to reveal beautiful works of crystal rendered in metal framework to portray various events from their history. The great wars, the descent of the gods, the warning of wisdom to temper anger, and knowledge to hone experience in battle. At last, they came to a great amphitheater, bathed in a vale of shifting colors. And there, at the very heart, sat a tiny flickering flame, burning hot and bright within its stone housing, casting four beams of light through the slits of the container to spread up each of the four stairwells.

The great cow descended the steps, passing tier upon tier of chairs and worktables. Tools sat in the far corners, carefully preserved in their bins and containers, and on the far end of the farthest stairwell lay another pair of doors, these in iron. She closed her eyes and looked aside sadly as she strode to the flame’s container. Then she laid her hands on either side and ended in a long and weary decrescendo. The message was clear, and the whole mountain would carry it to all the cows who had the ears to hear.

Come.

And come, they did. The procession was heralded by the soft response to the priestess’ summons. They were tepid at first. The distance was long to travel, and it would take time for all to gather, but gradually, the room began to fill, and awed silence began to rise into a united chord of exultant praise and gratitude as the heifers and cows alike took their seats along the tiers. Finally, the cows reached the last note, and their voices faded into the silence.

“Sisters, times are most grave for us,” the matriarch said. “It seems we have been given a lead bull who cares not for our ways or the ways of our gods. He thinks only of war, and now our people must pay the price of war.”

A low murmur rose up over the gathering as the cows spoke among themselves. It had been their sacred duty for centuries to subtly guide the destructive tendencies of their male counterparts to avoid this outcome. Now it seemed the system designed to prevent the battle-frenzied from taking command had been overturned. And war….

“Already, reports rise that cities are being burnt. By some mercy, our attackers leave the non-combatants alive, but they kill all others,” she explained.

“And the leader kills the warriors that come back,” one cow voiced bitterly.

“If there is any hope for our species to survive this ordeal, we must prepare to do that which has not happened in many millennia.”

The amphitheater held its collective breath as the cows sat on the edges of their seats. Their matriarch’s gaze had hardened with resolve, her green robes fluttering in the drafts that passed through the room.

“My sisters, we must begin preparations to wake the hundred-handed gods.”

The gasps that followed through were profound. “But, High Priestess, without a representative of the Longhorns, the Circle of Makers won’t be complete,” one of her handmaids said urgently as she grasped her mistress’ sleeve. “An incomplete making will only wake their wrath. Please, Mistress Mtaala….”

“And what path do you see before us, child?” she asked.

Tears stood in the heifer’s eyes. “I … I don’t know, but we can’t lose you, too. There must be a way.”

“I’d rather lay down my life for the sake of the calves than watch the world burn forever.”

Mtaala planted both hands firmly on the top of the stone casing, and the flame burned a radiant white as the light drew itself into the vessel. A spherical stone carved at the top glowed with that same light, and from it, characters drew themselves into the stone along the lamp, then spread over the floor as ripples of the light flowed through the stones, then carved along the stairwell towards the great iron door. The sound of hissing metal filled the cavern as red-hot sigils burned themselves in the frame over the portal and the doors creaked open. The rivulets of energy coursed out in a series of lines that jerked at perfect right angles, flowing into one another like circuitry, before finally being lost in the darkness. A detonation soon sounded, followed by another and another as a roaring heat flowed from the chambers with a rosy glow.

“And it would seem the first flame agrees,” Mtaala said as she read over the characters.

A perfect making for the waking, forged from heart with pure intent.
Ply the craftsman's sacred art and masters' anger will relent.

Forge the lamp with sacred fire, that a vessel it may be,
To act as beacon, rain or shine, and bring Peacemaker unto thee.

Fire calls unto its like and blood shall answer blood.
Ice and Wind and Fury’s Pyre shall wade on through the flood.

When ancient lands in chaos thrown by mindless might shall be,
Traditions chains will be cast off to set the prisoner free.

All that was and yet shall be will stand upon the knife.
One path will stand victorious, the other lose its life.

“What … does it mean?” the heifer asked.

“It means we have work to do,” Mtaala responded as she looked to her sisters. She tore off her sleeves to expose lean, taut muscle along her milky hide. She cast her staff aside and straightened her back, rising up to her full height as joints long since bent over returned to a proper alignment. She allowed herself a single groan of pleasure. Then she strode to the stairs and began to climb. “Come. It’s time I showed you all a real forge.”


“So, we’ve finally made it,” Vital Spark said as he looked out to the massive walls that towered in the distance. The camp hadn’t built any fires under Hammer Strike’s orders, to prevent the enemy from gauging their numbers. The monastic calls of the people of Labyrinthian rolled through the still air to reverberate off the mountainsides to their camp. The atmosphere was calm, almost peaceful in a way, but both sides knew better. Both were preparing for battle. “Any ideas how to breach that wall?”

“We have a lockpick,” Grif smiled, looking to Hammer Strike.

“Just need a time for it,” Hammer Strike replied.

“As in an ideal moment to strike?” Vital asked.

“We’ll have to be ready to attack the moment the hole’s made. Who knows how long it will take to repair? And they probably know we’re coming,” Grif said.

“I’d say the messengers you left to go spread fear would have done a pretty good job of that, yes,” Vital agreed.

“Well, this is where it ends, Vital. No matter what happens, this is our Troy.”

“There’s going to be a lot of blood lost on both sides.” Vital frowned. “Is there any way we can pinpoint Pensword’s location? If we can get him out before the fighting starts, it’ll take away any potential bargaining chip they could use.”

“I can feel him in there, but I can’t waste the energy to pinpoint him right now,” Hammer Strike responded.

“There’s definitely something else in there, though,” Vital noted. “The magic broadcasting from that mountain is powerful, though it doesn’t feel threatening.”

“Their gods?” Grif asked.

“No, I don’t think so. If a god doesn’t want to be found that way, it won’t be. Otherwise, I would’ve pinpointed Gaia a long time ago. This is something different, a single signal, not three. It is possible that it could be an artifact from a god, though, I suppose,” the Unicorn mused.

“Well, I suppose we should light this candle sooner, rather than later, then,” Grif said.

“Um, Sirs,” a young Zebra mare said somewhat hesitantly as she approached. “Lady Fjüra has requested an audience.” She cleared her throat. “She won’t take no for an answer.”

“Very well,” Grif nodded. “Bring her over.”

Fjüra was swift to join them, moving too quickly, even for her guards, in her haste to reach the trio. “When do you intend to attack the city?” she asked almost curtly. Her usual calm demeanor had been cast aside in favor of urgency.

Grif looked to Hammer Strike “How long?”

“Within the next hour.”

Fjüra shook her head vigorously. “You must hold off, at least for three more days.”

“And why is that, exactly?”

“Our proximity to the mountain has allowed me to communicate with my fellow Makers. My sisters in the city are preparing to aid us from within, including removing your friend from danger. Mtaala, the wisest and eldest of our number, has broken the ancient seal. They intend to wake the gods, in order to overthrow Disiungitur, and they are arming the protectors and themselves for the battle to come.”

“And how long before he attacks us, while we wait?” Grif asked.

“I do not know, but there is also a plan in motion involving someone called Peacemaker. They wish to give this ally enough time to arrive as well, and have utilized an ancient artifact to call to him or her. It is spoken of in our oldest tales and songs. We call it the first flame.”

“Three days?”

She nodded. “No more,” she assured him. “It is the safest way to ensure his protection and to secure properly equipped allies from within.” She frowned then. “There were some … complications, however, in your friend’s care.”

“What kind of complications?” Vital asked, even as he eyed Grif’s talons digging into the turf and Hammer Strike’s face becoming a mask of forced calm.

“His wing was broken by his keepers on orders from Disiungitur, and then his feathers were plucked. His paranoia over the more … unique aspects of your peoples’ magic left him wishing to give certain … chastisement, after your friend chose not to heed his warning. I fear that, if he is not taken to safety, it will be too easy for your friend to be killed. The air will not be his sanctuary for some time yet.”

“Well, that changes things significantly,” Grif commented, cracking his neck.

“You’re not thinking of charging in there right now, are you, Grif?” Vital asked worriedly.

“No, three days will give me time to think of the more painful ways to kill this Disiungitur,” Grif said darkly as his eyes swirled into a midnight blue. One could almost hear the roar of the dark gale whispering at his ears.

Vital Spark was silent for a time. Then he looked up with determination in his eyes mixed with a pang of guilt. “I’ll keep any guards from interfering,” he promised. “And if anyone else tries to hurt him….” A light frost coated the fronds of grass by the Unicorn’s hooves. “I won’t let them. You guys have been through enough, because of me, already.”

“Don’t take all the credit,” Grif commented.

“Shouldn’t I, though?”

The punch was so fast, it might as well have been instantaneous. One minute, the words where leaving Vital Spark’s mouth, the next, he was on the ground with an aching jaw. “Stop being so damn selfish. The world doesn’t revolve around you, Vital Spark. We all hold responsibility in this. Pensword as well. In fact, him most of all. He had instructions and he deviated from them. Now in three days, either through violence or diplomacy, we are going to free Pensword.” Grif looked down at vital. “And then I’m gonna kill him.”

Vital rubbed his jaw as he got to his hooves again. “Pensword or Disiungitur?”

“Yes,” Grif said, before walking away.

“I think I’ll just cut my losses and leave you to yourself,” Vital said judiciously to Hammer Strike.

“Wise decision.”


Pensword jerked awake, though he wasn’t quite certain as to why. His senses were on high alert, yet nothing seemed out of place. The moon shone brightly through his windows, and a small blue bird that had been his constant companion the last few nights trilled softly from its place on the ledge. Suddenly, the trilling broke off, and Pensword heard a muffled grunt of pain, followed by a shallow groan and the sound of armor scraping against the wall.

Fully alert now, the Pegasus rolled out of bed and crept to a far corner, where the shadows would provide him with shelter and the element of surprise. He braced himself and reached out with his field to touch the three grains of thaumic crystal he had formed along the crevices of his artwork etched in ink around the door frame. If the bulls were coming to kill him, then at least he could make sure to take out a few, maybe even open an avenue of escape, however brief.

The door grated open slowly, and a dim silver light shone from the slit of a cleverly configured lantern, concentrating the beam to pierce the dark, until it fell upon him. It was a light Pensword recognized well. But a moonstone? Here?

“Pensword.” The word was raspy, guttural, and slow, but … could it really…? “Pensword.” There it was again. The voice was deep, but definitely feminine. A hoof-tipped hand reached out and gestured toward the door. “Pensword,” she whispered, more urgently this time.

Pensword could tell that was most likely the only word this stranger could speak in his language. The bird tilted its head inquiringly, but it did that with most any visitor, so he didn’t know whether this boded well or not, and he didn’t know whether the wildlife here had the same level of sentience as the animals back in Equestria. That being said, the cow said his name. He had never given it to anyone, not once, in the entirety of his captivity. The fact that she knew it, and spoke it in Equish, could only mean one thing.

He rose out of his crouch and felt his companion alight on his back as he strode cautiously towards the main room. The moonlight from the lantern gave him enough light to adjust to the darkness of his dwelling. She waved urgently under the cover of her cowl, a great sheet of dark cloth that obscured most of her body, save for a rectangular slit at its top for her eyes to see out of. He took a few brief moments to dismiss the crystals and return the aspects to the environment around them. Then he turned to follow the cow. As they emerged, two burly Minotaurs in leather armor and dark padded clothing had just finished dashing a pale liquid over the guards’ muzzles and chests. The vessels and the remainder of their liquid were then planted next to each guard, with a wet patch carefully poured next to them to signify the sloshing of the liquid, after it fell from inebriated hands. Their work complete, the two warriors rose and approached silently on hooves covered in bundles of cloth to avoid leaving any prints or impressions.

The cow raised a finger to her veil, then motioned for the warrior to follow, while the two warriors took up positions in front and behind the procession.

Pensword looked on in confusion as he followed, a little worried about his own hooves leaving a trail, not to mention the sounds he generated, when he struck stone. Fortunately, the big bull in the back took care of the former concern. The latter, well, he supposed the trio must have a plan.

The journey was slow and long. They passed through narrow streets and vaulted alleys. Once, they took shelter beneath the bow of a massive bridge overhead. The heavy clopping of hooves and the clank of steel left the warrior’s heart racing. They waited. He held his breath. Finally, the patrol finished their passage and pressed on. Even as the warrior followed his escort, his ears swivelled in search of other possible threats. He was rewarded with the rhythmic tromping of an ordered march, the cocking of gears as ballistae were primed and loaded, their functionality tested. The smoke of many a fire drifted on the wind to his nostrils, alongside the acrid scent of pitch and naptha. This city wasn’t just being cautious. They were preparing for battle.

Based on experience, the Pony could tell it wasn’t just mobilization to march. Naptha and pitch were generally reserved for one tactic only, and that was to coat and burn an invasive force. So, a siege, then. That meant the others had finally come. A smile pulled at his lips. They were all right, and they were here. That must have meant they’d found Vital Spark. Good. He’d finally have someone he could actually talk to, without having to worry about being attacked.

They finally came to a large well. The warriors removed a grappling hook from the pack and attached it firmly to the edge of the opening. The cow motioned to the well, then curled her arm and pointed to the gap, followed by pantomiming the action of carrying.

Pensword gulped as he stepped forward. He didn’t like the idea, but he didn’t have much choice. He looked to the bird on his back and shrugged. Might as well try. “I don’t know if you understand me or not,” he whispered to the avian, “but if you do, you need to go. Find the black Gryphon, the great hunter. Tell him I’m all right. He should be somewhere outside the city’s walls.”

The bird stayed on his back for a time, and Pensword sighed dejectedly. Maybe it couldn’t understand, after all. Finally, the creature hopped off and ascended to a nearby window ledge. It paused there for a time, looking back down at the four, then flew off. “I just hope they can forgive me for saving a foal’s life,” he whispered to himself under his breath, then approached the cow.

Like the rest of her race, the cow proved exceptionally strong as she held Pensword in the crook of her arm. She eased her way over the edge with the help of her guards, then gradually eased her way down, the rope sliding easily over the keratin of her fingertips in a controlled descent. When they reached the bottom, she released Pensword. The water was chilly, so Pensword began to swim to the edge of the pool. Once again, his bandages were soaked, but at least this time it was his own choice. It didn’t take long for one of the warriors to join them. A few shakes of the rope later, and the tendril rose swiftly back to the top, before the light was completely cut off by the replacement of the well’s cover.

A few seconds later, silver light emanated once again, filling the pool and revealing the way to the water’s edge, where a worn path lay, lined by a series of stalagmites linked by rock to form a sort of guard rail. When all three had escaped the pool, the cow took the lead, guiding them through the caverns to only gods knew where. He just hoped it wasn’t another cell.


The midday sun blazed overhead as wave after wave of unrelenting heat rose up from the grasslands, distorting the air before them. Vital Spark may or may not have used his magic to create enough moisture over the ground to exacerbate the effect, followed by an illusion cantrip to obscure their advance.

“This won’t trick them forever,” Vital Spark warned in a low whisper to his friends as they crept closer to their target. “The sooner we can neutralize their advantage, the better.”

“Once Hammer Strike makes a hole in the labyrinth, it won’t matter if they notice or not,” Grif noted.

“Yes, but by that point, we’ll have neutralized said advantage. By the way, Grif, be careful in there. My wards may be strong enough to shield you from a few hits, but I doubt they’ll take a full ballista.”

They finally reached the edge of the wall, just a few yards away from the gate. Vital grit his teeth as beads of sweat dripped down his forehead and his neck tensed, as if he were bearing a great weight. “Hammer Strike, I’m having to rely completely on illusion now, and I’m not sure how much longer I can hold it. If you could take care of that knocking you mentioned, I’d really appreciate it.”

Hammer Strike sighed to himself as thaumic fire covered his hooves. He reached his hoof forward to touch the wall ahead of him, letting the fire separate from him to form a large square. Then he removed his coat and placed it off to the side, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted. Once the square had fully formed, he reared his hoof back and, with as much force as he could muster, thrust forward. The wall was consumed with the fire, and then the flames burst back, hitting the next wall behind it, and so on. As the flash faded, a large square opening laid before them stretching back through every wall in front of them as thaumic fire burned along the edges to create a literal passage of flame.

The army gaped. The Minotaurs balked. And like a living thing writhing in agony, the various walls of the maze that divided the outer wall from the city shifted and lashed, ramming back and forth in a vain attempt to close off the passage, only to disintegrate as they touched the tunnel.

“Holy impenetrable flames, Batman,” Vital exclaimed as he watched the display. His horn flickered, and then the light faded entirely as his illusion dropped to reveal their forces.

“So much for unstoppable defenses,” Grif chuckled, then charged, belting at the top of his lungs. “LEROY!”

“Charge!” Vital roared in Zwahili as he followed his friend. “And whatever you do, don’t touch the flames!”

The forces stampeded en mass, the thunder of their hooves shaking the very earth as they ran past. The mysterious barrier continued to hold, and not even the enemy’s heaviest rocks or fastest bolts could pierce the passage. All were consumed.

Hammer Strike stared forward, ensuring the fires held stable. His frown deepened. His coat lay folded neatly off to his side, on a decent sized stone surrounded by a dome of his field. In the coat’s stead, Derflinger lay across his back. “I’m done playing nice,” he muttered to himself as he began his descent into the labyrinth.

True to any slave nation, the Minotaurs sent a horde of their goats to try to slow the army’s advance and give the bulls enough time to coordinate. It was a simple thing to neutralize the threat. One look at Grif left the creatures trembling violently. A roar sent them running back through the alleys, taking whatever path would get them as far away from the predator as possible. The warriors kept close enough to the towers to prevent any feasible attacks from the ballistae, and ran in an orderly fashion, striking passing blows to Minotaur bulls as they followed the paths Fjüra had drawn for them in their war council.

“All right,” Vital said grimly to himself as he pulled out Mustafa’s staff and promptly froze the Minotaur warriors’ feet in a block of ice. “Let’s party.”

Grif had breached the wall well before the others, and was already cleaving bloody murder through the Minotaur ranks. Bodies and body parts scattered around him as he fought in full fury, ignoring most wounds that were acted upon him in his berserker rage.

Blood sprayed and burned away to nothing just as quickly as Hammer Strike mowed through the ranks of warriors. One punch would burst thousands of blood vessels as he smashed rib cages and quite literally drove skeletons out of their bodies. Disembodied heads would soar into the air to be lost in specks of light as they passed into the stratosphere. For the first time in a very long time, Hammer Strike was finally letting go of his limits.

And for the first time, perhaps ever in their history, the Minotaurs felt just how futile their battle really was. Limbs shook. Jaws clenched. And still they kept coming. Still, they continued to fight, because unlike before, this was their pride, their home, their sacred place. Here, they had to stand, or else they would lose all.

Limbs froze. Blood rained. Souls burned. And the three leaders of the invasion continued their grisly work.


Disiungitur looked on in utter bewilderment, fresh blood still dripping from his hammer as he returned to gaping at the great maze. In one surge of power, the Zebras had somehow managed to not only breach their first defense, but permanently damage it. A power of that magnitude, the power to destroy so completely, could only belong to a god. Where had the pathetic four-legs managed to find one? How had they gotten it to agree to assist them? He snorted and growled angrily as he turned back towards the great rack on the other end of the hall. A set of gleaming black pauldrons and a matching loin cloth with the insignia of war sewn into the fabric lay in wait for him to don and lead his warriors.

Yes. His warriors. Warriors that needed strength, a firm hand, a proper stud. And he had given them all they could want and more. He embodied the ideal leader. He was the ideal leader. His decisions were without fault, his actions without remorse. His right was won by conquest, and thus sanctioned by the three great ones. And even if it weren’t, he would still rule. It was his right. It was his destiny. He looked down and casually kicked the heads of the guards that had dared to commit the sin of seeing the one fragment of weakness surprise had shocked out of him. He would not allow them the ability to spread the slander of weakness to his herd.

They would not be divided. He would not allow it.

The great bull strode forward to the rack and donned his armor, heedless of how the pooling blood from the bodies below stained the tips of the fabric on his loincloth a horrible crusty brown. Rather, he crouched low and dipped his fingers into that pool of blood and ran them through his fur on his cheeks and down his arms in intricate patterns and sigils that wormed their way from the edge of his memory, from that dark place, the place where he felt….

The great bull’s eyes widened, and he bellowed angrily to drive the thought away. “I am strong. I am their leader. I AM DISIUNGITUR!”

His declaration was answered by a defiant shriek, like that of a great eagle.

The bull’s blood raced. A twitch pulled at the corners of his mouth. A call to combat. A call to challenge. The twitch soon pulled into a manic grin as a deep chortle soon grew to a chuckle, and then to a full-throated laugh. The sky dwellers had come to play. He clung to his great hammer as he strode out, trailing blood on his hooves. He couldn’t wait to meet the upstarts.


Pensword sat back and watched as the Minotaur cows continued to trot back and forth between forge room and workstations. The many tiers of the amphitheater were filled with a flurry of activity as skilled hands guided the next generation on the finer points of crafting leather or engraving metal. The elder cows ran between the great iron gate leading to the forge and another entryway leading into the depths of the mountain. A curious stone structure lay at the bottom of the amphitheater, looking much like the old stone pedestals he had observed in the Emperor’s garden, back in Neighpon. However, the flame that was meant to burn there appeared to be missing. Perhaps they only used it during formal meetings?

In due course, one of the warriors that guarded the chamber approached with a cow, who crouched down and pointed inquiringly at the Pegasus’ wings. Pensword nodded his ascent as the cow crouched low with her medicine bag. It didn’t take long for her to remove the bandages they had been using. She probed the wing gently, feeling for the knobby point in his flesh. When she found it, she pulled out a series of herbs, which she ground in a mortar and pestle, before adding a bit of water to create a paste. She traced it over the spot, then used another set of herbs to form a new poultice, which she spread over the rest of Pensword’s wings with a clinical precision, being careful to maneuver it under and around the points where the Pegasus had begun to grow his feathers back. The aching from the bone dulled with the topical application, and Pensword signed his relief.

The commander watched idly as one of the cows strode into the forge to emerge moments later, girt in steel. The breastplate cupped under her endowments to offer proper support, while the remainder encircled her torso in separate parts to ensure ease of movement. A skirt of chain male obscured her legs, but allowed for greater ease of movement as she strode forward with a great club engraved with intricate pictures and runes. The bull who accompanied Pensword’s nurse looked on with obvious concern at the sight, and Pensword instantly felt a connection to this warrior. After all, had he not felt that selfsame worry, whenever his wives had to enter combat? Perhaps there was hope for these people, after all. At the very least, Pensword resolved he would make sure only to hold those responsible for his capture and mistreatment accountable. It was the least he could do, after what these guards and their holy cows, at least he assumed they were holy cows, judging by their raiment, had risked in liberating him.


Mtaala strode into the great cavern deep beneath the sacred peaks. Far above the chamber, a thin column of light shone down, refracted by a series of cleverly grown crystal formations through a shaft that absorbed the light in a great formation atop the peaks of the range. A series of cleverly laid panels sat in the center, surrounding the crystal that lay at the bottom of that shaft of light. Ropes attached to their tops on a pulley system, waiting to release the light from its confinement. Around the edges of the cavern, the other leaders among the cows lay in wait with their guards manning the ropes. A normal Minotaur would have to bellow to be heard, and the echoes of the cavern would distort their replies. Fortunately, the priestesses had a better way.

“Are we all prepared?” Mtaala whispered her thought through the ground. Even the art of the unspoken was dangerous to use here, but it was a necessary risk.

“The Angus stand ready to end the long sleep,” a deep, smooth contralto whispered assertively.

“The Highland Heifers are raring’ to go,” a higher-pitched voice whispered in the curious brogue of the tribe from the mountains.

“The Shorthorns are prepared,” a softer-toned voice whispered meekly.

“In the stead of Mistress Fjüra, I will execute the duty for the Longhorns,” came the firm reply.

“The Blue Oxen are ready to proceed.”

When the remaining confirmations had ghosted their way back through the earth, Mtaala nodded gravely. “Then let it begin. Bring forth the light of the end.” She looked to her guard and nodded. The guard, in turn, strode to the rope and began to pull. In due course, the panels that had enclosed the crystal formation rose higher and higher, until light blazed out in carefully controlled points, based on the placement of the facets in the crystal. Light jumped and zigzagged from crystal to crystal, weaving, until the cavern was filled with the illumination, forming a great upside down horseshoe.

Mtaala braced herself, taking a deep breath. In all the long centuries, it had been the solemn duty of the cows to act as caretakers to their keepers. They would sing the songs of sleep and dreams, the prayers of hope, love, gratitude, and thanks. But with the passing of each generation, one song was held most sacred above all, always to be remembered, never to be invoked. So vital was the importance of this ritual that the makers had crafted a room specifically designed to absorb and conceal all sound within, so the power would not fall into the wrong hands. She had stood in that room sixty years ago to receive that great honor and burden that was associated with her office as the successor to the elder. And now, it was her solemn duty to let that hymn be heard.

Then, for the first time in centuries, Mtaala’s voice carried into the cavern. “Old ones, Teachers, Bearers of the Hundred Hands, I beg your forgiveness, but you are needed.” And then she raised her head and loosed that gentle lowing that had echoed through the caves and into the plains beyond.

Soon one voice became two, two became four, and four became many. There was no stopping it now. The waking had begun.


Grif let out another loud crow of defiance as he stuck a stiletto in either side of a Minotaur’s neck and twisted savagely, only stopping to withdraw the daggers, before hopping to the next target and repeating the process. The battle had been going surprisingly well, at least for Grif, who had been given a wide berth by Zebras and Longhorns alike, when they saw the pile of bodies in his vicinity.

Vital Spark proved surprisingly effective. What cuts he managed to land on his opponents either caused intense pain, thanks to the sonic enhancements, or spread a creeping frost that killed the flesh almost instantly as it advanced. Since he didn’t know how many warriors they would have to battle, he did his best to conserve his magic reserves, saving his more powerful spells for if he were cornered by too many foes at once. His staff and hunga munga twirled together as they circled one another in his magic, giving off that frigid aura. Vital Spark grinned. “Come at me, bros,” he said, then pressed the attack, flanked by his fellow Zebras.

Hammer Strike growled to himself as he passed yet another house. He could sense the civilians within, and quickly acted to put his power in check again. He wanted to keep loose, but he knew better. To unleash such devastation would only harm more innocent lives. That would not do. So, he settled with just punching really, really hard. Surprisingly enough, despite painting the rest of the town red, the Earth Pony was relatively clean of blood. That proved especially strange, given the fact he was currently facing down his opponents in a particularly narrow pathway.

Disiungitur laughed as he mowed through the enemy troops. His great arms swung tirelessly as the spikes on his hammer impaled, then decapitated the heads of the Zebras that sought his end. It was a simple matter to deflect the spears and arrows they sent his way. This was happiness. This was his home. This was a slaughter, and he loved every minute of it. The cries of the sky dweller had grown closer, but not nearly enough. He sneered. Perhaps a few more offerings would bring it closer. Its kind always did like fresh meat, and there was such a plenteous supply handy. He dug into another body, flinging it back and over his head as he raised for another swing, trailing blood behind it. Yes, a few more, and he would be able to face the warrior. And then he was going to kill it. He could hardly wait.

Something flew past his head and left a line of searing pain across his cheek. At the very edge of his vision he saw the sky dweller make momentary eye contact, before carrying on his own mass slaughter.

Disiungitur sneered. The creature had managed to wound him. That was no small feat. His heart hammered like a drum in his ears. At last, a worthy opponent. But now was not the time to face him. No, not yet. Both had their own battles to fight first, an appetizer for the events to come.


While heated battle raged above, seven forces at rest began to stir. The vibration of the bovines’ voices carried through the rocks to where the entities lay.

“And so, it begins,” Amethyst said calmly as her spirit pulsed in time to the ancient invocation.

“You don’t think big brothers will be too upset with us, do you?” Ruby asked.

“Prudence dictates they allow us a chance to explain,” Topaz began. “Then again, prudence is hardly the choice they take, when something precious to them is in danger.”

“We, for one–”

“–Think they’ll do the right thing–”

“–And let us explain,” the Emeralds said.

“Regardless, we’d best be ready to meet them,” Sapphire noted. A low tremor shook the ground. “I’ve been waiting to stretch my legs again for far too long, anyway.”

“Best to rest a little longer, Sapphire,” Opal warned. “We’ll need to time our rise to the very moment our brothers wake. Too soon will imply we ordered our children to attack and let them through. Too late, and our brothers will be unruly, drunk with rage, after waking from the long sleep, only to find their children at war. Only in unity will we find the path to negotiate a proper peace.”

Topaz chuckled. “You were waxing almost eloquent there, Opal. Are you sure you didn’t take some classes from Prometheus, before hibernation?”

“I will neither confirm nor deny that statement,” Opal said, completely nonplussed, though a hint of mischief played in her voice. “Leave that for the future.”

The rumbling grew louder, the tremors more intense.

“How soon, until the mortals feel the effects?” Topaz asked somewhat clinically.

“I would imagine the shocks should reach the upper layers of the crust within the next few minutes, at this rate,” Amethyst guessed. “Gyes always was a light sleeper.”

“Is his strength really that awful?” Ruby asked.

“I once saw him smash an entire mountain to powder, just because he stubbed his toe on its base,” Amethyst said solemnly.

Ruby chuckled nervously.

“It will be good to craft with Briareus again, though,” Sapphire noted. “He really does think more clearly, when his hands are busy.”

“And Cottus?” Amethyst asked. “Has anyone thought how to deal with him?”

The seven siblings were silent. None of them knew how to deal with The Furious.


Dust and rubble fell in equal measure from the cavern as the cows’ hymn stirred in the three hundred ears of their three great gods. The sounds of various groans and rumbles punctuated the lowing, while the ground beneath began to churn and shake. The earth heaved with the stirring of the sleepers.

“Whatever you do, do not stop,” Mtaala’s voice called through the churning rocks, though it was barely audible over the roar of the old gods’ stirring. “The moment the hymn is complete, flee this chamber!”

The temperature within the cavern had begun to rise, even as the crystal gem that was the source of the omega symbol’s light began to glow a rosy pink, and then an angry red. The rocks soon followed suit as the acrid scent of sulfur began to rise with the cracks breaking in the floor. Great gouts of steam surged intermittently, leaking the gases that now churned beneath the rock of the chamber.

And then came the quickening. The hymn changed from a song of longing and gentle nudging to a call of urgency. The tempo picked up as the cows sang in harmony, followed by a drastic dissonance that highlighted the dangers their race now faced. And then came the glow as magma flowed through the cracks to cast its heat and light throughout the chamber. The crystal and its mirrors melted, while the cows belted out three powerful dissonant chords.

Mtaala turned to her companion. “Drop the rope. This chamber has served its purpose. It’s time to run,” she ordered. “We’ll seal the path behind us.”

The guard nodded his understanding, letting the rope and its panel drop into the sea of lava that was rapidly rising.

“Come on!” she bellowed, even as the acrid smoke rose up the shaft towards daylight and the first flame. Prophecy had come to pass. Fire had called to its like. The gods would wake at last.


Out on the field of battle, the city trembled and shook under wave upon wave emanating from the mountain. Dark smoke rose from the peaks above, coloring the skies a sooty gray as an ominous rumble echoed down its passes to roll across the city. A single light pierced the veil of smog that was rapidly forming over the peak. It pulsed and strobed, like a lighthouse beacon, while the warriors fought and shed blood below.

A hand, a massive ashen grey hand, crashed down, clearing the rubble and dust in the air in one single blast of air pressure that knocked almost everyone back. As the air cleared, it revealed the arm attached to the hand. As more arm was revealed, so were dozens of smaller arms branching off from the mountainous wrist and arm, only to branch out into their own hands. Some were thick and rugged. Others were small and willowy. But all moved in chaotic waves and motions. With a groan of effort that caused several cracks in the ground around the hand, the creature attached to it pushed, and a massive figure stood, nearly as tall as the mountain that had covered it, though not quite as wide. The figure was a massive muscular torso that,at first sight, seemed to lack any sort of head. That is, until the casual observer could make out the fifty writhing heads, each attached to a neck growing from the chest. Fifty  voices moaned and groaned, as if awakening from a great sleep. Seconds later, a second figure stood from the rubble, and then a third. Each giant stretched their great and terrifying extremities as they observed the world around them, while the remains of the mountain struggled to remain upright.

“So, we have been summoned, my brothers!” Fifty voices spoke as one, a mixture of male and female, soprano and bass and everything between.

But to what end? a second cacophony of voices echoed, booming over the great city as the larger of the three flexed his great muscles, tensing his many hands as he yawned. “We all agreed it was better to sleep to mourn our family’s passing.

“Perhaps the world is ending, the third group of voices suggested, and we have been called to fight.

Brother! Calm your rage! the first group spoke up.

Calm? When the city is clearly being attacked, Briareus? the third asked incredulously. I think not. I demand to know our children’s attackers, so I may wipe their nation clean from Mother’s back!

Suppose that our children may be led astray, and we have been called for a culling? Would you be so eager for their own blood, Cottus? the first asked his brother.

Then they will face the consequences for going astray, and we will teach them control anew,” Cottus said. I am furious, not foolish, he growled.

Good. I would hate to have to restrain you, brother, the second said.

Cottus’ faces all smirked. You are welcome to try, Gyes.

“Perhaps it would be best to focus, instead, on the joy of a reunion and the meeting of minds,” a vibrant feminine voice rang through the air as the ground rumbled again. “We have all slept for too long, and it seems a reckoning is in order.”

The ground shook again as seven great hands thrust out of the earth, dropping even the heartiest of warriors off their hooves. Amethyst was a gorgeous woman, with her raven hair tied in intricate braids above her head. Her skin was smooth as glass and shone with the gloss of polished stone. A piece of green earth formed the top of her ensemble, while a flowing skirt of the yellow longrasses from the savannah hid her legs.

The Emerald twins were perfect mirrors to one another, each grinning at the three gods with a glee that only fond memories could bring. Their faces were rounded along the edges, their hair a short mixture of hard packed brown earth mixed with veins of their namesake. They were bare-chested, exposing the perfectly toned muscle that lay beneath as their yellow eyes flickered mischievously.

“You’ve been sleeping for ages.”

“We wondered if we’d have to drag you out of that mountain ourselves,” they greeted.

Topaz shook his head as he rolled his eyes. A set of carefully molded spectacles rose up on the bridge of his nose as he peered through them to observe the trio. Rather than a skirt or basic cloth, he was garbed in a flowing earthen robe. Instead of the green of plantlife his sister wore, his was studded with a variety of stones, like granite and basalt to give the impression of intricate needlework. “It seems the more things change, the more they stay the same. Must you always leap to conclusions, brother?”

Sapphire’s bowl-style haircut reached down to her shoulders as she smiled peacefully at the trio. She sparkled in the sun’s light, casting a shade of blue over the planes below. Her sundress fluttered and rustled, like flowing water, in a sparkling white. Rings of silty brown sat on each of her fingers.

Ruby was, by far, one of the smallest. The titan wore a set of shorts and a neutral brown clay shirt. Ruby’s hair remained at a comfortable length with a neutral cut that would work equally for either a boy or girl. Ruby waved somewhat nervously from behind Sapphire’s back.

Lastly, Opal hovered in the air, shining like a rainbow. Her legs were folded peacefully, and her white hair cascaded down her shoulder in a carefully bound braid run through with bands of multicolored stone. A pale white patch sat over her forehead in a perfect circle as she opened her eyes to behold her siblings. “It would seem you chose the better course. Good. I would rather not lose any of my siblings today,” she said simply as her eyes shifted milkily through the color spectrum.

“Will someone explain what is going on here?” Gyes asked as he flexed his mighty limbs. Preferably before Cottus goes on a rampage?

“To put it simply, one of your children saw fit to take advantage of a moment of weakness for ourselves and Mother, and broke their way through the wall we set to divide our children from yours, until time could hopefully heal the wound that marred their peace,” Amethyst said. “War was the inevitable result.”

Cottus huffed. Only the strong should succeed, then, he said haughtily.

Prometheus is not with you? Briareus asked.

“We only woke recently, ourselves,” Topaz explained. “We haven’t the foggiest where he might be.” He shrugged.

Pity. For it seems we are at an impasse. Had we woken before this war started, we could have settled this between ourselves, but now neither side can relent without losing honor. The hecatonchires shook his many heads. “That would not do.”

“We did agree to allow them to make their choices, when such conflicts arise,” Amethyst agreed. Then she sighed. “It is one reason why we allowed them to pass, but did not intervene directly.”

Still, I sense outsiders seeded amongst your children, and an … aberration within ours, Briareus said.

Cottus chuckled ruthlessly as he flexed his many arms. Does that mean I can actually tear something apart?

You know it would be unfair, brother, Gyes chided. And we agreed we wouldn’t allow ourselves to fight their battles, lest we rouse Mother.

Oh? So we have to watch as these anomalies meddle with our affairs? It isn’t right.

He has a point, Gyes noted. His eyes narrowed. There is power. It sleeps, but the potential is there. It is not unlike the force you imbued within your first creations, brother.

Briareus turned to the wreck of the mountain and reached in. With a mighty pull, he withdrew a large object with a handle longer than the tallest tree and a head that was large as the foothills of the mountains that Canterlot sat upon. It was the biggest forging hammer Hammer Strike had ever laid eyes on. It pulsed with primal residue as the symbols of the Greek pantheon ran across its surface, glowing in colors respective of the god the symbol attached to. The deity began to break pieces of the mountain off and sort through them, removing handfuls of ore and dropping them beside Labyrinthian.

Gyes’ eyes widened, and his mouths gasped in unison as he lunged for the mountain, swiftly plunging his great hands near the base. Carefully, gently, he clawed and pulled at the stones, until he finally found that which he sought. He sighed in relief as he pulled out a great stone cube without seam or crack. He smiled then. Clever girls, he chuckled as he took the cube to the far end of the city, where Minotaurs and Zebras alike gaped up at the behemoths. He lowered the cube, then tapped it three times with one massive finger. The stones blew out in every direction, leaving the precious cargo intact as the many cows, their guards, and one solitary Pegasus looked up in wonder at the massive entity. Then, having dealt with quite enough for one day, the Pegasus let out a light bleat, flipped onto his back, and promptly fainted.

Having amassed a great mound of ores, Briareus turned from the rest of the rubble and began to work, his labor unseen by his siblings. The massive clang of his hammer roared across the land.

Down on the ground, a white light flickered and shone brightly, cradled in the hands of one of the cows. That light gradually became brighter, until the mortals had to look away. In a matter of moments, that light shot into the sky, trailing a stream of energy behind, before blazing with a light as bright as the sun.

“Well, would you look at that?” Sapphire said. “Very pretty.”

Opal smiled. “Big brother will be here soon. There aren’t any eagles around here, are there?” she asked, only for several roasted bird carcasses to suddenly fall from the sky. “... Never mind.”

The light soon stopped near them and rapidly faded, revealing a large man, taller than each of the titans and the hecatoncheires. He wore a toga of fire over his muscular frame and his face was clad in a long beard of flames. Billowing red hair grew down to his shoulders. His eyes were dark, but had a kindly, wise nature to them.

“It seems I am the last to show,” he said with a smile.

“And the flashiest,” the Emeralds said together.

Ruby plowed into the titan, wrapping arms as far around as they could go in a hug. “We missed you, Prometheus.”

Prometheus lifted the young titan. “You have grown so much, since I last saw you.” He chuckled as he swung Ruby around.

“Where’ve you been? It’s been so boring sleeping under the earth.”

“I have had many things to do,” Prometheus said, setting Ruby down. “Now, what seems to be the problem?”

“The children are fighting,” Amethyst sighed in that longsuffering way only a mother or older sister can pull off with any degree of success.

And we have interference,” Cottus grumbled.

“And you do not know what to do?” Prometheus more stated than asked.

“Pretty much,” Sapphire said with a shrug. “Wisdom dictates we find a peaceful solution, but that’s usually your field.”

“But I may not always be around,” Prometheus said, “so I want you to suggest a course of action first.”

“Can we skip the banter and get to the important part?” Opal asked. “It’s so frustrating waiting.”

“We need a solution that allows both sides to be satisfied with the outcome, but also one that solves the issue. What are some possibilities?” the elder titan asked patiently.

“Ask them to stop?” Ruby said hopefully.

“Yes, because that worked out so well at the last war,” Topaz said sarcastically.

“Unfortunately, Topaz is right. That solution proved insufficient.” Prometheus nodded. “Anyone else?”

I know what you will say to me, so I won’t speak,” Cottus growled.

That’s because he knows how much you love to fight, brother. Gyes chuckled as he smacked his brother companionably along his back. After this is settled, how about you and I find a nice open place to wrestle? That should help you to feel better.

Cottus grumbled, but didn’t refuse.

“We could always bind them,” Topaz noted clinically. “I believe the Faeries called the enchantment a geas.”

“That is what Zeus would do,” Prometheus said in a slightly angry tone. “It is valid, but only for a time. And should it break, then both races would surely be angry with us.”

“Surely, you aren’t suggesting what I think you’re suggesting,” Sapphire finally said. “That particular ritual hasn’t been invoked since Zeus banished the elder gods.”

Trial by combat, Briareus spoke up finally. Two warriors fight to the death. The winner decides the fate of this war,” he said as he stood up.

“Um, excuse me, but isn’t the technical term Mortal Kombat?”

The gathered deities looked down below, where a white Unicorn peered questioningly at them. A gnarled staff lay in the crook of his foreleg as he stared.

“... Yes, but we found that whenever we’ve said that phrase, one of our children has always felt compelled to shout it out at the top of his or her lungs,” Amethyst explained.

“Oh. My bad. Carry on.”

Ignoring the interruption, Briareus stepped away, allowing them to see what he had been working on. A massive colosseum half as large as the city itself lay off to the side, practically adjoining the capital itself. The inner fighter’s arena was caged and then surrounded by long stands for an audience to spectate. Great bronze statues dotted the sides, each in the form of a titan, and three gold statues stood in the form of each of the three hecatoncheires.

Well, that wasn’t very sporting, brother, Gyes complained. You could have at least invited us to help.

I remember your attempt at the helm of darkness, his brother laughed. I decided better for it.

It wasn’t that bad, Gyes winced. I just made it a little toointimidating.

Does this solution work for everyone? Briareus asked the other assembled deities.

“Very good, brother,” Prometheus praised. “With this solution, both sides may save face, and the situation can be solved with minimal loss of life.”

“Then it’s agreed,” Amethyst said. “Each of our children will choose a champion to represent them in armed combat. Whoever wins shall claim victory for their side.”

Disiungitur bellowed his outrage. “How is that honorable? How is that just, when they attacked our delegation and cut off the sacred spring?”

“That was not the doing of our children,” Opal explained placidly. “It was an event brought about by displaced spirits of the air cast out from a foreign land. They were bound in contract to protect the waters, and they abused that contract to foment rage and violence. The moment you came to the Stampede Grounds was the moment their power became strong enough to harm the land. Your anger, your rage, and your lust for battle fed them. Were it not for the instruction we left with our children, all would have perished, and you would have been the cause.”

“Lies!” Disiungitur roared.

Many of the males flinched back at his defiance. Here he was, challenging deity, those who had been acknowledged by their own gods to be siblings.

“Then perhaps you would be willing to believe someone who isn’t a Zebra,” Vital Spark said as he stepped forward with Hammer Strike and Grif on either side of him. “The spirits are called Windigos. My friend Hammer Strike aided in the fight against them, when they sought to freeze my homeland and all its residents. Were it not for him and a few desperate Ponies, they would have succeeded. They were about to do the same thing to the savannah and Stampede Grounds, when I encountered and exposed them. I exorcised them with the aid of a more powerful entity.”

Disiungitur narrowed his gaze and lowered his head as he snorted in disgust. “If your story is true, then you are little more than a coward and a weakling, not even worth the effort of speech. You will die, little four-leg, by my hand.” He tensed his hoof-tipped mits as he stared almost hungrily at the equine.

“Big words for a coward,” Grif growled as he stepped between Vital and the Minotaur.

“Wait a minute. You actually understood that?” Vital asked, surprised.

“We deemed it simpler for negotiations,” Amethyst said with a shrug. “One cannot find common ground, if one cannot understand one’s adversary.”

Grif continued, heedless of the explanation as he glared at Disiungitur. “You’ve been out for blood since the beginning. Maybe I can’t speak your language, but I’ve seen more than enough battlefields to know a commander. How many lies did you tell? How many voices did you have whispering in their ears to get this war started? And now a clear solution’s provided, by one of your gods, no less, and you respond with words of cowardice. When reason is spoken to you, you respond with threats.” Grif walked right up to the Minotaur, who was easily over twice his height, and stared defiantly into those oddly familiar blue eyes.

Disiungitur bellowed in rage. His muscles tensed. His teeth ground with effort. His blood vessels looked fit to explode with the force of his exertions. And yet, for all his desire and murderous intent, he could not move.

Until the decision is made, there will be no fighting,” Gyes’ voices chorused. A champion must be chosen by the four-legs.

“The decision is already made.” Grif looked up to the titans and hecatoncheires with the same defiance. “I stood at the front of the Zebras. I led them here. By the powers of gods as old as yourselves, I demand my right to combat. I demand the right to satisfaction.” Grif pointed at Disiungitur. “Me and him. Let us fight, and let combat decide which of us is right.”

“And in lieu of the chieftains and elders, who among our children stands?” Topaz asked.

Mkuta, Bayek, and Hekima stepped forward.

“We speak for our people,” Bayek said. “As a warrior, I see no fault with the choice. The winged one has proven himself many times over to be a competent fighter and an ardent supporter of justice.”

“For the shamans and diviners, we have seen his intent and the careful control he exercises over his gifts. The spirits of the air obey him without question, and the spirits of earth hold no qualm with him. If it is his wish to act as champion, we will not deny him,” Mkuta said.

“For the healers and cultivators, while the one known as Grif has waded through oceans of blood, he has also shown great care and concern for those who serve with and under him. To maintain such a level of gentility, after facing such circumstances, implies his heart is at least soft, if not pure. That heart now tells him to act to preserve the justice of both our peoples. I shall not deny him the chance, if he is sincere,” Hekima said.

“Then let the contest proceed,” Amethyst said. “If you would be so kind, brother.” She nodded towards Prometheus, who nodded in turn. All was consumed in the brilliance of radiant fire. Suddenly, the combatants from the war were seated in the arena’s many tiers, gazing down onto the dusty earth, where the Gryphon and head bull now stood together, glaring each other down.

Prometheus looked over the gathering as he stood outside the arena with his siblings, circling around to watch on silently. “The rules of combat are simple,” he began. “The two candidates are to battle to the death. All skills and weapons are considered viable. There are to be no breaks, no interludes, and no retreats. If you seek to flee, then you will be punished for your dishonor, in accordance with the ancient traditions. Are the combatants ready?”

Disiungitur drew his hammer and glared at Grif. “I have been waiting for this for a very long time.”

“Funny. Most people dread their death.” Grif sneered as he withdrew his father’s axe.

“Fight!” Prometheus cried.

Grif heaved his axe, tossing it at the Minotaur with all his strength. The weapon sailed through the air in a lethal arc. Unfortunately, Disiungitur sidestepped at the last minute. The axe continued its course, until it inevitably embedded itself into the cage behind the bull. Disiungitur turned to laugh at the Gryphon’s misjudgement, only for fire to rake across his chest as Grif sunk all four talons in and pulled. Grif didn’t slow down as he mauled his opponent. Finally, Disiungitur was able to recover enough to grab the Gryphon and throw him off. His chest and face burned with the pain of many new cuts as blood seeped and trickled, mingling with his fur. He charged Grif the instant he was free, raising his war hammer to crush his foe into the dirt.

Grif recovered quickly and pulled out two stilettos, which he brought forward in a cross that, much to the surprise of most of the spectators, stopped the hammer’s swing. For a moment, the two struggled against each other, the Gryphon being borne down by the Minotaur’s superior strength. But as blue eyes locked with blue eyes, Disungitur was introduced to a frightening sight. Black bled into the Gryphon’s eyes and gradually encompassed the blue, like oil over water. A cold wind blew around them as Grif threw Disiungitur off with a burst of uncanny strength. Roaring like an angry lion, Grif attacked his opponent, sweeping with his daggers again and again.

For his part, Disiungitur struck out with his hammer and his arms, attempting to ward the Gryphon off. While the spikes landed several times, and he could see blood beginning to stain the frenzied Gryphon’s armor from within, his opponent didn’t stop raining blows upon him. Finally, Grif made enough of a mistake that Disiungitur was able to throw him back by several feet.

“What's wrong, oh mighty Minotaur Chieftain?” Grif’s voice was dual-toned and haunting as he tilted his head from side to side, like a snake preparing to strike. “Where is your great skill?”

Disiungitur didn’t deign the Gryphon with a response. This was a battle to the death, and even though his blood sang at the ferocity of their blows, he knew better than to let his excitement throw off his concentration. This Gryphon was perhaps one of the best of the sky dwellers he had fought in all his years. A hint of a smirk pulled at his lips.

And then the Gryphon sheathed a knife and held out his hand. There was a scraping sound behind Disiungitur, and something impacted his left arm momentarily at the elbow, before the Gryphon’s bloody axe flew back into its master’s hand.

Disiungitur’s arm felt suddenly lighter as something hit the ground with a meaty thump. He glanced down with some surprise to see a powerful muscled forearm laying on the sandy turf atop a rapidly growing pool of blood. Then the pain hit, and Disiungitur roared. The Minotaur’s glare sharpened. The sky dweller had used magic. Weakness. Disiungitur couldn’t stand weakness! Magic. Always with the stupid magic! The world began to fall into red as he trumpeted another bellow, an unthinking rage burning away all reason, all sense, uncaged by the pain and the magic the Gryphon utilized.

“Oh, finally,” Grif taunted. “I was wondering when you were going to stop fooling around. Let’s see what you have.”

Disiungitur charged forward. The wind seemed almost to break against his bulk as the blood continued to flow from his wound. He made as if he were about to land a heavy strike, but when Grif blocked with his knives, the Minotaur followed up with a goring strike from his horns, bellowing curses and expletives all the while. Occasionally, he would spice it up with talk of skywalkers and horned ones. Whenever he mentioned those particular insults, his speed and endurance seemed to jump, though his accuracy suffered under the haze of his towering berserker rage.

The entire time, Grif toyed with his opponent. The bull had speed and endurance, but Grif was faster and more agile, able to duck and dodge with reaction speed that seemed impossible. The whole time, the Gryphon kept his eye on his opponent, looking for any signs of tiring. Disiungitur was losing blood, a lot of it, and far too quickly for it not to take a toll on him soon. The Minotaur’s body would need to slow down eventually, with or without his permission, and that was when Grif would finish this once and for all.

Grif was positively coated in blood, some of it his, a lot of it his opponent’s. The constant thrashing and headbutting had held for an impressive minute, before the Minotaur’s legs began to shake, his knees to buckle. He still raised his good arm to strike, heedless of the danger. He let out another intense bellow as he dealt the overhanded blow. Another spurt of blood spattered out his other arm with the exertion, and suddenly the Bull found himself staring face to face with the Gryphon, his arm trembling against what now felt to be a much stronger force. When did he…?

Grif impaled both stilettos in the Minotaur’s right shoulder and twisted. Under the skin, ligaments and muscle tissue tore. Bone popped, and the Minotaur’s arm fell limp to his side, his hammer clattering to the ground in a puff of arid dust. The Gryphon approached Disiungitur like a specter of death. What once had appeared so small now seemed to tower over Disiungitur as the grim creature approached with his black-rimmed eyes.

“Any last words?” Grif asked.

Disiungitur wanted to speak his defiance, to stand tall and proud, an example to the last. He was strong. He was the greatest member of his race. And yet, despite all of that, he could hardly muster the strength to breathe. His mouth was too heavy to move. “This … can’t…. Not over….” He managed a few more half-hearted sputters as he struggled to articulate his desire to overcome his opponent, that he should be victorious, would be. And yet, he could feel the air rushing past him as blood coagulated over his fur in wet, soggy clumps. He felt … cold. Why was he cold?

Grif placed a hand on either of the Minotaur’s long curved horns and concentrated. Drawing on the momentum aspect, he threw the bovine’s body to the side. The body went flying at speeds far greater than the Gryphon could bring to pass normally. That is, until the force of that momentum met with Grif’s iron grip on Disiungitur’s horns. The body landed, and this time Grif was pulled in a circular motion, taking the bull’s head with him as he sailed over the behemoth’s shoulders and a loud snap echoed through the arena. Then, just as suddenly, he was back over the other shoulder. He’d turned Disiungitur’s head a complete three-hundred-and-sixty degrees.

Although his opponent was already dead, Grif lurched upwards with all the power he had left. The shaggy head broke free of its neck with a meaty tear, pulling parts of the spinal column with it. Grif held it aloft for all to see.

“Fatality,” the gods said decisively. “Zebrica’s champion wins.”

And just like that, the war was over.