//------------------------------// // 16 - The Deathless Ones // Story: Hinterlands // by Rambling Writer //------------------------------// Bitterroot clawed at the air, but the magical grip on her tail was tight and refused to budge. She was slammed to the ground. When she got up, she was in a world of flickering orange and twisting black, fire throwing into dancing silhouette the bushes of the scrubland, seen through a thick miasma. The background noise was the steady rumbling and snapping of a large blaze. Heat and an orange glow washed over her from one side; she wasn’t far from the inside of the ring. She couldn’t see any ponies at the moment, but they were out there. They had to be. Bitterroot slowly turned on the spot, eyes peeled for the shadows of ponies. Nothing. She could try flying for a less bad view, but guessed that if she tried to take off again, she’d just get yanked back down. Still, she spread her wings. “I know you’re out there,” she said, trying to sound brave. “Why don’t you come out and fight and we can get this over with?” All around her came four voices speaking as one. “No. I don’t think I will.” Latching onto one of them, Bitterroot crept through the bushes slowly. Towards the heat, incidentally. “Look, it’s only a matter of time before the fire catches up and consumes you all. I can just fly away. Not even Gale can do that, now.” Come on, come on, speak up speak up speak up… “I broke her wing myself.” Four someponies laughed. “An’ y’really think that’s it? That I’ll jus’ roll over for you? No. Ain’t doin’ that. No way. No how.” It sounded like there was a pony barely six feet from her, Bitterroot guessed, but she couldn’t see them. The smoke was just too thick. “Oh, I don’t know,” Bitterroot said casually. “Maybe I’ll-” She pumped her wings and dove through a bush. She slammed into a pony, hitting hard enough to throw them a few feet. She blinked away the smoke. Trace was getting to her hooves, blue fire burning in her eyes and blood dripping from her mangled mouth. Bitterroot charged again, hurled Trace to the ground, and began stomping on her horn. Maybe she could- Somepony grappled Bitterroot from behind, pulling her off Trace. She was forced into a rearing position and her front legs were pushed outward. Thinking quickly, she pulled her rear legs from the ground, curled up, and backflapped. She did an awkward sort of backflip over the head of the pony who’d grabbed her and pulled her front legs from their grasp. After another flap to get herself a little bit higher, Bitterroot landed on the pony’s back – Gale’s back – and flapped one last time, smashing her into the dirt. It only took a few seconds, but those few seconds were enough for Trace to get back onto her hooves. She loosed a haphazard blast at Bitterroot, not coming close to hitting her. Bitterroot lunged and forced Trace into a rearing position. She wrapped her front legs around Trace’s head and brought a hoof down on her horn just as Trace shot off another bolt. A strange tingling ran up Bitterroot’s leg. She supposed that under ordinary circumstances, she would’ve been electrocuted and feeling every tiny little bit of pain possible. As it was, her legs twitched as the magic stimulated their muscles, but nothing more. She twisted, keeping a firm grasp on Trace’s head. Trace flipped over and landed on her back. Bitterroot pulled up her hooves and, with all her weight, fell on Trace’s head. Trace’s skull crunched and her horn snapped clean off. Perfect. Bitterroot didn’t know if Trace could still fight with half of her skull caved in, but she didn’t plan on finding out. She grabbed Trace’s mane in her teeth and dragged her towards the fire, a scant ten yards away. She blinked. It looked like there was a shadow right in fro- Bitterroot flapped to force herself to the ground. A pouncing Gale flew over her head and bounced across the ground toward the wall of flame, crunching branches as she did. Seizing her chance, Bitterroot released Trace, dove at Gale, and hurled her into the fire. Gale ignited almost immediately. The heat pulsed; Gale shrieked like a banshee for half a moment, then fell silent. Bitterroot panted, trying to tell herself that it technically wasn’t murder, since Gale was already dead. It wasn’t very convincing. At least her heart wasn’t racing. She turned back to Trace, but Trace was already gone. She strode away from the fire. “One down, three to go!” she screamed into the smoke. “And your unicorn’s lost her horn!” She pivoted her ears, ready to pinpoint the next pony. Three voices slithered out of the black. “Y’think I don’t know that?” Bitterroot was sure Circe was trying to sound intimidating, but now, she could hear the mixed anger and fear in her words. “Guess what? You’re still outnumbered.” With impossible coordination, three ponies exploded through the smokey bushes and dogpiled her to the ground. Trace pulled at her tail while Circe and Catskill each grabbed one of her front legs and pulled. The leg Catskill had was dislocated with a sickening pop. Catskill immediately forced Bitterroot’s head into the dirt. She stared at Bitterroot and tilted her head, eyes burning blue. “You’re gonna fly me outta ’ere,” hissed Circe. She drew out a knife. “I’ll kill you an’ resurrect you if I ’ave to. An’ we’re gonna-” Bitterroot kicked backward. She smacked Trace the face, freeing her tail. Catskill moved to pin her again, but Bitterroot managed to roll onto her back before Catskill could get any force in. Her dislocated leg felt weak, almost limp, but she could still move it. She swatted at Catskill’s face, driving her away for a few crucial instants. Trace was up again. She attempted to jump on top of Bitterroot, literally, but Bitterroot pulled her back legs in and caught Trace on the stomach. Trace flailed helplessly at her face for a moment before Bitterroot bucked out. Trace soared through the air, whipping through bushes, passing neatly through the wall of fire and out of sight. Bitterroot didn’t hear a scream. Except from Circe. “STOP STANDIN’ ’ROUND AN’ KILL ’ER!” Catskill brought her foot down, narrowly missing Bitterroot as she rolled over. Just as she was getting to her hooves, Catskill rammed into her. Bitterroot tried digging her hooves into the ground, but as a pegasus against an earth pony, she had no chance. Her bad shoulder also didn’t do her any favors. She overbalanced and tumbled across the muddy ground. Catskill bounded over her as she rolled and landed on the other side of her. Bitterroot swiped at her legs, but Catskill’s hooves were firmly planted. She placed a hoof on Bitterroot’s neck and pressed. Even if she couldn’t suffocate, Bitterroot didn’t want to learn what happened to an undead with a broken neck. She thrashed wildly, trying to catch Catskill by surprise. She caught Catskill’s bandoller. She hooked her hoof around it and yanked. Catskill lost her balance, briefly stumbling forward. That was all Bitterroot needed. She flapped to her feet and yanked again, to her left. Catskill toppled over onto her side. Pulling all the slack she could, Bitterroot heaved and hurled, using her wings to give her a little extra oomph. The stress was too much for the bandolier and it snapped in two, but by then, Catskill was already spinning into the fire. The broken bandolier followed her, trailing shells. The bandolier… Bitterroot threw herself to the ground and covered her ears. The heat overcooked the shells in the bandolier and they went off nearly simultaneously. Even with her ears firmly covered, the sound was almost deafening. It was like the roar of some unearthly creature. The bass was so intense, Bitterroot could feel it rattle her bones. Even when she thought it had stopped, she gave it ten seconds before she stood up again. Just as Circe came from the smoke. She’d seen better days. Her eyes were sunken and bloodshot and her stance was limp and livid. But her eyes were still alert and she was angry. “Y’really think y’can win ’gainst me?” Circe sneered. She brandished a spear at Bitterroot. “Foal, I’m immortal. I ’ave ’unnerds o’ years o’ experience on-” Bitterroot had never been a big fan of monologues. She charged, wrapped her legs around the neck of a shocked Circe, and climbed. Circe yelled threats and pleas, stabbing at her legs with the spear, but of course Bitterroot didn’t feel anything, and she paid no attention to whatever Circe said. She simply climbed up into the air. When she was at a good height, she flew over the fire and dropped Circe. Circe fell, screaming, flailing at the air, completely helpless. Bitterroot watched her fall, watched the flames swallow her up, heard her hit the ground. Good riddance. Of course, with her phylactery intact, she wasn’t dead, but that sort of fall ought to slow her down enough to restrain her. Taking a note of where she was, Bitterroot flew down to the ground to- Well, she couldn’t catch her breath right now. Or take a breather. She could take a break, though. Bitterroot looked idly at her dislocated shoulder. It felt a bit weak and, out of place, looked incredibly ugly. But Bitterroot had a touch of experience with this sort of thing; she’d just never been lucky enough to not feel pain doing it. She planted her bad leg on the ground and threw all her weight on it. With a little pop, the joint slid back into place. She rolled it. No problems, at least as far as she could tell. Maybe if she could actually feel pain, she’d feel if something was wrong wi- “YOU.” Circe was a lich, and liches were deathless. She stepped from the smoke like some hateful, self-avenging spirit, smoke curling from her patchy coat, her flesh grotesquely scarred and leaking fluids, her mane aflame, one of her eyes burst from boiling jelly, a bone sticking out of her knee, murder etched onto every square inch of her face. The remains of her spear were bumping at her side. “I’ll kill you,” she rasped. “Over an’ over an’ over.” Bitterroot’s throat ran dry, but she managed to hide it. If Circe wanted power, the best thing to do would be to deny her power, even through fear. Bitterroot smiled and waved even as she quaked down to her hooves. “Hi!” she chirped. “Long time, no see! New look, I take it? It’s so you! Your icebreakers are getting repetitive, though.” Circe roared and flailed wildly with the spear, jabbing semi-randomly at Bitterroot. Bitterroot reflexively yelped and jumped away, shuffling backwards over the slippery ground in some strange dance as the spear whistled around her. Hitting a bad patch of ground, Bitterroot misstepped. The spear plunged through her chest. It slipped in between her ribs and impaled her heart. She could feel it. She was skewered, barely able to move to the left or right. And since she was dead, it didn’t hurt a bit. Circe leered in her face. “Gotcha,” she whispered. “You’re finished. An’ when I find Amanita-” Bitterroot whipped her hooves out and hooked them around Circe’s. She yanked, pulling herself down the spear, cringing slightly as she felt splinters enter her guts. But now she was within reach of Circe. She reached out and, managing to ignore the searing pain of Circe’s burning mane, slammed Circe’s head into the spearhaft. Circe’s grip was dislodged, and Bitterroot shoved her hooves from the handles. Unbalanced, Circe fell to the ground, where her mane fizzled and died in the snow. After flapping a short distance away, Bitterroot grasped the spear between her hooves and pulled. With a disgusting, squelching sound, she removed the spear from her body. A quick look at the wound said it wasn’t so bad that she’d have to worry about her insides being on the outside. Good enough for now. She lunged forward before Circe could get back up and slammed the spear down through her trunk, pinning her to the ground. Circe screamed in pain. Bitterroot liked the sound more than she wanted to admit. She stomped on one of Circe’s legs, once, twice, thrice. It snapped the second time. Circe wailed and curled into a ball. Bitterroot didn’t feel a single pang of pity, not after what she’d done to… Celestia knew how many ponies. “Try running away,” Bitterroot snarled through clenched teeth, “and I will catch up to you and I will break your neck. Understand?” Circe nodded feebly. What remained of her eyelids fluttered as she stared up at Bitterroot. “H-how- I stabbed you… Y’should be-” “A little trick Amanita pulled,” said Bitterroot. “It’s rather useful.” “P-please,” blubbered Circe. “M-mercy…” “You’re a lich,” snapped Bitterroot. “This is mercy. If it wasn’t, I’d be cutting you open and removing your guts. After blinding you.” “You-” Circe hacked. “You’d really- treat somepony- like th-” “DO NOT! TRY THAT! WITH ME!” Bitterroot yelled, flaring her wings. “You lied to me, to Trace! You butchered ponies because you were scared of dying! You killed Trace and Catskill and trapped them in their own bodies to be your servants! And that’s just what I know about!” “I- I’m s-sor-” “You’re sorry you got caught,” said Bitterroot, rolling her eyes. “You’re not sorry you did any of those things. Besides, you’re a terrible actor. I’ve heard this sob story from plenty of other ponies. And not one of them was as bad as you.” Circe immediately stopped sobbing and leered at Bitterroot. Her exploded eye had already healed itself and her fur was coming back in. “Worth a shot, though, right?” Bitterroot twisted the spear. Circe barely even twitched. “Not really, no.” She threw back her head and bellowed, “Amanita! The thralls are dead and I’ve got Circe pinned! I could use your help!” “Y’really she’ll be a ’elp t’you?” sneered Circe. “She’s jus’ a-“ “Shut up or I’ll cut your tongue out.” Circe shut up. After a few more hollers, Amanita arrived, panting. Her eyes went wide when she saw Circe. “Whoa,” she whispered. She slowly walked up to Circe, gently poking her as if to be sure she was real. Circe’s response was a growl and spitting at Amanita. “I gave y’ev’rythin’,” she said, failing to sound hurt, “an’ this’s is ’ow-” “Oh, for the love of Celestia, shut up,” said Amanita. “We went over this already. Several times.” “You’re nothin’ but an ungrateful-” Bitterroot intervened. “In your bags, at that rock tower,” she said, pointing, “there’s some rope. Until I can get my muzzle and fetters from my bags, I think Circe-” “On it,” said Amanita, and she raced away. She was back in a few minutes with a big coil of rope. Between the two of them, they bound and knotted Circe so thorough she resembled a mummy. She didn’t try to break free. “Think you can watch her?” Bitterroot asked, standing up. “I need to get it raining or snowing a bit… for…” She glanced at the fire as Amanita gave her a Look. “And I need to head back to the town to get my bags. I don’t think any thralls had them.” “It… It won’t take long, will it?” asked Amanita. She fidgeted with one of her hooves, lightly kicking at a rock. “Oh, no. Fifteen, twenty minutes, tops.” “Then, yeah, I can handle that. Go.” Bitterroot gathered the clouds first. They still made her cringe at how wrong they felt, but they were thick and wet. They’d do. They produced a satisfying amount of rain when she kicked them. The fire was soon under some version of control. It wasn’t gone yet, but Bitterroot decided to fly to town while letting the rain do its thing, come back, and check again. Getting back to the town was easy and Bitterroot found her saddlebags in the mill, exactly where she’d left them, with all her stuff inside. Returning to the scrublands, she didn’t even need to follow the river; it was hard to miss the beacon that was the pillar of smoke. Bitterroot did another circle of the area and the fire was almost completely out. After a few cloud rearrangings to catch the last straggling flames, she landed at Amanita’s side (Amanita was doing just fine and patches of Circe’s coat were coming back in) and retrieved a set of fetters. They were designed to let the imprisoned move at a decent walking speed while a chain connecting the front legs to the back legs preventing them from running, bucking, or reaching too far forward. “She can’t break out of those, can she?” asked Amanita. “Earth pony and all…” “Nope. Enchanted,” Bitterroot said as she clasped them around Circe’s fetlocks. “You could hang a castle from them and not have them break.” She also had a muzzle. She’d splurged a little on this version; besides the usual mouth covering, it also had built-in blinders that could be opened and closed at will (if you could reach the clasp, which Circe couldn’t). Some kinds even had mouth bits for better control, but Bitterroot had never seen the value in them. Circe took it without complaint. Of course, Bitterroot was prepared to stab her through the head if she did complain, so that might’ve had something to do with it. With Circe properly bound, gagged, and blinded, Bitterroot turned to Amanita. “You ready to leave? I don’t see any reason to stick ar-” “No, wait. I’ve got one last thing I want to do,” said Amanita. She nodded at the scorched lands. “I’m looking for the bodies.” She trotted into the ash. Bitterroot looked after her, then turned to Circe. Flipping open one of the shutters on the blinders, she said, “I’m following her. If you’re not here when I get back, you will regret it. I can follow your tracks faster than you can make them. Understand?” Circe rolled her visible eye and nodded. “Yeh,” came muffled through the muzzle. “Good.” Bitterroot re-shuttered Circe’s eye, shoved her to the ground, and walked after Amanita. The land was cooler than it would’ve been, thanks to the rain, but it was still surprisingly warm. It almost felt like early-to-mid spring. Of course, it was hard to stay in that state of mind when ash clung to your coat and smoke roasted your throat and everything was varying shades of black. The ground even crunched uncomfortably beneath Bitterroot’s hooves. Thanks to the burned-out remains of the bushes, it was like she was picking through the land’s corpse. Bitterroot ignored the feeling and caught up with Amanita. Amanita heard her coming up and turned around, her ears up and quivering. “You’re helping? Great! Just… Just look for the bodies, okay?” “Okay.” Bitterroot didn’t ask any questions. She owed Amanita that much, at least. Finding the bodies proved to be harder than Bitterroot had anticipated. Visibility was better, since many of the bushes had been burned down, but the ground was still obscured by the shrubs and a thin film of unmelted snow. The terrain made it hard to tell what was a body and what was just a bump in the land or a rock. But Bitterroot kept looking and didn’t think about stopping. Amanita deserved something good. Time slowly passed. Bitterroot idly wondered if she’d be feeling hungry by now if she were alive. It was easy to lose track of those sorts of things when you didn’t feel them any- “YES!” Bitterroot turned around. Amanita had found the mangled, burned remains of a blunderbuss in next to a pony’s charred body. She looked ready to explode with glee. “This w-was Catskill’s,” she said, stroking the gun like it was a treasured child. “I… I can talk to her!” She collapsed into the wet ash, laughing. “What?” asked Bitterroot. She coughed in surprise. “I thought you said you couldn’t-” “This, this is different,” said Amanita, waving a hoof dismissively at Bitterroot. She didn’t even get up. “I can’t resurrect her. But, but with something closely related to her, I can, I can call her spirit up so I-I can apologize.” She threw back her head and laughed. Somewhere along the line it turned into sobs. “I can apologize… for lying…” She rubbed her eyes. “F-for getting h-her k-killed… For-” “Hey!” Bitterroot flapped over to Amanita and, without thinking, pulled her up and into a hug. “It’s not your fault, okay? It’s Circe’s. Don’t blame yourself.” Amanita rubbed her face into Bitterroot’s clothes. “Easy to say, hard to do,” she mumbled. She pulled away, grinning, even though her eyes still brimmed with tears. “But I can apologize. Come on. Let’s get out of here.” Circe was exactly where Bitterroot had left her when they exited the remains of the scrubland, but Amanita didn’t pay the slightest bit of attention to her. She laid the blunderbuss on the ground almost delicately. “Give, just give me a minute.” She scrambled over to Circe’s bag and began pillaging it. After a few minutes, Amanita had scratched out a circle in the dirt, lined it with rune-carved gems swiped from Circe’s bags, made an equilateral triangle with candles, and put the blunderbuss in the center. Before Bitterroot knew what she was doing, Amanita had lit the candles and her horn was glowing. She’d closed her eyes and was muttering something. Bitterroot opened her mouth to ask something, but closed it almost immediately. Not now. The candles were smoking, but the smoke didn’t seem to follow the wind. It just drifted straight up, twisting and writhing and braiding itself. As the gems pulsed, air began being expelled out of the circle while the smoke from each candle gathered above the blunderbuss, growing thick far too quickly. Amanita’s horn stopped glowing and her eyes flew open as she panted. And the smoke coalesced into the vaguely hazy, slightly glowing shape of Catskill. Bitterroot sucked in a breath and stepped back. Catskill was… solid, yet not, like an illusion you knew was an illusion. Yet it was the feeling that was so unexpected. Catskill hadn’t merely appeared; she’d stepped out of the darkness behind an open door, out of something Bitterroot couldn’t even imagine. Even if she’d wanted to speak, Bitterroot wasn’t sure she could. Catskill turned around, stared at herself. It was like her body was unfamiliar to her and she couldn’t see Bitterroot or Amanita. Amanita cleared her throat. Catskill paused, then turned to look at her. Her ears twitched. “Amanita?” she said, as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Amanita smiled sadly. “Hey, Catskill,” she said. “You… You probably know you died at the bear. And who… what… I am.” After a pause, Catskill just nodded. “I… I tried to keep you from passing,” said Amanita. “You dying didn’t seem fair. And if… they’d never caught up with us, you’d be alive by now. Really alive. I…” She wiped her eyes down. “I just wanted to say… I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth, I- just-” “I understand,” said Catskill. Her voice sounded like it was echoing down a pipe. “It was probably the best thing you could do. If you’d told me the truth…” She looked away, apparently ashamed. “I don’t think I’d have given you the trust you deserved.” She turned back to Amanita and inclined her head slightly. “You’re forgiven.” “It… It shouldn’t be that easy,” whispered Amanita, staring at her hooves. “You… You’re still dead.” Catskill shrugged. “You get a new perspective over here.” “Yeah, I-” Amanita swallowed and forced herself to look Catskill in the eyes. “I know. S-still, sorry.” “Right. And, Bitterroot?” Bitterroot flinched when Catskill looked at her, feeling like a foal being admonished by a stern teacher. It was the eyes, she decided. Those eyes had experience that could never be found in the land of the living. “Y-yes?” she asked the mare she’d killed. “Thank you for freeing me,” Catskill said. “I know you… probably think it was murder, but I’d prefer… I…” She shuddered and her voice dropped. “Thank you. The others would say the same thing, believe me.” “W-well, um… You’re welcome.” Amanita hooked a hoof around one of the runes, ready to break the circle. “I hope you find your husband.” “I’m working on it,” Catskill said with a small smile. “Bye.” “Bye. Thanks for the help.” Amanita pulled the rune away and Catskill vanished like blown-away smoke. The wind blew steadily and unobtrusively as neither pony moved, like they were holding a moment of silence. Eventually, Amanita cleared her throat and got up. “That, that was what necromancy was originally supposed to be, you know,” she muttered. “Just talking to the dead. Asking them about the future. It’s in the name: divination via the dead. Ancient Thessalians believed the dead knew all things.” “Why?” “Dunno. Ancient Thessalians were way overrated.” They sat. In spite of being dead, Bitterroot could still feel burnout. She was done with fighting thralls, tangling with liches, and burning the land down. Right now, sitting was all she wanted to do. So she sat. But eventually, she said, “You know, we should get Circe and start dragging her to the Crystal Empire.” “Yep,” Amanita said flatly. “And once we get there, we can hand her over to the guards and you’re gonna… turn yourself in, right?” “Yep.” They got up and crunched through the ash. “This,” mumbled Amanita, “has been a really sucky week.”