//------------------------------// // Chapter 9: Lord Commander // Story: Luna is a Harsh Mistress // by Starscribe //------------------------------// If Iron Quill closed his eyes, he could almost imagine the beating drums were the pacing orders of the siege engineers, directing a constant stream of flames down on Rockroost. The distant screams occasionally cut through the grinding wood and gears of the trebuchets as earth ponies marched around reloading them—but he hadn’t hated those sounds then. They had filled him with satisfaction. He felt none of that now as he walked to the far end of the arena, where a simple box was marked in the stone. He stepped inside it, checking over his armor one final time. There was the ill-fitting helmet, which would jostle over his eyes if he jerked too quickly to one side. Stalwart Shield’s sword, black even from within the sheath. And his own dagger, tucked away under the breastplate. It was all they were permitted—duels did not allow for magic, or ranged weapons. Only what they brought into the arena, only what they could swing at each other would be allowed. Quill squinted across the arena, watching Permafrost in front of the massive bonfire. He didn’t seem to be carrying any forbidden weapons, only his single steel great sword. Why bother, when he knew he had the strength of a demon against a musty old scholar? Nightmare Moon stomped her hooves once on the stone, and the drums abruptly stopped. The signal for them to begin. Permafrost drew the great sword, holding it in both wings. Only a steel blade, which meant it took a careful grip and the counterweight under the handle to swing. The steel itself would fall as part of every swing, and it took an expert to catch the sword with each attack and not break it against the ground. Quill let him come. He kept his back to the bonfire, even if he didn’t expect Permafrost to master his new powers in a day. Then he drew his sword. It was a shorter blade, made from something thin and black and not quite metal. The flames behind him shifted from orange to red in its presence, and the sword clung to his hooves as though it were covered in glue. “That’s it, scribe? You stand there and die?” He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just held the sword in a high guard, utterly patient. The audience seem to get a different impression, pointing and laughing. “He doesn’t even know how to swing it!” some of them said. From the bottom row, Penumbra looked away, shielding her face. “Alright, old nag. Die then!” He swung, the incredible weight of the great sword pressing down from above. Even the Lord Commander’s armor would probably have been crushed under a blow like that from so much steel. But Iron Quill didn’t hold still long enough to find out. He jerked to one side, catching the blow on the edge of his sword. As it fell, he angled his own blade upward, biting into Permafrost’s wing. The captain roared, pulling back in pain from even the slight nick—and the sword spun over Quill’s head, landing in the bonfire. Quill didn’t intend to let the opportunity lapse. He jerked forward, slashing at Permafrost’s pauldron along one shoulder, then the other. The sword bit into the steel like it was tin, tearing chunks away with each stroke. Before he could draw blood, Permafrost flashed away in a puff of shadow, and his sword passed through empty air. He appeared beside the other bonfire on his own side of the arena, nursing briefly at the wound to his wing. It wasn’t bleeding exactly, but something black and pulpy oozed out, like blood that had congealed weeks ago and been left in the sun. Permafrost no longer taunted him as he drew his short sword. His eyes watched him constantly, along with the rest of the crowd. Even Penumbra was looking back. “What’s the matter, Permafrost? Why don’t you get your longsword?” His voice echoed across the arena, through what was otherwise total stillness. Almost none of the soldiers would understand him. Permafrost did, though. His lips curled back, exposing his fangs. Quill settled his hooves, then spun as another flash of shadow and mist briefly blotted out the campfire. He swung his sword around in a wide arc, catching against Permafrost’s blade as he reappeared. Like all of the Voidseekers, Permafrost was otherwise unaffected by the injuries. “I could’ve just cut your throat, scribe! But I think I know another use for that bonfire. I wonder how long you’ll last while burning alive.” He was strong, much stronger than Quill. But up in the air he lacked leverage, leverage Quill had. He pushed, bracing his back legs against the stone and throwing Permafrost towards the bonfire. “It’s two minutes, before you go unconscious from the shock.” He advanced, still keeping his even guard. “Another few more until you die, but you’re not awake to experience them.” Permafrost vanished again, and this time Quill rolled back towards the bonfire. Wrong guess—his enemy wasn’t trying to knife him in the back again, but appeared walking towards him, sword balanced carefully. Already the blade had rusted along the edge where Quill’s had touched it. But it was good steel, too thick to break so quickly. “I know how long ponies like you last, Permafrost,” he went on. He already had his back to the flames—the safest place for him to stand. “Ten seconds.” Permafrost surged forward again, swinging hard with each strike. He’d stopped trying to show off, swinging short and crisp like he was in the practice field. Only each strike was harder than Quill could swing, hard enough that it would probably break his leg if he tried to stop each one outright. He caught the sword on the flat of his blade each time, deflecting the swing and taking a step sideways with each one, along the rim of the flames. Sparks filled the air from each swing. “You… think… a… scribe… could…” Permafrost roared. “I’m filled with Nightmare’s power! I see backward into infinity!” He cut low, forcing Quill to roll. Or try—he wasn’t a young stallion anymore. His legs moved too slowly, too weakly to spring all the way. Permafrost’s sword bit deep into the steel, and heat followed as it cut straight through to his skin. Warm blood seeped out, dripping down past his armor to his boots. He lurched, his leg momentarily giving out under the pressure. He fell more than rolled after that, skidding in the dirt until he landed beside the ring of stones that contained the campfire. Heat blasted him on one side, heating his metal armor, and his head swam. His helmet slipped up and off against the dirt, rolling away. But Quill didn’t let the pain distract him—he’d been cut before, worse than this. He rolled, catching a swing aimed for his neck on his sword. “You’re dead, Quill! You’ve used all the mercy I had for you!” Iron Quill eyed the blade, pushing out with his own even though it cost much of the strength he had left. His three good legs bent under the pressure. “I’m not,” he said. “I can’t. Or you’ll let the rest of these ponies die.” “Not the ones who matter!” He took a step back, lifting his sword high in the air. He didn’t care that he was forecasting the swing this time—he knew that Quill didn’t have the strength left to resist it. “Watch, ponies! This is the death of our past! Our weakness, our fear to serve!” He swung, putting all the force he had into the sword as it angled for Quill’s unprotected face. Quill might not be strong, but he was still fast enough. He brought his sword up at a sharp angle, right as Permafrost’s own came down. Straight for the bright orange mass rising from the good steel. The short sword exploded in a shower of broken metal and hissing rust, showering around him. Pieces of hot metal cut into his face, but he ignored the pain. Before Permafrost had even finished with the swing, Quill let go of the blade, drawing his dagger from his armor and shoving it forward, right under his guard and up through the mail around his neck. Permafrost backed away, clutching at the blade. A living pony never could’ve moved, not with such an important artery severed. But Permafrost was only stunned. He held it with both hooves, eyes wide. “That’s all?” Quill kicked sharply into one of his hind legs. The steel might stop a sword, but it wouldn’t stop the compressive force. Permafrost teetered, wings flapping wildly—then he fell. He landed in the bonfire. The flames roared upward, as though he’d just doused them in oil. They changed to sickly green for a second, pouring black smoke. Something screamed from within, something that wasn’t quite alive anymore. Quill was right—it took about ten seconds. Then the flames died down, returning to placid orange. Quill bent down, scooping up his bloody sword and holding it in the flames for a few seconds, until what was left of Permafrost hissed and sparked away. Then he advanced, dragging his injured leg and a trail of blood through the sand. He stopped in front of the princess, dropping into an unsteady bow. “Princess… Nightmare Moon,” he coughed, panting and covered in sweat. “This victor comes to… ask your blessing in judgement.” Nightmare Moon’s expression remained dark. Something warred behind those eyes, fears and guilt and anger that Quill couldn’t quite read. Eventually one of them won. “Your regent, ruler of all Equestria, finds in favor of the victory. Lord Commander Iron Quill has triumphed in this challenge. Permafrost’s company will be absorbed, and his holdings forfeit to the victor. So it is decreed.” She stomped her hooves again, and the drums resumed. Somehow more subdued than they were before. The army remained in shock. Ponies stared, faces white. Quill turned away from the princess, ignoring the medics on the edge of the arena, waving them off with a wing. Quill knew what a serious wound felt like, and this wasn’t that. He had their attention as he never had before. He might never have this opportunity again. “Permafrost was a captain of death!” Quill roared. “He demanded your souls in exchange for your lives. I demand only your obedience, and in return I grant you your lives. Permafrost died today because he wished to kill those who opposed him. I obliged him in his request. Obey me, save your swords for the Tyrant’s armies, and I swear to fight for your lives until I die.” He waited, listening to the painful silence as his eyes scanned the crowd. His own ponies started stomping first. Others joined them—a few of them, anyway. Hardly the uproarious applause he’d been hoping for. But the support came from both sides of the army. It would do. From around Nightmare Moon’s makeshift throne, he saw mostly anger. Even if the Voidseekers had enough of themselves left to be real ponies, they would still have their emotions twisted. Just as the princess had. He watched her chair in particular, trying to read her feelings. There was a pony in there somewhere who would’ve been cheering for him. Her captain had called openly for the agonizing death of the ponies she had saved from oppressive nobles near and far. Didn’t she care? She met his eyes. For a second—and only a second—Iron Quill imagined he could see something past those slitted eyes and predatory teeth. Past the fire and the screams, he saw a princess in a monastery, promising something better. Then she spread her wings, taking disdainfully to the air. The Voidseekers joined her, accompanied by four new bats from the other side of camp. I guess I won’t be inheriting his bodyguards. That’s for the best. They would’ve put a knife in my back anyway. Except for one. As the others all took to the air, Penumbra remained in her seat, watching him. He didn’t look away. Silver Needle rushed into the field, surrounded by ponies in white robes. “Let’s get that armor off,” she said, her hooves shaking. He complied, letting them lead him to a tent on the edge of the arena, settling into the low cot there. “Stars above us, Lord Commander. What kind of fighting was that?” Silver asked, as the attendants removed the last of his bloody armor from his left foreleg. “When did the Ordo Celestial teach you that thing with the sword?” The flaps rustled, and Penumbra slipped in. “They didn’t,” he muttered. “My father’s bannerman did. Magnus… you won’t know him.” An older mare cleared her throat, pulling her hook-nosed mask away from her muzzle. “Lord Commander, uh…” “Go on,” he said, extending his leg for her. “Stitches, sir,” she said. “On the leg, with Stilweed to cleanse the leg and your face. There’s… likely going to be some scarring. Moon bless you that the metal missed your eyes. I recommend a diet heavy in beats for the next week, to balance the blood you’ve lost.” He nodded to her. “Begin your work, healer. I can be still.” He sat back, letting the other attendants remove the rest of his armor while the healer went to work cleaning his leg with a damp cloth, wiping away dirt and blood. He gritted his teeth together as she brought out the clear vial of Stilweed, so he wouldn’t scream when an apothecary started rubbing it on the wound. Even after half a lifetime feeling it, Quill hadn’t ever quite adjusted to that pain. When they’d finished, his face was drenched with sweat and he felt like his teeth might explode. “Do you have a moment?” Penumbra’s voice was low, almost embarrassed. She whispered from a distant corner of the tent. She still wore all her armor in the presence of these strangers, the way she always did. “Oh sure,” he muttered, glancing briefly up at her. “I’m only getting stitches. You have me captive, Voidseeker.” Every herbalist and healer in the tent froze where they stood, staring in shock and fear at the robed figure who had just appeared in their midst. Even the magical grip of his surgeon slipped, and Quill had to twitch his leg out of the away to avoid just getting stabbed in the meat of his calf. “On second thought…” Penumbra whispered. “I’ll wait for them to finish. Your face is ugly enough without them slicing off your nose by mistake.” She vanished in a flash of shadow, briefly dimming the glowstones. They came back a few seconds later. Quill’s own surgeon hesitated in her work, clutching at the little sun charm around her neck. How’d she get away with keeping that? “Can’t imagine how you can stand to be around them, Lord. Know it isn’t my place to say.” She tucked the charm around her neck, then straightened her grip on the hook. “I for one am glad there’s one less of their kind around.” “Penumbra isn’t like the others I’ve known,” he said, wincing as she went back to work. “Silver… Needle. How goes the work on the… device?” “Completed, sir. Simpler than I could’ve thought, but… there’s some discussion about its placement. I don’t know the details, Sylvan made me swear not to explain it and get it wrong.” “Right.” He waved a wing. “I suppose you should… tell them I’ll be returning to the camp in short order. Instruct Cozen, Shade, and anypony else they think they need to brief me not to rest until they explain. Our lives aren’t saved just because a fool is ash now.” She saluted with her quill, sharper than he’d ever seen from her. “Right away, Sir.” She left, vanishing out the tent door. Is that what it takes to win their respect? Blood? But Quill didn’t think about much of anything, as the healers moved from his leg to his face. If the Stilweed had hurt on an extremity, he actually screamed when they brushed it on his face. By the time he came to his senses, the healers were gone, and a pony settled down in a camp chair across from his cot. He looked up, and Penumbra had already removed the blue cloth from around her face. Her eyes were dark, just like they’d always been. Just like all of them were. “You knew that would happen,” she said, voice flat. “You knew you were going to kill him.” He shrugged. “I thought it would be… a bit easier than that,” he groaned, glancing down at the deep gash down his leg. “Thought it would be so quick that maybe I wouldn’t have to kill him. I could show how merciful the new Lord Commander would be.” “It’s a good thing you didn’t.” Penumbra reached down, tossing something onto the ground at his hooves. It was his dagger, or at least the blade. Arcane flames had not been kind to its copper hilt, and bits of it stuck to the steel. The cloud and anvil of his ancient house were more prominent now with ash and gray dust outlining them. “Our number have a few like him already. Permafrost would’ve been a waking nightmare. His death was a mercy for all of us.” “Not him,” he whispered. “At least until he admitted he wanted everyone to take Nightmare’s oath or die.” He shuddered. “That isn’t good enough.” “You could’ve told me,” Penumbra argued. “Hey, bodyguard, I’m actually the lost child of an extinct house, trained by the greatest swordspony who ever lived. Oh, and also I have iron skin, you’re really an Alicorn, and…” He nodded. She was right, obviously. But that wasn’t much of an answer. “I wanted that pony to be dead.” Penumbra was silent for a long time, resting beside his cot. “When Nightmare Moon chose you, I felt a twinge of doubt. I was wrong to disbelieve.” He chuckled. “I bet your friend Aminon doesn’t think that.” It was her turn to laugh. “He was the one who put that plan in Permafrost’s mind. I’m certain he will try to kill you, or make life misery for you until you take the oath.” Same thing. “I won’t, Penumbra. Not for anything. When this generation ends… assuming, stars willing, there’s another. Our princess may order me to train them for invasion. I’m certain that I will… but the Hvergelmir is in Equestria. There will be no more Voidseekers until the princess finally defeats the Tyrant’s magic and sends us home.” “He will kill you,” she said, more confident. “As soon as he can find some way to justify it. You’ll have a knife in your back.” “Then it’s a good thing I have such a capable bodyguard.” He rose to shaky hooves. But the strain of standing was too much too fast, and he started to sway. Penumbra caught him, her head near his ear. A pony apparently so young, so strong. But just under the skin, she was as rotten as Permafrost. “You think I’ll stop him?” she whispered. “He does Nightmare’s will, like I do. Maybe I won’t have a choice.” He struggled to pull away from her, to stand. She squeezed a little harder, momentarily trapping him. “Of course you have a choice,” he said. “Nightmare wanted this army sworn to it the instant we were banished here. Every action you take to help me pushes their deaths further away. You can choose.” Quill didn’t know that, of course. They’d thought an Alicorn of all ponies would be able to choose, and overpower the desires of the demon that inhabited her. The ruin they left behind in Equestria testified to the error of that hope. But Penumbra let him go, grinning something he recognized a little better. “Those ponies you’re waiting for: does that include other aspects of your life as well?” He tensed, momentarily feeling more afraid than Permafrost’s swords had ever made him. He traveled straight back to camp, though it was still night by the time he returned. At least as much as night and day even meant anything underground. Where many other companies had probably retired early in somber contemplation, his was celebrating. It wasn’t just his own soldiers reveling in his unexpected victory, though he could hear plenty of them. But for each of his old laborers or guards, there were twenty recruits from the camp followers. They'd been given new uniforms since last he looked—instead of the mismatched cloth so many of them had worn, bits of dresses and scraps of merchants' garb, now many wore either nothing at all or apprentice smocks. He ignored the invitations to join the feasting, though he heard plenty of them from all around the camp. He didn't know where he was going, but he knew he'd recognize it when he got there. He wasn't wrong. Cozen and Sylvan Shade had built something massive, so large it had consumed an entire cart and several more crates besides. A huge chunk of ice rested on a set of makeshift sled runners not far away, dripping slightly as it slowly melted. Very slowly. They'd also obeyed his orders, because they waited by the cart of strange machines along with half a dozen workmen. Sylvan waved, meeting him in a friendly embrace. "Will you be offended if I tell you that I didn't think you'd make it back?" he asked. "Too late," he answered. "No, I wouldn’t expect you to. That was partly the point. But we won't be unringing that bell." He looked past him, nodding respectfully to Cozen. "Your ponies are safe now. Well… these ones are. There's little I can do for the outer camp." Cozen shrugged one shoulder. "We can worry about them once the air situation is fully resolved. They need to breathe it as much as you other ponies do." She looked over her shoulder. "Will you explain it, Shade? Or shall I?" Sylvan Shade gestured to the cart. "We may've… stole the princess's bathing tub." Quill winced, taking off and surveying the damage. The tub wouldn't be used again—its internal surface had been completely sealed with pitch and wax, and a sheet of rough, opaque gray glass was mounted to the top with wax and oil. Through it were three holes, two with thick metal sticks running down and one obviously a filling hole. He landed again. "You found a glassblower who could… that might be the single largest sheet I've ever seen." "Because it's a terrible window," Cozen said. "It doesn't matter if we can see through it very well, so long as we can see the water level underneath to keep it full." "What's the second basin for?" Quill asked. "Is that the problem you wanted to talk to me about?" "No," Sylvan said, walking around the edge of the cart with him. This section was clearly connected by thin metal, though it had no lid. He looked in over the edge, at a strange bending loop, suspended away from the wood and with a rack above it. "I don't remember seeing this in your first mechanism." "You didn't," Cozen said, grinning proudly at him. "What you're looking at is the first true advancement in physical philosophy I've ever seen, one not written of in any book. When scaling our model, we discovered that the lightning was heating the water around it, boiling some of it rather than transforming it. Discovering the cause eludes us for now, but… that doesn't mean we can't put it to use." She nodded towards the rack. "We don't have water here, only ice. Wherever this mechanism is finally placed, we need only to place the tray above it, and connect the tube to the fill-hole. We've matched the wire to the melting of the ice, so even a dumb laborer should be able to operate it by keeping the ice-tray full." Iron Quill sat back, impressed. "We could build more of them if the one wasn't enough, yes?" "For now," Silver Needle spoke up from the other side of the cart. "Lighting is not infinite. We don't know how long a single bolt will last. We don't know, because we had to shut it down." Sylvan Shade continued from there, walking back around to the main machine. "We have one central difficulty, Quill. Despite classical understanding to the contrary, it's clear that… not everything I thought about alchemy is wholly accurate. Water cannot be directly converted, only split into air and something else." He leaned down, fiddling with a tiny clay pot with a narrow neck. As he did Cozen and Silver Needle both took a few steps back. A thin layer of waxed cloth covered the top, wrapped tight with twine. He held out a length of thin wood, with a scrap of cloth tied to the end. "Would you mind, Cozen?" She groaned, then her horn glowed. The cloth caught fire, charring slowly. "You might want to get back, sir." Sir this time. Quill did back away, watching closely. The flames touched the little pot, igniting its waxed lid. BANG! The pot cracked violently down the middle in a single flash of faint orange, far dimmer than a torch or even than the fuse. A few bits of clay tumbled away. Quill winced; his ears flat by reflex. He hadn't been quick enough. "What in Gaia's name was that?" "Fire," Shade answered. "The conversion process, we… weren't able to perfect it. One half of those two pipes releases a stream of fresh air, invigorating to breathe. The other releases air tainted with flame—harmless, impossible to smell. But if it nears a flame…" He nodded. "A fire started near the pipe would probably burn forever." "That's why this controversy is pointless," Cozen said, exasperated. "We can just burn it away. I've seen it done before—when mines grow too toxic, sometimes the gas must be burned. It was done in the Canterlot Caverns, we can do it here." "No we can't," Quill realized. "Our princess… she was clear. Flames produce poison, just like ponies do. I may not know alchemy, but… if I was a betting stallion, I would bet that the fire we burn would waste almost as much new air as we create. It would make the entire process pointless." "But we must do something," Sylvan continued. "This path is too useful a prospect to abandon, even if a perfect conversion would take too long to master. I wonder if we might not be able to send the tainted air somewhere else." "You have somewhere in mind?" He nodded again. Cozen rolled her eyes, looking away. But she didn't stop him. "While we were quarrying for ice, we discovered that not all veins are equally thick. Our present cavern has another branch—likely leading elsewhere in the moon's hollow center. I wonder if we might carefully melt a hole, just wide enough for a single pipe. The fire-air could be sent inside, kept far away from us." "It's inviting disaster," Cozen argued. "And I think you're both wrong about the conversion. Even if burning the air robs us of some of the air we need, surely there's more good air than bad." "There is not,” Nightmare Moon said, emerging from behind the cart. She looked like she'd been inspecting the apparatus, though whether she was impressed or afraid of what she'd seen was less clear. "The alchemist's solution is the better one. The hydrogen gas can be vented into space. A tragic waste, but it isn't as though we have the means to make use of it now." All of them bowed—Cozen and Sylvan right to the dirt, though Iron Quill only lowered his head. He was the Lord Commander after all—he didn't need to grovel. "Get up." She strode past them both, gesturing furiously with a wing. "I want you to be listening to me, not cowering. Though you have not remained with me long enough to see, you may know with confidence that I reserve my rage from the useful." They stood; Cozen much faster than Shade. "What were those words you used, Princess?" "Hydrogen." Nightmare Moon pointed in at the tub. "Go on, come here. You stole my bath from me, now you will listen." They did. "This process is known, though not to common ponies. I... remember less than the Tyrant probably would. I was so young…" She trailed off, turning briefly away. The strange slits in her eyes seemed almost completely gone for a moment, and for the second time Quill thought he could see Luna buried somewhere underneath. I wonder how much power Nightmare wasted on Permafrost. That’s influence the princess doesn't have to resist anymore. "What is it?" Sylvan asked. Nightmare Moon pointed in with one wing. "Water is composed of two elements—hydrogen and oxygen. One replenishes what we have lost, while the other is… dangerous. I don't know much about hydrogen, except that it burns, and all fires consume oxygen. So we must vent it. The airlock will present some difficulty… but you've already proven yourselves to be capable with mechanisms. If something goes wrong, we can always melt a little ice and seal the door closed again." Cozen stared at her in open shock. "How do you know all this?" Nightmare Moon laughed, her voice bitter. "My indulgence is bounded, foal. You have just crossed it by inquiring into what you ought not know." Was that a tear? Quill was almost certain he'd seen it, if only for an instant. But then Nightmare Moon took off, spraying dust behind her. "Send word to me when you are ready to build. I will not sit for you at the quarry and wait." She looked away from the two of them, her eyes settling on Quill. "Two miracles are not the end of your usefulness to me. Heal quickly, and do not grow too comfortable. When morning comes and you retire to sleep, feel the chill grip of death seeping in around your blankets. So too will every creature in this cavern freeze." She turned, soaring off into the cave towards her own tent. "We're not even done with one impossibility and she heaps the next upon us," Cozen muttered, glaring weakly off in the direction she flew. “Iron Quill, are you her most trusted advisor, or her slave?" "Yes."