//------------------------------// // Aftermath // Story: The Moaning Top Incident // by Visiden Visidane //------------------------------// Decimatio is reserved for large units of legionnaires that have committed a grave crime. Such a case that qualifies for decimatio must be submitted to the Prince once guilt is determined. Only the Prince may pronounce decimatio. While the Prince is deliberating the issue, the offending unit shall be escorted to a suitable patch of wilderness no less than five miles from any settlement or outpost. They shall make camp here until punishment is completed. If decimatio is not pronounced, the unit shall be given the appropriate punishment instead as deliberated by the Legion Commander involved, and the matter is resolved without taking the steps after this. If the Prince gives the order for decimatio then the following steps must be undertaken. Prior to decimatio proper, all officers directly involved in the incident shall be executed by hanging. The remaining legionnaires shall form among themselves groups of ten. The method by which these groups are formed may vary so long as the groups are of the prescribed number. Should there be remainders, these are to be distributed among the formed groups as evenly as possible. Each group shall draw lots among themselves. Whosoever the lot falls upon within a group shall be clubbed or stoned to death by the others in the group. At the end of these proceedings, a tenth of the offending group of legionnaires will have been executed. A record must be kept on the groups formed and who was executed. This record shall be submitted to the appropriate Legion Commander, and our Prince. Legionnaires attempting to escape from the proceedings of decimatio shall be executed regardless of wether the lot fell upon them or not. After decimatio, the bodies of the executed shall be burned and their remains scattered across the execution grounds. No remains shall be buried or entombed. Their families shall receive no compensation. The surviving group shall be disbanded and redistributed within the Legion. Each survivor shall be marked for dishonor. Upon their death, their remains shall also be burned and scattered. Their families shall not receive compensation. Rules and procedures regarding marks of dishonor and their removal have been discussed in previous chapters. -Legionnaire’s Handbook, Offenses and Punishments. “We have word from the Prince. Decimatio has been decreed.” Forge Spark could only stare ahead morosely as Western Legion Commander Sky Arc loomed over him like some avenging hoof of His Highness himself, fully armored as if she was about to fly out to do some lancing herself, and bedecked in the medals she earned in a lifetime of service. Of course, that lifetime had mostly past. Her red mane, still in a long, proper braid, was streaked with gray, half her left wing was missing, and her dark brown fur did not cover the many, many scars along her neck and body. Before she was Western Legion Commander, she was Flight Gorehowl’s captain. Forge Spark expected decimatio. The rest of the troops that participated during that disastrous night had been out in the wilderness for days now. They were successful in slaying most, if not all, members of the Moonlight Rondo, including Spared Rod through strange circumstances, and they uncovered an ophidite version of a kirin. Still, Moaning Top had changed from a distasteful but necessary operation to a great, disgusting blemish on the Western Legion’s face. Sharpstone troops also killed a large number of Moon Basin’s villagers, and had allowed themselves to be tricked by an ophidite infiltrator squad. More than that, in Forge Spark’s eyes, his beloved daughter had disappeared, and her protector, Coal Grey, had been killed. And so punishment was needed. Decimatio demanded that he, as the Fort Commander involved in this disgrace, must be executed. “I must go, then,” Forge Spark said as he stood up. Even trying to lift himself from his chair proved difficult. It felt as if he was chained to the floor. A hanging was a traitor’s death; dishonorable and pathetic. He would be remembered as a criminal and a failure. To twist the knife further, his estate and all he owned would not be passed down to his kin, but instead be given to the Legion. “Hold,” Sky Arc said. She placed a hoof on his shoulder, eyes soft for the first time in all the years he had known her. “I’ve made some arrangements in your case.” “Sky Arc, I am not running away from this,” Forge Spark replied. “And you won’t be,” Sky Arc said. “You must die, this cannot be changed, but I’ve arranged for changes in your execution.” Sky Arc adjusted her spectacles, and gave what Forge Spark could guess as a sympathetic look. “You will take your life, and your death will not be treated with dishonor. Your body will be buried with full rites, and your estate will be given in accordance to your will.” Forge Spark allowed himself a small, tight smile. “I’m grateful,” he said. “And I’m sure your husband will be too. Tell my brother to spend his share wisely.” “Don’t turn me into a money-grubber,” Sky Arc replied. “I know your daughter will inherit most of it. Be asssured that I have troops out in search of her.” “Thank you,” Forge Spark said. He could manage this much, at least. In the end, all he was good for was a source of money for his daughter. He looked up. “The poison? I assume it’s poison.” “Half Spear!” Sky Arc barked. The doors to the office opened, and her earth pony assistant walked in with a platter in his mouth. Atop the platter was a large goblet of silver and ivory. “I was wondering where he was,” Forge Spark said. He focused on the goblet. Such a richly decorated and elaborate vessel for such a grim and simple task. “Hemlock,” Sky Arc said. “Slow and painful for expiation. I expect that you will reconsider that this was any sort of favor halfway through.” Forge Spark stared at Sky Arc for a while, lips grim and even, eyes hard. Yes, expiation. That was true, he supposed. The command to annihilate the Rondo came from the Legion Commander’s office. Sharpstone was just the closest source of troops. Yes, it was his and his troops’ fault that the debacle was as bad was it got, but the notion of Sky Arc talking about his expiation nearly made him laugh. All he said, though, was “Don’t worry. I never considered it to be one in the first place.” He closed his hoof over the goblet, and drank long and deep. The side trails of the Western Barrier Lands were notoriously treacherous paths, barely more than light, pony-made cuts across the steep, unforgiving sides of the mountains they traversed. They seldom had any rails or walls to protect a traveler, and they perpetually struggled against the forces of erosion. To an inexperienced traveler with no means of flying, a fall down the mountainside was a likely fate. Fortunately for Chill Gaze, he had been travelling and studying these paths for most of his life. The Legion’s inquisitors chased after the most slippery prey, the sort that would use these nearly forgotten trails to move about in secret. That he skulked through them now, as if he belonged to the same class of degenerate that he pursued so hard was not lost on him. It was necessary, however. Decimatio demanded his death. The Legion may have killed a few citizens unnecessarily, though it was in defense, but it did not deserve anything even close to decimatio. He couldn’t die here, not as one more twig in a bundle thrown to the fire. Not when he had executed his orders and rid Equestria of degenerates. This was not justice. It was not even efficient. As such, he had to correct it. He had escaped at the cost of slaying a few sentries. There was no forgiving what even he could only call murder, but there was no other choice. In the grand scheme of things, they were but low-ranking grunts, acceptable losses to preserve an efficient inquisitor. It wouldn’t be long, though, before they would come looking for him. His career as Director Chill Gaze was over, but he could still spend his days in a secret service to Equestria; rounding up degenerates in his own way, cleaning up messes that the Legion itself was too soft to deal with. First, he had to disappear. Perhaps travel to the Southern Barrier Land, where it was easy to be lost in the swamps and jungles. A few years in some backwater bog and he could start working on an identity, and salvage the pieces of this life of his. He didn’t mind the hard work. Chill Gaze paused from his musings when he caught a figure rounding a sharp turn and walking towards him. The shape was pony enough; a mare from the size, but the heavy hooded cloak made it difficult to make out any features. This was no path for regular travellers to take. This one must be a criminal or an outcast of sorts. She was alone and did not appear laden with goods. Perhaps, just a loner taking a difficult path just to avoid company. Chill Gaze bit back the urge to stop her and inquire. He was not acting in the Legion’s authority right now. After he had settled on this new life, he might be able to scrutinize even lonely travellers. The figure walked closer, and Chill Gaze could assume that this was no legionnaire. They would travel in pairs, at least, and would not hide their affiliation. No visible weapons either. They had to pass close to each other as the path was so narrow. As they did so, neither offered any greeting. This was a path for those who wished to avoid attention after all. Suddenly, the cloaked pony suddenly lurched towards Chill Gaze, as if fainting, just as they were passing each other. On instinct, stretched out a hoof to catch her. The cloak flew up and Chill Gaze just barely caught the flash of magic from the unicorn mare’s horn. Something cold and sharp jabbed deep into his gut. Pain followed like a stroke of lightning, erupting into a blaze of agony in his torso. He gasped and grabbed the mare’s hoof. A knife-shaped magical construct glimmered bright orange in her grasp, like a sliver of a sunset. Trembling, he pulled it away and twisted it, managing a look at her face in the process. This face—! “I followed your troops,” the mare whispered hoarsely. She was disheveled and haggard, her eyes bloodshot and weary. Still, there was no hiding the warmth of her looks: the light pink fur, the fiery mane, the eyes like distant campfires. This was the Fort Commander’s daughter, Cinder Spark. “I followed them hoping to get my chance with you.” She pushed hard, trying to get another stab in. She looked as if she hadn’t eaten or bathed in days, and her fading strength confirmed it, but Chill Gaze’s own strength was bleeding out of his stomach wound. “I saw what you did, inquisitor,” Cinder Spark went on. “You’re a murdering degenerate, no better than those you’re supposed to hunt!” “I’m not,” Chill Gaze snarled. His own horn flashed in a desperate spell. Shards of ice flew from him, plunging into Cinder Spark’s throat. Her blood sprayed into his face, half blinding him as she fell back. She gurgled and coughed as her back struck the rock wall behind her. Still, she kept a satisfied grin. The sudden loss of balance forced Chill Gaze to step back. Only his hind hoof found nothing to land on. With a sharp inhale and an aborted cry, Chill Gaze fell back-first down the mountainside. Sharp rocks scraped his back, then his head, his face, his chest, his knees as he tumbled down. Pain exploded everywhere in a confusing barrage. His vision spun, blackened, and whirled. Just as he consigned himself to be shredded into nothing, he tumbled off a sheer drop. His waist struck an outcropping with a sick crack and a brutal lance of pain, just above his tail, as he finally stopped. He gasped, the most he could accomplish instead of a cry. He had ended up on his back, partly wedged in some crack on the mountainside. “I...” Blood trickled out of Chill Gaze’s lips. He tried to shout again, but all that came out was a pathetic groan. Not that there was any pony to call to. He tried to move, but his hind legs did nothing. Even his forelegs barely responded, and only with horrific agony. Blood continued to trickle from his stomach wound, leaving sticky rivulets along his belly and matting his fur. Left with no options at all, Chill Gaze simply stared at the sky as birds circled lazily.