“Hello!” Shouted the red-violet haired mare for the ninth time. “Is anypony there?!” It was dusk now, and the others had been trying to gain entry to the city for several minutes to absolutely no avail. Many of those same colors were in the sky again, but with more oranges. What a hostile color. Gerbil glowered at the sunset. “Orange”—even the word’s stupid!—what is it trying to do, get me angry? He thought furiously. Well, it’s not going to work. Smiling at his small intellectual victory over his vast orange nemesis, he turned his gaze to his fellow ambassador and the exiles, still struggling futilely to make themselves heard.
“That’s it,” said the mare. “I’m using magic.”
The Professor looked anxious. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” He pestered. “We don’t want to appear hostile.”
“Look, the only sign here is proudly displaying the name of an author who’s been dead for centuries; we have no idea if anypony even lives here anymore,” Sol reasoned. “And they have no way of knowing if somepony’s at the door!”
The Professor made as if to protest further, but was cut off by the sound of Sol speaking an ancient incantation. “Dorvim nal, olokbin durum, fentas gildirin’kan ovisim dul fashkalak teim. Gordurum dul, guluk’fen daz, nalos viridim tel!” She shouted. Roughly translated, this meant “Make a loud noise.”
And once more, the magic reluctantly complied, rolling its eyes at several technical contractions which abridged the incantation by several lines. It took pleasure in knowing that by abusing a loophole, it could only make a noise that was eighty-five percent as loud as the one the impudent mare was anticipating. However, this was no matter since what noise it made was equivalent to a twenty-one gun salute.
“Aieeeee!” Screamed a startled guard who had been sleeping at his post, and who quickly fell from his seat. “Whassat?!” He yawped, bewildered. “Whose’err?! Whaddya want?”
He gazed blearily from the top of the wall. “Who’re yous? Stormchant?”
“We’re exiles!” Replied Sol. “We mean neither you nor your city harm.”
There was no answer.
“Are you asleep?”
“Nah. I have to talk to my manager,” came the response.
The sound of voices saying something about responsibility and work ethic drifted over the wall.
Then came a different voice: “You’re exiles, then?” This voice was gruff and deeper than the last.
“Yes!” Said Sol. “And we’re cold and hungry and we mean you no harm!”
“Oh, alright, then,” said the voice. “Just stop your whining.”
A latch clicked behind the metal door a panel slid back to reveal a single shifty eye. “How many, then?” The voice muttered to itself; the eye looked over the group with care. “Stand up tall, won’t you?”
“Five,” said Sol.
“Yeah.” It said. “Alright.” The panel was replaced. Shortly afterwards, the door clicked once more. And it kept clicking. There was an abrupt clunk. The door’s rusty hinges screeched together as it was forcibly opened by the stallion on the interior. “Come on in.” He tilted his head back. “You’ll meet the priestess.”
The party proceeded through the door, which they could now see was more than five inches thick and composed of a dark metal inscribed with strange runes. Once they had passed through it, the five were greeted with their first view of Blackhaven.
It was an ominous and severe city. What buildings it had were short, squarish and colorless, and the streets were lightly dusted with powdery snow. Not a pony was to be found about those streets, which had a flawless yet foreboding look to them. Gerbil quietly pondered why this was. The orange in the sky had grown deeper, and night was truly starting to fall. The remainder of the sunset glaring out over the cold, grey city had a strange look to it, its unfeeling starkness standing in pure contrast to the primal warmth of the far western sky, visible past the continued mountain range beyond the river.
Their guide, whose visible coat was pitch black and increasingly difficult to see in the growing darkness led them onward through the main road on which they walked. He was a unicorn of unusual and formidable size, and a thick, dark grey beard covered his ebony face, which was gouged and riveted by profuse scars. Gerbil could now see that the stallion wore an eyepatch, which explained his earlier cycloptic gaze. The eye he still had looked distrusting and guarded. His heavy armor clunked loudly together as they walked. His voice, which sounded just as rusty and pitted as his plate pauldrons grated back to them as he walked.
“We’re all exiles in this town,” he said with a familiar pride. “Or the descendents of exiles. We send out recruiters every Enlightenment Day. That’s what Steve was doing.”
“Hello,” said Steve, appearing from nowhere.
“He was the one in the cloak. We usually take travellers of the road at the fork leading ‘round the mountain, but you five turned of your own accord. So Steve here decided to bide his time.” He looked back on the adventurers. “I’m curious: Why did you turn?”
Sol spoke first. “We are making our way to the High North.”
The plated stallion snorted. “The High North. What, are you stupid?”
Gerbil couldn’t help but smile. Maybe he did like rhetorical questions after all.
“We are to go past the Derelict Strand.” Sol retorted. “We’re seeking the Wardens of Snow.”
“Well, I guess that answers my question.” He chuckled. They were coming upon a building that was taller than the others. “Well, it’s been a laugh, but I suppose you ought to save it for the priestess. We’re here.”
He strode toward the great door on the front of this torchlit building. Gerbil and Flask exchanged a nervous look as his horn glowed and he boomed in a much louder voice: “It’s Riveshank! Open up, you bleeders!”
There was a clambering sound behind the door. Then somepony cleared his throat. “You gotta do the password!”
Riveshank looked irritated. “That is the password!”
“Oh. Blimey, did we change it again?” The air was silent for a moment. “Oh, yeah, so we did. Oh, an’ is Steve there? He owes me money.” Steve looked uncomfortable and was shortly not present in the group. How does he do that? Gerbil wondered.
“Haven’t seen him.” Riveshank smiled wryly. “Now will you pry open the confounded door?”
“Fine, fine, hold your horses.” The pony behind the door muttered an incantation. “There we are,” he grumbled. The door ground across the stone to permit the entry of the ambassadors, the exiles, and their guide.
The room into which they now walked was cramped, but greeted them with a staggering warmth despite its darkness. What of the floor they could see was tiled in stone slabs and smelled of dust. Their eyes were already mostly adjusted to the darkness and what difference there was between this new room and the outdoors was quickly accounted for by their eleven eyes. There were several hooded figures sitting at the far end of the room, hunched over a circle of desks.
“New batch of exiles,” said Riveshank. “Hey! New batch!”
The figures looked up. One of them, a teal mare, spoke in an angry whisper.
“We’re in the middle of something, Riveshank!”
“You’re always in the middle of something or other,” said Riveshank peevishly. “See if I care. Anyways, these are your problem. Not mine.” He made an obscene gesture as he walked away.
“What’s his problem?” Wondered Teydin.
“I think I musta missed his birthday,” said one of the other figures, removing his hood. He was a pudgy, maroon stallion with thick eyebrows. “Bloke gets all bent outta shape over nothing.”
“That makes seventeen years in a row,” said one of the others, turning around. What could be seen of her coat was a deep aquamarine. Luminescent orange eyes glowed from beneath the hood. “You’d think he’d stop getting his hopes up.”
“‘Specially with our excuses. I told him I was doing clerical work!” Said another of the cloaked ponies mirthfully. His eyes, which burned scarlet, were also glowing and plainly visible despite his cloak. A beard protruded from the folds of his robe. “Can you imagine? Just used a spell, naturally.”
“You used a spell to do clerical work?” Asked the Professor in outrage. “But that’s. . .Black Magic!”
“Nah. It actually works pretty well.” He said, shrugging.
“Blasphemers!” Cried the mustard Professor. “If the Stormchantry gets wind of this, it’ll have you all exiled!”
“But we’re already exiled,” the teal mare pointed out.
“That’s a fair point,” said the Professor, looking downcast.
“Plus, they won’t be able to banish anypony more once they’re all banished to a dark oblivion!” Added the maroon stallion gleefully. “And it won’t be long now, what with Operation Armageddon and all.”
“Larry,” said the teal mare vexedly. “That’s top secret.”
“Sorry, Margery,” said the stallion, blushing an even more pronounced red. “I do get so excited, you know.”
“It’s no matter,” said the mare who was apparently named Margery. “It’s unstoppable now, anyways.”
“Hold on,” said Sol. “Back up. What’s Operation Armageddon?” She thought for a moment. “Who are you?”
“Why, the Cult of Calfthulhu, of course!” Said the teal mare, her eyes too were beginning to give an evil glow. “Worshippers of the great cow-deity discovered by the prophet H.P Horsecrap.”
“He was actually part cow, you know,” remarked Larry.
“Then wouldn’t Cow-thulhu make more sense?” Inquired Sol.
“No,” explained Margery. “Shut up.”
“It’s a lot easier to say.” Commented Teydin. “I mean, Calfthulhu? How do you even spell that?”
“C-A-L-F-T-H-U-L-H-U,” spelled the irritated teal unicorn. “And it’s not hard to say. It’s exactly the same. And it makes loads of sense.”
“But you put an extra ‘H’ after the ‘L’,” said Teydin, scratching his head. “That can’t be right.”
“That’s supposed to be there,” she fumed. “It’s how it’s spelled.”
“What’s the point of that?” Asked Gerbil. “Just seems like you’re trying to make sound cooler.”
“It is cool!” Larry hissed, his dark-red jowls quivering.
“See what I’m talking about?” Gerbil said, glancing at Flask.
“Aren’t calves small, though?” Recalled Flask.
“No.”
“It’s actually a word for a baby cow,” said the Professor smugly. “School,” he appended. “Sixteen years.” He then realized he had made a grave error as he looked about the room.
The cultists sat in furious silence, glaring at the Professor.
“I mean—not that,” he frantically revised. “Come to think of it, calf is, uh, a prefix that means—erm—” he trailed off, plainly at a loss for words. “Please don’t throw me in the dungeon.”
* * *
“Wow,” said Riveshank after depositing the five into their cell, and glancing at a battered timepiece. “Record time. I’ve never seen anyone get thrown in the dungeon so quickly.” The Professor took a dejected bow.
“Ah, well,” said the heavy-set barbarian. “Enjoy your last couple of hours. I think they’re going to banish you to a dark oblivion or whatever. I don’t really pay attention.”
“What?!” Cried Sol.
“Yeah,” replied Riveshank. “Well, they’re riled up anyways. Idiots. I’ll see you around.” He halted and chuckled. “Well, not that. But you get what I mean.” He walked away and climbed up the stairs on the far side of the room.
The so-called dungeon was dismal place. Indeed, it was quite small by dungeon standards, cramped, even. As far as the group could tell, theirs was the only cell in the place. The aroma of mildew hung passively in the air. Gerbil hated mildew.
“Great work up there.” Said Gerbil. “Really brilliant stuff, telling a bunch of cultists their dark god has a stupid name. Good plan.”
“Sorry.”
“Not you, Flask.”
“Oh.”
“Sorry,” said the Professor, clearly ashamed. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“These bars are enchanted,” remarked Sol, trying to pry away another with her magic. “Won’t budge.”
“Weird dungeon, though,” said Teydin.
“Yeah, these guys are real pros,” muttered Gerbil. “When we get out let’s show them what dark oblivion really means.”
“What?” Asked Sol. “Shouldn’t we be taking the moral high-ground?”
“No, I’m not saying we do that,” Gerbil corrected himself. “Just something really, really similar to it. Like a banishing them to a dim oblivion. Or even a mildly hazy oblivion.”
“Why an oblivion?” Inquired Sol as they made their way across the flagstones of what could really only be described as a cellar. “Seems mean.”
“Yeah, I’m with Sol,” said Teydin.
“A mildly hazy confusion?”
“That might work,” said the Professor. “I’m pretty good at those.”
“Well, magic’s not getting us out of here.” Sol sat on the floor in frustration.
“Can’t push them down.” Flask stopped straining against the bars.
“I can’t believe we’re in jail again,” muttered Teydin. “This is getting ridiculous.”
Hours passed as the party waited on the cold floor of the dungeon which was really a cellar, and as they waited they talked very little to one another. After some time, they heard hoofsteps and the sound of voices upstairs.
“Made fun of the name! Like it was some big joke!”
“Come off it. They always do that. Just new recruits bein’ new recruits.”
There was a pronounced sigh. “I suppose you’re right. Called ‘im ‘Cowthulhu’ though. Seemed to think that was clever.”
“Honestly, it is better.”
“Are you mad? He could be listening!”
“I’m just saying they have a point.”
“Yeah, whatever. Get this though: they had the nerve, the audacity to—” The voice became quieter, and could not be heard by the group in the cellar. Even Flask was beginning to look rather uneasy.
“What?!” Cried the other voice. “Oh, that does it. That bloody does it, I tell you.” The speaker seemed to pause for breath, before letting out a cry of unbridled rage. “They made fun of the second ‘H’?!”
Gerbil did not like the sound of that. His eyes as well as the rest of the party’s darted quickly about their prison. No ways out. Something metal was being dragged along the floor upstairs.
“Sir, calm down,” pleaded the other voice. “Like you said: they may have a point. I mean, that ‘H’ doesn’t belong there does it? Not really—it doesn’t add anything.”
“Don’t you start!” The voice barked. “I’ll banish them to a dark oblivion so fast it’ll make their insolent, phonetics-hating heads spin. I’ll bloody show them.”
The door at the top of the stairs banged open. The stairs squeaked in protest as an immense figure trod heavily down them. “There you are.” He growled. Held in his magic behind them was a great metal instrument. It looked fiendish and dangerous, with great spiky protrusions, perfectly saucer-like metal plates, and dark magical scripts jam-packed on to every visible square centimeter.
“Magic!” He was close to the bars now, and Gerbil could see the glowing red eyes under his hood, the thick facial hair jutting from his robe, the stench of whatever he had last eaten hanging visibly in the air, the tiny pieces of crust distractingly stuck in his moustache, the fact that he he had clearly not bathed in over a year matted on his forehead, the manic twitch of his left eye which was making all of his captives extremely nervous. “Give ‘em what for!” He bellowed, shaking the very bars of the cage in which Sol, Teydin, The Professor, Gerbil and Flask were held.
And the magic complied.
The machine on the floor started convulsing and in several split seconds the room was filled with a putrid haze. The cultist started coughing. “Ah ha ha ha!” He wheezed. “Feel the wrath of—”
But then they were gone. The portal to the dark oblivion quickly closing behind them.
“Ugh. Darn.” Said the leader, regaining his composure. “Didn’t get to say the name. ‘Calfthulhu.’ I was gonna say, and really try to nail that second ‘H’. Ah, well.”
He and the lesser cultist departed the cellar. “Ugh.” Said the leader. “You need a shower or something.”
But the unwitting quintet had far greater problems to deal with.