“Calm down, Twilight. Everything’ll be fine.”
It was easy for Spike to insist she calm down, Twilight reflected. He was still young and foolish; he didn’t really know any better. He wasn’t balancing not only his own fate, but the fate of all his friends and possibly all the realm on a knife-edge in the hope that nothing went drastically wrong. Nor was he entirely cognisant of the dangers of what exactly they were up against-his stunted and unreciprocated attempt at male bonding had displayed that well enough. No, for all the world it felt like Twilight and Twilight alone bore the fears and concerns of her race firmly on her purple shoulders tonight.
The dress Rarity had made for her was beginning to feel choking and sweaty. Twilight forced herself to take a deep breath, and bring a smile she didn’t believe in to her face. For one, Rarity would be distraught were she to ruin her garment; Twilight had told her multiple times that the one she’d made for last year’s gala was more than okay, but the fashionista had insisted, slaving away in her free time to craft a new gown for the Element bearers. Twilight’s was a deep purple to contrast the cosmological blue she’d chosen before. Ribbons in the shapes of stars and planets were sewn in luxurious gold thread, and on the cloak draped over her back constellations twinkled with a magical light. Her tiara was only slightly less impressive than the Element of Magic’s crown, a cord of red gold with another starburst fashioned from a diamond.
“Sorry, Spike.” She lied. She was going to take this seriously, even if no-one else was. “It’s just that, with so many ponies in one place, we do make kind of a tempting target for…them.”
“I don’t see why.” The dragon answered, brushing crumbs off his pint sized tuxedo as he chomped down another hors d’oeuvre. “I mean, the Iron Warriors know they need us to get home, and what would they have to gain from attacking us?” He tossed a small piece of food up, long lizard tongue lashing out to catch it mid-air. “Besides, it was your idea to come in the first place.”
That was true. It had been on Twilight’s suggestion that the group had come to the Gala, as a way of relaxation. They’d stuck together through the early part of the night-memories of last time still fresh-and for a while Twilight had been perfectly happy, talking and laughing the night away with her friends. But slowly they’d drifted away from one another-some carried by the flow of groups of minglers, others to seek out particular ponies of high status. As Twilight was reduced to sharing Spike’s company alone, her doubts had grown and festered until they were a raging, unending torrent in her head. The Unicorn wished she’d thought to bring a book with her. Even with all the friendship lessons she’d learned, what she craved right now-and more than ever recently, she realised-was knowledge, not socialising.
She sighed, accepting that Spike wasn’t going to heed her point. Instead she nuzzled him gently, telling him to have a good time before turning and trotting away. Staying there worrying wouldn’t help, and maybe she could find one of her friends or even the Princess. She bobbed and weaved through the crowd, smiling warmly at any pony that greeted her but otherwise staying silent.
The gala’s atmosphere was certainly more relaxed than it had been in previous years. Much of the dress code had been relaxed, although that seemed to have been entirely lost on Rarity, and the band played a variety of tunes besides the dreary classical sonatas. The ballroom and great chambers were still as grand as Twilight remembered from her fillyhood; the gilded stair cases, glowing chandeliers and fine marble statues never ceased to entrance her, even on a night like tonight. She looked up, examining the main ballroom’s largest chandelier. Every glass crystal was cut so fine as to be perfectly smooth, and were bewitched so they emitted an ever changing spectrum of colours to bathe the room. Twilight couldn’t see what the delicate scrollwork inked across every arm of the furnishing said, but even so it was impressive. Luna’s moon was not long set, and the sky still shimmered with a silvery blade of dying light.
As if the thought summoned her, she appeared across the room. Princess Luna had not bothered to dress up for the event, sporting the same midnight-clue crown, necklace and shoes as ever. Somehow it served only to make the alicorn look more regal, not less. She stood atop a staircase, welcoming late arrivals with a graceful smile. Nor was she alone; Twilight’s heart fluttered with joy as she spied the sparkling multi-hued hair, exquisite golden crown and flawless alabaster-white coat that could only belong to her mentor. Celestia looked up as a dull-looking Pony in top hat and tails passed her, her face broadening in a smile as she saw Twilight approach. Luna followed her gaze, but upon spying the unicorn her only reaction was to scowl. Mumbling something to her sister, she turned and stalked away.
“Is…Princess Luna still mad at me?” Twilight asked reproachfully as she drew nearer. She’d not spoken to the Princess since the battle in Canterlot, when she’d suggested allowing the Iron Warriors to stay until they knew what they were dealing with, much to the Princess of the Night’s displeasure. It had evidently been the cause of unspoken friction, but Celestia’s response was to chuckle delicately.
“Luna will forgive you, my faithful student. Just give her time, she’s always been more…temperamental as I have.” She laughed. Twilight laughed with her, but it was far more nervous. Celestia noticed immediately, and her face changed to an expression of motherly concern. “Is something wrong, Twilight dear? You know you can tell me if there is.”
Despite herself, Twilight shifted slightly when Celestia laid a hoof on her shoulder. Although the unicorn knew the Princess perhaps better than anyone else, with the exception of Luna, it was sometimes difficult to be in her radiance for too long; almost like staring into the sun. Twilight was firmly a creature of science and fact, and she wasn’t afraid to admit she disdained any who believed in snarks and grumpkins hiding in the depths of the forests and the like, but even she had to admit that Celestia and her sister were perhaps the closest things there were to physical gods.
“Oh it’s nothing, really. I mean…it’s just that…I think…”
“Lorkhan?” Celestia interjected. Twilight paled to hear her speak his name so nonchalantly, but nodded. Celestia chuckled again, drawing her protégé in close.
“You really mustn’t worry yourself over him.” She insisted. “Lorkhan’s many things: Bitter, angry, brutal, vindictive…perhaps a little slow on the uptake sometimes. But at heart I’ve seen enough of him as we’ve worked together to know he’s no fool. Besides, have you considered that he and his brothers want to go home as much as we want them to?”
Twilight thought on that. She hadn’t considered it. Even so, words rose unbidden to her mouth. “Has…has he ever said what his home’s like?” All of a sudden, Celestia’s expression changed to a mournful one, but she did not answer. When she did speak, it was to change the subject. “I promise Twilight, everything will be all right. Besides, what possible reason could they have for coming here?”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Besides, what possible reason do we have for going there?” Rorke growled as he concluded his rant, cursing loudly and colourfully as his head slammed into the wall as they crossed a bump. The Growler was many things, but possessed of a good suspension wasn’t one of them.
Lorkhan didn’t grace his brother with an answer. The cramped and shaky confines of the tank took most of his attention, and furthermore he wasn’t sure there was a real answer. Attending high class functions was something that was better suited to the Ultramarines, or the Phoenician’s get before the War, not the Iron Warriors. Even the eternal gentleman Mordecai had expressed a certain reluctance, without ever actually disagreeing of course, but in the end they’d decided to go for two reasons. Firstly, even the Astartes were starting to grow weary of having naught to do but train and fortify. Secondly, if Lorkhan found evidence that Celestia had no intention of keeping up her side of the bargain, he could kill her.
There were seven Iron Warriors loaded into the Growler’s troop compartment; eight overall, if the driver was taken into account. In another worrying break with Fourth Legion tradition, they’d actually made an attempt to conform to smarten up-Mordecai and Lorkhan’s armour had been scrubbed clean of most accumulated dirt and grime, the sorcerer espousing the virtue of cleanliness. Vortun, to his credit had tried, but the nature of his blessing had left all such efforts futile. In theory he shouldn’t even have fit in the Rhino, but with much grunting and squeezing they’d finally managed to get him in, although the consequence had been crushing his brothers against the tank’s walls. Barbus and his three hand-picked Astartes hadn’t cleaned their war-plate, but instead wore heavy fur cloaks that hung from their shoulders like the hide of a great beast. The warband had skinned them from wolves, although not all had been the quadrapedal variety. In the gruelling siege warfare and trench battles the Iron Warriors favoured a cloak was often an unnecessary hazard, and even out of combat they disdained dressing up, but all had thought it appropriate for the moment. Rorke, of course, had done nothing, and was here solely because Lorkhan had made him come.
It was Barbus who came to his rescue. “Well, clearly we’re not here for our health Rorke. Some of us are competent enough to understand a reconnaissance mission when we see it.”
Rorke shifted angrily in his seat, hands twitching as one of them rested on the hilt of his sword, but Vortun’s bulk held him in place. “Big words, lickspittle. Too bad Zuko isn’t around to help you back them up.” He spat.
“Enough, both of you.” Lorkhan interjected, before it got out of hand. “Focus on the mission.” Barbus cocked his head in mute judgement, but shrugged and leaned back without a word. Rorke however was not so easily dissuaded.
“And if the Xenos do try something?” He was answered by Lorkhan’s steely gaze.
“Then that would be…unfortunate.”
Quiet reigned for a moment, before Rorke nodded, seemingly content. Lorkhan folded his arms and gritted what remained of his teeth as they crested another rock. It wasn’t long before Mordecai broke the silence.
“I struggle to see any stratagem here that is benefocial to the Xenos, sir, although I confess I do suffer from a most perculiar headache. Though, it seems a fine night for such an event.” He was telling the truth-the sky was cloudless, the winds refreshingly cool. Lorkhan had never liked trenches as much as some of his brothers, and if nothing else Equestria’s climate was agreeable. Mordecai’s words made him think of something else, however, and he opened a vox link in his helmet.
“Talk to me, Varvillon.”
The other Iron Warrior had gone on ahead at the Warsmith’s request, taking up a scouting role to observe the party before they arrived. Last time Lorkhan had checked, he’d been perched atop a rock face that looked straight into the main ballroom.
“Judging from the hordes I can see, you’d think this was the highlight of their year. The pink one you nearly killed is here with the purple horned one, as well as butterfly arse-“
“Fluttershy.”
“She’s here too. As is Celestia…you realise I can blow her head off with a slight decompression of my finger, right?”
It was tempting-oh so tempting-but she was still useful to Lorkhan for the time being. Plus, if it came to that, she was his.
“Don’t even think about it, Varvillon. When did you get a sniper rifle anyway?”
“What, this? I took it from Sarkon before the crash. Bastard owed me, stepped on that Prandium rose-tree I was keeping.”
Sarkon had been their best scout, and responsible for the accurate impact of countless artillery barrages. None of this meant Lorkhan had liked him.
“You ‘took’ it? Didn’t he say anything?”
“He said something.”
Lorkhan smirked, cutting the link. It was another ten or so minutes before they reached their destination. Gradually the growling engines reduced to a low snarl, and the few remaining internal lights flickered on as the hiss of pressure heralded the Rhino’s doors opening. Vortun was the first out, with a bit of effort, flanked by Barbus and another Iron Warrior holding their guns at the ready. Rorke, Lorkhan and the rest followed. Mordecai took in a deep breath and stretched, pebbles rising into the air around him and vibrating violently as he gently reached out with his psychic power. Had any of them bother to look behind them they would undoubtedly have seen the castle’s front gardens torn up by the tracks of their vehicle, but the Iron Warriors’ eyes were instead drawn ahead.
From what little they’d seen, Canterlot and the castle looked a lot more inviting when they weren’t being dragged in as prisoners or fighting for their lives through its streets. The stone from which it was made wasn’t clear, but the liberal application of gemstones and flawless glass did lend the castle a certain aesthetic charm. Not that any of the mattered to Lorkhan; as a defensive position it was shoddy, and even factoring the inevitable magic in the Warsmith had already analysed over 27 structural weaknesses and avenues of attack. Storing them away for later review, he pressed on towards the great doors, companions in tow.
The pony serving as a doorman was well dressed, but that didn’t seem to stop him shaking like Rorke on a bad day as the Astartes approached. It was only in the tiniest of voices he called out as they passed “e-excuse me, b-but you can’t go in if you don’t have a t-t-ticket…”
Lorkhan stopped at his words, but didn’t turn. It wasn’t until he heard the sound of Rorke’s power sword flaring to life and the rack on three bolters being pulled that he regarded the Xenos.
“There’s my ticket.”
It wasn’t long before his nerve, inevitably, broke, and the pony was sent squealing down the path in a blind panic. Barbus snatched the top hat from his head as he passed, hanging it from the tip of one of the horns that curved round from the side of his helmet. It was unprofessional, but Lorkhan allowed him the eccentricity. They pushed on, through deserted stairwells and chambers as stealthily as they could. The presence of Vortun and live power armour made such an act near enough impossible, but from the sound of it the ponies were congregating in the main hall where not so long ago the Iron Warriors had been on trial. The return had a certain grim irony to it, Lorkhan acknowledged.
Eventually they reached the door. The excitable and idle blabber of hundreds of voices behind hadn’t abated, and it seemed that the Ponies still didn’t know they were there. That suited Lorkhan just fine. As he was about to push through the door, he felt the gauntlet of what could only be Mordecai rest on his pauldron. Preparing himself for a lecture on civility and poise, he was surprised when the sorcerer’s voice came through a private channel.
“It seems prudent to…exercise caution, sir.”
Despite his dislike of the Psyker, something in Mordecai’s tone gave Lorkhan paused. He looked at the Telekine searchingly. “Why?” Mordecai didn’t answer for a moment, but Lorkhan thought he saw him…wince?
“It’s…you’ll pardon my saying, sir, but for the first time since we arrive I feel…power, sir.”
For a long time Lorkhan stared at him, weighing up what Mordecai was implying. It became clear they couldn’t go back now, and he pushed his doubts to one side. With a grudging nod to the warlock, Lorkhan pushed the door open.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Above all else, Pinkie Pie prided herself on the ability to always have a good time.
Sometimes, when observing this for the first time, other ponies would roll their eyes or scoff at her. They saw it as a sign of a flat personality, a weak and entirely dependent little girl-she knew all this, because some were quite vocal about it. She admitted that she could be a little…pushy, when it came to making new friends, but ultimately Pinkie tried not to take such comments to heart. She was proud of her optimism and the great stock she put in making those she cared bot smile, and after a while most came round to her way of thinking.
She wasn’t certain, but Pinkie reckoned that quality was why she was so good at throwing parties. Ultimately her talent was expressing her happiness, which gave her degrees of skill in music, art and dance, but it was party-throwing that really captured her imagination and brought her satisfaction. The Grand Galloping Gala was a let down on that front last time, but she’d been more than willing to try again, and it’d paid off. She’d been rushed off her hooves trying to dance, catch up with everyone and make time to talk to anyone who looked lonely, but that was her lot and it was enough for her to know that everyone else was enjoying themselves.
So when the arrival of the Iron Warriors caused the music and dancing to stop, and a stone cold silence to fall over the hall, Pinkie’s heart froze more than most.
The chandeliers, bleached castle interior and little remaining moonlight combined to give their shining silver armour an almost too perfect glow, and contrasted heavily with the muted bronze and deep blacks that formed pauldrons and trim. As they walked, their footsteps rang off the floor with an eerie synchronisation, echoing around the noiseless ballroom, although it was drowned out by the coming of one of the huge ugly ones with guns in their arms. Three of the marauders wore long cloaks over their shoulders that seemed to be made of fur. For a moment Pinkie spared a thought for Fluttershy, but such concern was drowned out as her breath caught in her throat and she let out a quiet, frightened squeak.
He was there. The alien king, or whatever he was, advanced at the head of the pack. Four metal snakes sprouted from his armour and coiled around him, hissing and spitting the occasional gout of purple flame into the air, and with every other footfall the metallic smack of the butt of his spiked axe tapped out his pace on the marble floor. For a moment his eyes met hers, and Pinkie felt her throat tightening as it had done when he had wrapped his claws around it. Nearby, Pinkie heard Twilight beginning to hyperventilate; she desperately wanted to go and help, but fear and an unPinkie-like anger kept her rooted to the spot.
They stopped about halfway through the hall, the crowds of Ponies parting to let them through. Lorkhan-she remembered that that was his name-stared at Princess Celestia mutely. She stared back, and although it was hard to tell Pinkie thought she saw a tremor of fear on her face. The Iron Warrior was the one to break the eye contact, turning to examine one of the stained glass windows that decorated the ballroom. The closest was also the most recent-Spike destroying King Sombra with the Crystal Heart, and the red glow from Lorkhan’s eyes mixed with the crimson surrounding the fallen Unicorn.
“We didn’t have much in the way of art on Olympia.” He said at last, still not taking his eyes off the painting. “Unlike Fulgrim’s peacocks, we were never very good at it…unless you count math and artillery bombardments as art, I suppose. The Primarch placed dogged adherence to a policy of war above all else-he thought art was an unnecessary distraction, that it encouraged sentimentality.”
“The irony is, Father was one of the most honourable warriors I ever knew, and had a great love for mathematical learning and architectural pursuits.” Finally, he looked at Celestia. His voice was still a threatening monotone. “Of course, being forced to tear down everything we came across instead of ever building, and never with any thanks or recognition for it, stunted our artistic growth. The rest of mankind seemed to agree, because only one painting of us was ever made…and that was less than flattering.”
Pinkie wasn’t sure why he was telling them all this, and from the looks on their faces neither was anypony else, least of all the Princess. She stammered, for once at a complete loss for words. Lorkhan seemingly took that as permission to continue.
“We didn’t get any tickets. It was actually Rorke that told us this was happening at all, and we were already out tonight.” He nodded at Fluttershy. “We added more to your home, by the way. You have a moat now, and we addressed a weak point at the southern tower.” The Pegasus looked stunned, before edging back into the mass of pony body’s. Pinkie Pie scowled at the aliens.
Finally, Celestia found her voice. “Well, you’re certainly very welcome to stay, provided you behave yourselves. Although, you seem to be missing part of your command structure…” she trailed off, raising a hoof in the air and shaking it to and fro. Lorkhan stared at it for a moment, helmet blank as ever.
“Oh. You mean Zuko. He’s…Barbus, where is Zuko? I told him to be here.” He turned to look at one of his kin behind him, a cloaked warrior with a top hat dangling from the tip of a horn. Barbus shrugged.
“Damned if I know. Wouldn’t tell me, although he didn’t sound happy about it.”
***
“And then Fulgrim cut Ferrus Manus’ head off, and the Salamanders and Corax’s pigeons all died, and we won the war and the Legion certainly never got into the state it is. The end.”
He was met by three disbelieving gaze tucked up together in the bed in front of him. Zuko had told them plainly that bedtime story telling was not one of his talents, but they’d insisted.
“Did…any of that actually happen?” Scootaloo asked.
“Ferrus lost his head.” Zuko confirmed. He rose from the chair that had been barely supporting his weight, pulling his red cloak tighter around him. He was almost out the door when Sweetie’s voice chimed up.
“Wait, what’s the difference between an Iron Hand and an Iron Warrior?”
“Never ask me that again.” Zuko replied flatly, not stopping. She was quiet for a whole second.
“But couldn’t Ferrus have waited for backup or something? Why did he charge in alone?”
This time Zuko did stop. He cast the Crusaders a sidelong glance.
“Because he was an idiot. Go to sleep.”
He slammed the door before they could talk, and went to get a cigar.
***
“Anyway, he’s not here.” Lorkhan said. Any further exposition was lost as something caught his eye. He walked over to a serving pony, examining the plate he held.
“What’s that?” the alien asked, pointing at one of the glasses. The pony was visibly quivering.
“M-m-mulled wine, your Iron Warriorship.” Lorkhan grunted, before lifting a glass with surprising delicacy. Handing it to one of the others to hold, he placed a hand either side of his helmet and pulled. A hiss filled the room.
Pinkie, and everyone else, gasped.
Over half Lorkhan’s face was replaced with metal, one of his eyes glowing as red as his helmet’s. However, it was his flesh that drew the onlookers; what remained of his real face was marked by a huge scar that narrowly missed his eye and bisected his nose and lips. The edges of the cut were red raw, and the wound itself seemed to have an ice blue tinge to it. Lorkhan noticed the attention.
“A wolf bit me.” He explained. “Left a scar, but ended up savaging itself too by accident. It was his own fault really; he was the one that wanted single combat.”
It didn’t look like any Timberwolf wound Pinkie had seen before, but she kept quiet on that. Rainbow Dash didn’t.
“I find it hard to believe that YOU fought with honour.” Lorkhan nodded.
“No, I didn’t.” he agreed, reaching into one of the pouches on his belt. He produced something small, hanging it from his fingers. Pinkie had to squint to see it, but it looked like a necklace threaded with canine teeth carved with strange symbols. Lorkhan jutted his chin at the pendant. “He did.”
For a moment, Pinkie thought he was going to crush the object in his hands, but after a delay he placed it back in the pouch with almost reverential care. Taking the wine glass from his subordinate and downing the drink in a single swig, the Iron Warrior reattached his helmet. It was an improvement. No sooner had he done so he began to walk, his warriors in tow. The table they elected to sit at was the nearest one, and Pinkie’s eyes widened as she realised it was Filthy Rich’s private booth; completely ignoring his protests the Iron Warriors took their seats around him, with the exceptions of the big guy who couldn’t sit, and Barbus-who coughed almost guiltily and elected to lean on a nearby wall.
It soon became clear they had no intention of leaving, although no visible conversation passed between them as they stared at the ponies. Eventually, the party began to kick up again, though the band was more subdued and the dancing less vigorous. And in the midst of it all, only Pinkie seemed to notice the one Iron Warrior clutching at his head.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It was twenty minutes before one of his brothers came to bother Barbus. He’d expected that. What he hadn’t expected was the source.
The crowds parted like a tide as Vortun lumbered his way across the ballroom floor. The Obliterator moved at a steady pace, but didn’t slow-more than once one of the Xenos had to dive away to avoid his footfalls. Recessed deeply in the fleshy folds at the centre of his armour, two dark, mismatched and piggish eyes stared out at Barbus. The Iron Warrior shifted uncomfortably. It wasn’t that he disliked Vortun, far from it; like many of the IV Legion he was in awe of the creature’s communion with the Powers that Be, even if he’d never really seen the need for said powers. It was just something in the Obliterator’s overall manner that set him on edge.
His suspicions were confirmed when Vortun reached him. “You vill come vith me.” He growled without preamble. Barbus watched him incredulously, folding his arms.
“I’m not taking you to the toilet.” He said at last. Vortun grunted in what Barbus gathered was the closest he could manage to a laugh, but the ever-mutating face’s underlying expression didn’t change.
“Zat vill not be nessercary. Come.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Zen I vill shoot you, yah?”
“Fair enough.” The Iron Warrior pushed himself off the wall, unfolding his arms only to pull the fur cloak tighter around his shoulders before returning to their contemptuous pose. Vortun took that as a yes and began to retrace his steps, displacing the teeming throngs of Ponies that had only just refilled the gaps he had made. Barbus followed in his wake, relishing how the way the Xenos slunk back under his gaze more than a little.
For a terrible moment, it seemed that Vortun was intent on dragging Barbus onto the dancefloor. The Iron Warrior’s hands instinctively fell to his bolter, wondering whether he could get a convincing headshot in before the Obliterator killed him in any one of numerous unpleasant ways. But the Gods smiled on him for once, and Vortun did not stop, instead continuing to push his way through the crowds until they came across a specific pony. Barbus raised his one remaining eyebrow within his helmet.
The dress was certainly a surprise, as was the radical redesign to the hat, but Barbus instantly recognised her. Applejack’s face paled somewhat as the pair approached her, but the combined gaze of two Chaos Space Marines-one of whom was as much daemon as man-kept her rooted to the spot. They’d managed to catch her when she was pretty much alone, and Vortun wasted no time taking his chance.
“You vill help us.” It seemed to Barbus that Vortun really wasn’t in the mood for idle chatter tonight. She looked even more taken aback, but quickly recovered.
“And just wah would ah do a thing lahk that, do y’all reckon?” she spat, eyes narrowing. “Shoot, ah don’t even which two you purport tah be…or what, in your case.”
Vortun’s sigh was the sound of two mountains crashing together. Barbus kept silent, just as lost as the Xenos as to where Vortun was going with this.
“Mein name ist Vortun.” He explained, slowly. “Ich bin ein Obliterator. Zis is mein bruder, Barbus. He is…ein wahnsinniger.”
Barbus had no idea what Vortun had just said, but accepted it was probably an insult. He stared at her, and she stared back.
“You vill help us,” Vortun went on, “because frau Sparkle told me zat you are an embodiment of honesty.”
“T…Twalaght told y’all that?” For a moment Applejack’s defences cracked, confusion setting in on her face. When she did come back round it was with considerably less gusto. “Well, there’s no shame in admittin’ it, ah trah never tah tell a lah to nopony.”
“Zat is commendable.” Vortun admitted. Barbus finished the rest in his head; commendable, but stupid. “So you vill answer mein question truthfully, yah?”
“Depends what y’all wanna know.” She retorted. Vortun looked down at her for a moment.
“Are you attempting to poisoning us?”
That got her going. Applejack’s face changed from paling to an incandescent red, and when she spoke it was little more than a splutter.
“What the…how…wah, of all the dirty rotten nerve! Y’all barge in here, disturb our party and now you accuse us honest, hard-working ponyfolk of-“
“We weren’t accusing.” Barbus decided it was time to step in. “We were asking.” Again, he reached for his bolter. “Would you like me to accuse, Xenos?”
Applejack understood the implication, but was smart enough not to respond. She took a step back, turning away from the Astartes and taking a deep breath. “Nah, we ain’t poisonin’ yah, not that ah know of anyway.” She seemed to think it over for a moment, eyeing the pair suspiciously. “Wah are y’all askin’, anyhow?”
Vortun didn’t smile, or react in any way before pointing over her shoulder to begin with. Both Applejack and Barbus followed his finger. “Because I vant to know vat is wrong with him.”
Mordecai.
Now that Vortun mentioned it, it occurred to Barbus that the Sorcerer had been acting peculiarly tonight. Lorkhan slinking off to drink by himself in the corner and Rorke practically flipping a table and going into major convulsion half way through the evening had been expected, but all had thought Mordecai would be thoroughly in his element here. And yet, first off he had been complaining of a headache whilst they were arriving, and it seemed to have gotten worse as the night went on. He was as polite and affable as ever, of course, but generally seemed more pained, tired and…irritable?
Barbus had never seen Mordecai irritable before. Unlike many of his brothers, he didn’t hate the Psyker. Trust was a different matter of course, but magical support had saved Barbus’ arse more than once and anyway, Mord had been way back in the Crusade like the rest of them. It was difficult to imagine life without his presence. He’d been spending more than a little time with the Xenos since they’d arrived, and that piqued Barbus’ curiosity. But judging from the way he had been dragged by a white one with purple hair and a completely overdone dress to come and meet some of what Barbus assumed was Equestrian ‘high society’, it seemed to have been played against the sorcerer.
HE was clutching one side of his helmet as the white pony and her fellows prattled on endlessly around him, for once silent unless it was to chuckle politely or respond to a question. None of them seemed to mind, although Barbus noticed that some did still cast nervous glances in his direction. Something akin to pity came over the Iron Warrior; he was a self-serving creature, and proud of it, but Mordecai was clearly suffering here. Before he could go to his brother’s rescue, however, he was interrupted by another.
“Well well, if it isn’t miss Rarity.”
Rarity-for that, it seemed, was the white ponies’ name, and now Barbus recognised her-turned a similar angry shade of red as Applejack as she heard the voice. She seemed to be having trouble staying composed, and turning was a slow, deliberate action. When she spoke Barbus realised why Mordecai liked her so much; they both believed in manners above all.
“Prince Blueblood, what a …surprise.” She said through clenched teeth. The stallion-a creature with a white coat, black tuxedo, golden hair and a visible aura of arrogance-smiled smugly as he approached. The other Xenos elites began to chatter excitably, but Rarity and Mord simply watched him.
“So I see you came back.” The ‘Prince’ went on. “Understandable, not many mares can stay away for long. Well, I suppose I forgive you for your outrageous behaviour last year, if I must, but don’t expect me to be as courteous again.” His gaze shifted to Mordecai, but the smile didn’t drop. Barbus focused, Astartes hearing picking up every word. “Ah, and you here must be one of the infamous Iron Warriors.”
Quite correct, good sir.” Mordecai said, though his voice was strained. Blueblood appeared not to notice.
“Well, you are quite formidable, aren’t you? Although I must say-bad show on just barging in like that, terribly uncouth.”
“I humbly apologise, my good sir, though I confess it was difficult to conceive any other method of gaining entry.” Something subtle had changed in Mordecai’s voice, although Barbus couldn’t tell what it was. The wince was obvious enough that.
“Yes yes, well, I guess dull brutes such as yourselves may have difficulty adjusting to such basic common courtesies.” Blueblood yammered on. Rarity took an affronted gasp, and Barbus bristled. He didn’t give a shit whether the Ponies thought he was a brute or not, but an insult to the face of one Iron Warrior like that was an insult to them all.
Mordecai, all smiles, pretended to pay no mind. “Oh, I must disagree there. You see, our methods are merely unlike yours-“
“Well of course you would think that, wouldn’t you? From what I gather you and your alien friends have been cooped up together for so long, you know little more than how to thump each other with sticks. Still, it’s hardly surprising I suppose. It seems all your Legion is as mindless as your merry band. Still,” Blueblood levitated a wine glass from a nearby tray, sipping it thoughtfully. “Perhaps interaction with civilised folk will help you amend your barbarous ways.”
Barbus was halfway through pulling his gun when it happened. Mordecai’s hand-which before had been held perfectly still-shot out like an iron viper, striking the pony’s glass from the air. It shattered on the floor with a considerable crash, and finally Blueblood recoiled, as if what he had said was finally sinking in.
Until his last moment, one of the wonders of Barbus’ life was how Mordecai’s voice kept its refined tone even as he was exploding.
“I SAY, WHAT THE DEVIL DID YOU JUST AUDACIOUSLY PRCLAIM ABOUT OUR WELL-BEING? I SHALL INFORM YOU THAT I HAVE GRADUATED TOP OF MY CLASS AT NUMEROUS OLYMPIAN MILITARY COLLEGES AS WELL AS POSSESSING AN EXEMPLORARY RECORD IN THE ASTARTES TRAINING PROGRAM, AND HAVE BEEN ENGAGED IN NUMEROUS ALTERCATIONS WITH THOSE RUFFIANS NATIVE TO OTHER LEGIONS. MIGHT I ALSO ADD THAT ABOARD OUR SHIP I HAVE ACCUMULATED THREE HUNDRED PIECES OF ANTIQUE, EARLY IMPERIUM FURNITURE? I AM SELF-EDUCATED IN FINE DINING AND HIGH CLASS CATERING, AND AM THE TOP AUTHORITY UPON DIPLOMATIC CONVENTION IN THE ENTIRE FOURTH LEGION. YOU ARE NAUGHT TO ME BUT A SIMPLE, UNCOUTH BRUTE, AND I SHALL EMBARRASS THE DICKENS OUT OF YOU WITH CLASS THE LIKES OF WHICH HAS NEVER BEEN SEEN BEFORE UPON THIS HUMBLE PLANET, I DO SOLEMNLY PROMISE. YOU ASSUME YOU CAN DISRESPECT MINE AND MY BROTHER’S IMAGE SO WILLY-NILLY? THINK AGAIN, SAVAGE. AS WE SPEAK I AM ALREADY PLANNING TO ARRANGE A BRUNCH TOGETHER AT THE FINEST ESTABLISHMENT IN TOWN, SO YOU HAD BETTER PRPARE A FETCHING ENOUGH OUTFIT TO MATCH MY IMMACULATE ATTIRE. THIS SHALL BE THE BRUNCH THAT SENDS YOU PACKING BACK TO THE SLUMS; YOU ARE INEVITABLY DEFEATED, XENOS. I CAN BE BOOKED FOR ANY APPOINTMENT AT ANY HOUR, AND CAN EDUCATE YOU IN OVER SEVEN HUNDRED GALACTIC CULTURES, AND THAT IS ONLY WITH THE LITERARY SELECTION I KEEP IN MY CHAMBERS. NOT ONLY AM I EXTENSIVELY PROFFICIENT IN THE PSYCHIC ARTS, I HAVE ACCESS TO SEVERAL SUITS OF ENHANCED POWER ARMOUR AND SHALL FLAUNT THEIR FINELY ARTIFICED MASTERY TO OUTSHINE YOUR DRAB, COMMON APPEARANCE OFF THE FACE OF EQUESTRIA YOU SLOB. IF ONLY YOU HAD FORSEEN THE COMEUPPANCE YOUR ‘INSIGNIFICANT’ COMMENTS WERE BOUND TO EARN YOU, PERHAPS YOU WOULD HAVE TEMPERED YOUR WORDS. BUT YOU INSISTED, AND NOW I SHALL TEACH YOU MANNERS AND GRACE AND YOU WILL LEARN DIGNITY AND POISE YET.
CONSIDER YOURSELF IN ETTIQUETTE SCHOOL…PEASANT.”
For the second time that night silence descended on the hall. Rarity’s mouth hung upon limply, and it took Mordecai several minutes to stop breathing harshly, clear his throat and return to his usual demeanour. Blueblood had retreated entirely inward; of the arrogant lordling, nothing could be seen in the quivering wreck that trembled before the sorcerer. Barbus broke out in furious applause, but quickly trailed off when not even his brothers joined in. The Iron Warriors, like the ponies, stared at the Psyker in abject shock.
Mordecai seemed to know when he was beaten. With another awkward cough, he nodded apologetically to Lorkhan, then the Princess, before turning to storm out through the door they’d entered from. Rarity was after him moments later, calling his name seemingly in vain.
When they had left, and the sound of their steps had faded from earshot, all eyes turned to look at Lorkhan. The Warsmith hadn’t taken his helmet off again, and instead chose to recline lazily in the booth the Astartes had ‘borrowed’. Nonetheless, he seemed to meet everyone’s gaze as they stared at him.
“I’m not even angry.” He admitted, finally. “I’m impressed.”
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He made it as far as the sculpture garden before she caught up with him.
“Mordecai, darling, please wait.”
It was pointless trying to run any further. And anyway, Space Marines did not run, even the corrupted and utterly self-serving ones. Mordecai halted, practically ripping his helmet from his head and casting it to the ground. As he did, all the branches on the nearest tree snapped clean in half as a wild burst of telekinetic force lashed out. Rarity drew back nervously, but regained her nerve.
She looked at him with concern evident in her eyes, and he looked down at her whilst forcing the pain down. The mental rotes he dimly recalled from his induction into the Legion’s libraries helped where pacts with the Dark Gods had not, but the rush of pain to his head was still nearly blinding.
“I…apologise.” He managed to stammer. “I should not have snapped. That was not…that was not cordial of me.”
“Oh pish posh, I shall not hear it. Blueblood is an absolute ogre and it was high time someone gave him a stern talking to.” Rarity comforted. She rested a hoof on his leg. “But that was not like you at all.”
“It may well be.” There was almost anger in his voice. “How would you know what we are? Are why did you follow me? Are you not scared of us?”
“Everyone is scared of you, darling.” She said with a sympathetic smile. “But you are certainly nowhere near as bad as the rest of your compatriots. Now then, are you alright?”
No, he wanted to say, No I am not. Ever since they had arrived on this world manifesting his powers had been difficult. It was almost as if the ‘Magic of Friendship’ that had been vaguely described was a tangible force; insulating this world from the worst of the other Realm’s effects. Yet here, in the castle, the…the Warp seemed to rage more freely. He knew he had felt something when they had been brought here in custody, but the demands of the situation at hand had meant he’d been able to ignore the headache. Now the sudden contact with the Realm of Chaos, and flooding of the Warp’s tides back into him, felt like they were burning out his insides. As a followed of Chaos Mordecai had expected such a reunion to be almost blissful, but it was far from it. He swallowed.
“It is nothing, my dear. Merely-“
“It is not nothing.” Rarity put in, sharply. Mordecai had nearly no memory of his mother, but something in the pony’s tone told him she must have been like Rarity. Nevertheless, this wasn’t a line of discussion he wanted to pursue with the one creature he could perhaps call his friend.
“These sculptures are certainly most impressive.” He said, changing the subject. That actually wasn’t a lie; Mordecai was impressed with many of the art pieces here. Tiny winged Pegasi and studious looking Unicorns were all around the garden, some secreted in fountains or at the centre of elegantly fashioned mazes. Rarity sighed, maybe realising she wasn’t going to draw an answer from him tonight, and gestured an invitation to walk with her.
They walked gently and in silence, and it felt for a moment that Mordecai was indeed feeling better. When they reached the fifth statue, however, their walk came to an abrupt halt. Here it felt like the Warp had practically sliced the mortal world in twain, opening a rift into the realms beyond, and that Mordecai would explode from either daemonic intervention or simple psychic overload. Though his vision swam and doubled, he forced himself to look at the statue. And it was marvellous, though much more…confused than many he’d seen so far. Even the pose was odd, and where many of the other sculptures were crafted from flawless marble this one was cracked and almost warm to the touch.
Rarity looked halfway between anger and confusion. “I…I though the Princess had moved it out of the public eye.” Mordecai watched her, the perplexed shoe now firmly on the other foot. “Oh come now, surely it can’t be that bad. It’s just a little weatherworn, is all.” He said through gritted teeth as he knelt down to read the name plaque. It was dusty, and he had to wipe some of it away to get a good look.
“Discord; Draconequus, deposed tyrant of Equestria, God of…”
“Oh my.”