//------------------------------// // V — Beyond the Mountains of Discord // Story: At the Mountains of Discord // by Glimmervoid //------------------------------// V — Beyond the Mountains of Discord At this point I feel I must break with my narrative to discuss a subject intimately intertwined with this tale: that of the October Codex. This dread tome has gone by many names over the centuries. Some call it the 'Black Book', other 'Al Azif', and still more the 'Necronomicon'. I use the name October Codex for it is by that epithet I was introduced to its forbidden secrets. It is an old tome, predating the founding of Equestria in the Classical Era and even noted visionaries of preceding ages, such as Star Swirl the Bearded. Indeed, it is said that Star Swirl had all copies in the land collected and burnt save his own, while serving as court magician to Unicorn King Regal II. On its author volumes could be written. The certain candidate is Abdul Alhaizum, a zebra who wandered the deserts of Saddle Arabia approximately three thousand years ago. Some others pertain to the prize, but their claims are questionable at best. Alhaizum is known to have visited the desert princes and spoken to many of their astrologer-sages, horses learned in the wisdom of sun, moon and stars. According to local legend, he also treated with the tribes of the deep desert and from them gleaned the making of mind altering potions and philtres. Under the influences of heat, dehydration, unsettling knowledge and alkaloidal plants, he delved the hidden mysteries of the universe and wrote his book — part mad rambling, part hideous insight, part secret history and part black grimoire. On first reading the October Codex I dismissed it as the deluded ramblings of a broken mind. Naturally, I took a certain moreish delight in devouring knowledge so obscure and illicit but no more than that. Only after I journeyed into the dark places of the world did the memory of its age worn pages begin to bother me, and only in the Uncharted North did I understand its greatest secret: the blasphemous lies it tells of Old Ones, Elder Things, Outer Gods and Cosmic Horrors are true. I shouldn't have been so quick to dismiss it those long years ago. Perhaps then I would have been better prepared. ~~~ The flight sledge lacked the extensive cold weather protections of the larger flying karts. As such, I took up those duties which would normally fall to another unicorn's enchantments. It wasn't hard work, and I'd become highly proficient at heat spells since arriving in the Uncharted North. That did not make casting the same basic spells for hours on end enjoyable, however. Surrounded in a combination heat-bubble-precipitation-shield of my own casting, we pushed forward through the first fleeting flakes of snow, beneath a sky which now resembled the maw of some humongous star beast born of and on the trans-solarwinds. As we flew on, the foothills turned into rocky walls, and the Mountains of Discord towered above us like a barrier constructed to bifurcate a continent. The foothills entirely disappeared by 5pm. Assuming Watcher's camp perished during the night of the 13th, our Elder Thing quarries had a lead of some 65 hours. While I didn't want to speculate on how fast such strange creatures might travel, a flight sledge just had to be faster. Keen Wit had said they aimed for a spire beyond the mountains. My best chance was to intercept them on the way, but it was by no means a certain prospect. I shall not speak overly on our crossing of the Mountains of Discord save to say it was perilous, and I would not attempt such again during the hours of dark. Winds gusted along strange paths and seemed almost malicious in their desire to wrench us from the sky. Only through harmony and unity did we prevail, and we all owed each other our lives when we at last passed between the jagged peaks and began our downward climb. By the time daylight returned we were in the foothills on the opposite side. The character of the ground seemed markedly different. It was a wide plateau, a flat snow plain broken only by queer-shaped monoliths that rose hundreds of meters into the air every dozen or so miles. Their twisted forms spoke of subtle wrongness, and if they were the product of wind and environment, it was of a kind I never wished to meet. By far the plateau's greatest feature was the spire. It rose three miles straight into the air in the shape of a great cone, base against the ground and apex piercing the sky. It appeared a truly unnatural structure, as if formed by the purest of mathematical formulae rather than the muted hoof of natural forces. No erosion or glaciation marked its immense flanks, and only its coat of snow gave it any softness at all. The sun's muted light sparked off its tip, as if sliced by a knife. It made my eyes bead with tears and turn red. Snow continued to fall, but the full storm remained crouched above us, like an indrawn breath. The snowflakes that did descend hung as a gauzy haze in the sky, obscuring anything much beyond the spire. "Do you see them," I said as I scanned the ground for the Elder Things. Both Derpy and Mountain Flower responded in the negative, though Mountain Flower had a quavering edge to her tone. I once again returned to an earlier question: how fast could they travel? Were they already at the spire or still ascending the southern slopes of the Mountains of Discord? I muttered my thoughts under my breath, and winds howled towards us, as if summoned by the fell names I spoke. My spell blocked the temperature, but the sounds chilled my blood almost as efficiently. High above the storm broke in earnest, and frozen water fell in a near solid wave. Windigos screamed in the storm, and for the first time I saw them — great horse shaped spirits with blue corpse flames burning in their eyes. They were a horror to behold, and yet beyond them lurked something larger still, greater still. I only caught a barest glimpse, but what I saw utterly terrified me. I saw a grotesque hybrid of horse and storm, disfigured and disgusting yet also mesmeric in the fashion of crystals. It called and repelled — sacchariferous poison. The windigos beat their spectral hooves against the air, and murderous winds contorted towards us. The sledge shook and twisted in the sky. My makeshift harness bit deep into my flesh, and I let out an involuntary cry of pain. At once my heat spell vanished. Cold, sleet and snow slashed down and chilled me to my core, passing through my cold weather clothing like it wasn't there. "Down," I screamed at the top of my breath, teeth already chattering. Even so, the storm stole most of my voice. "We have to find shelter." If either Derpy or Mountain Flower gave a reply, I didn't hear it, but they heard me. We angled down, both pegasi beating their wings with all their remaining strength. Snow filled my eyes, nose and mouth. It moved as if animated by a dark purpose and a compulsion to drown me. A cocktail of panic-born chemicals worked their baleful magic on my body and mind, but I mastered myself and recast my heat shell. It shimmered around us, but the damage was already wrought. My bones felt as if replaced with permafrost ice, and still the storm raged. "Shelter," I shouted again, already weakening. The cold clung to my core like a demonic leech. It stole my strength, and still the windigos howled above. The October Codex spoke of blood rites of cannibalistic appeasement; I could almost see how some ponies might be driven to such extremes. The flight sledge hit the ground with a jarring thud which rattled my teeth, but that wasn't the end of our journey. The runners cut up wedges of snow as we flew forward — half flying, half skiing. Ahead rose one of the queer monoliths, a warped abnormal thing like a candle left too long near a fire. Just the sight sent my heart racing with primordial panic, but it was the only hope of shelter for miles. "That way," I screamed. "Make for the monolith." Derpy and Mountain Flower gave it their all. Frothing spittle flew from their mouths only to freeze into scintillas projectiles moments later. They worked their legs and wings both to give us every iota of speed. Around us broke the full fury of a wild storm. It was weather run wild, untamed by pony hooves and driven by dark forces born on worlds never blessed by Celestia's sun. It clawed at us with the lunatic fury of the alien god Ithaqua, and yet somehow we endured. The closer our careening flight took us, the larger the monolith grew. Two hundred meters of rock towered into the air, a twisting, turning construct that almost appeared an organic extrusion. I'd hoped to hide in its lea, but then I saw something better: a deep crack, about two ponies wide. "There," I shouted, and we rushed towards it. Passing into the cave mouth was akin to passing into another world. The snow and near-psychic force of the storm disappeared, and we stood panting. The surrounding rock was dark and showed odd, crystalline growths within its rent open structure. Slimy algae bred in the cracks, and some kind of moss grew in scattered tufts across the rock strewn floor. The latter possessed dozens of tiny tendrils, like the suction cups of an octopus. The cave extended onwards, but I couldn't see how far; the little light which penetrated the storm dissipated before it could plumb the stygian depths. "We'll weather the storm here," I said. I put on a brave face, but inside I frowned. How much time could we possibly afford to lose? The near depths of the cave proved shelter enough that I could end my spells. Instead I heated a selection of large round rocks until near glowing, and set them in the middle of our group. The air still carried the icy touch of eternal winter, but between the glowing stones and our cold weather clothes, we were able to deal with such mundane temperatures. It had been a very long day — filled with horrors for all, constant spell casting for me, and unending physical activity for my companions. The wind howled as it cut across the cave mouth, and further out, the windigos threw their fury against the earth. None of that mattered at all right then. Within the womb of rock, I nestled close to Derpy and Mountain Flower and settled down to sleep. My dreams were strange and bore with them the terror of the abstract. I stood before something bigger than I could imagine. It shone like a great rotating eye, inside which stars lived and died and unthinking cosmic aeons passed in moments. A sickening pattern hung at its core, born of ordered entropy and shackled gods. This horrifyingly great construct spun light like thread and wove a tapestry of terrible portent. Unseen voices cried out in rapturous orchestra to 'The Dweller on the Threshold', 'The Key and the Gate', 'The Beyond One', 'The Opener of the Way', 'The All-in-One' and 'The One-in-All'. As I watched the great eye blinked and broke. The order disappeared, the stars spun in discordant patterns, and their light arced along broken paths. Through all this I cowered and stared, less than an ant before a god, less than bacteria, less than the smallest particle. I awoke screaming but recovered before the other mares did more than stir. I have long known the power of dreams, ever since Princess Celestia showed me the wonder of the Dreamlands. Partly because of this, my vision weighed heavy on my mind. The storm still blew six hours later when the balance of our bodies shifted from fatigue to restlessness. Something dark hung at its heart, and I began to worry: had the Elder Things summoned it to block our pursuit? At their height, they wielded unimaginable power. If the pegasi of Equestria could tame the weather, what might these ancient beings of primal myth and eldritch legend do? I put my theory to my companions, but neither could provide an answer. Derpy was a mailmare by trade, no weather worker. Mountain Flower knew something of the craft, but her reply focused on the Mountains of Discord. "We have broken taboo to come here," she said, voice carrying a strange undercurrent I'd not heard before. "Dark and evil things dwell this far north." To her, at least, malevolent storms were the least we could expect. With our exit yet blocked by the storm, I turned my attention to the cave. It ran deep into the monolith and seemed to lead down. A wisp of light hanging from my horn, I followed its path. The walls grew tighter the further I went and at places dragged against my coat like witch's teeth, no matter how I contorted my body. It was like the oesophagus of some great beast, formed of living primal stone. If that was the case, I walked willingly to the cauldron of its stomach, and there I found the jewel. The final rocky gap was too narrow to safely squeeze through, so I teleported instead. In a flash of magenta light I appeared in a tunnel. It shot away in two directions, arrow straight save for where unseen tectonic forces caused the walls to buckle and twist. Dark metal sheeting covered said walls, reinforced by silver metal braces every twenty or so meters. I turned one way, and made my light as bright as I could; the tunnel disappeared into infinity. I turned the other and saw the same: a passage of unimaginable age hewed and sealed before the first pony took her first breath. A thought occurred to me, and I performed a compass spell. It confirmed everything I needed to know. This was no random tunnel; it led straight towards the spire. My companions greeted my news with much squawking and flapping of wings; nopony wished to brave a wild storm if there was another choice. We quickly agreed to attempt the tunnel and set to work unpacking the sledge. Food, water and other vital equipment would need to be carried on packs, the sledge being too big for me to teleport. Everything else would be left behind for retrieval later. For breakfast, Mountain Flower and I had a protein bar each. Derpy produced and ate a muffin with obvious relish, though from where she got it I can only guess. Thus prepared and sated, we set off. "It's wet," said Mountain Flower as we walked along the abandoned tunnel. She was quite correct. Moisture hung in the air, a cold humidity that carried the scents of stone and ice filled mountain streams. "But why aren't there any plants?" That was a good question. The walls, floor and ceiling were smooth and bare — no mosses, lichen, algae or stranger things. It was sterile, as if the ripples born of abiogenesis and panspermia had never reached these epoch forgotten caves. By my count, we had to travel some 125 miles to reach the spire. Such a distance could take multiple days walking, but the long, straight tunnel provided me with a better option. With an unobstructed line of sight and no threats to complicate our passage, I could teleport freely. I did so in dozen mile leaps, carrying Derpy and Mountain Flower alongside. After nine such jumps, Derpy spotted something in the tunnel ahead, and we approached with caution. What we found answered the plant mystery. The creature oozed slowly forward, an organic protoplasmic mass, like a giant amoeba or misshapen jellyfish. It filled the tunnel from wall to wall and floor to ceiling and belonged to no kingdom I could identify, let alone genus or species. Its colouration tended towards an opaque greenish-brown, and it self-luminesced in reaction to the light from my horn. It appeared phlegmatic in character, showing no reaction to our presence save the aforementioned fluorescence. Its mind (if it indeed had such a thing) stayed completely focused on its task. Curious, I levitated a grass wafer from my pack and touched it to the creature's body. The wafer hissed and dissolved before my eyes. "What extraordinary adaption," I said. While no biologist, anypony of academic mind would be equally fascinated. "It must sweep the tunnel, feeding off the biological matter which grows on the walls. That's why there are no plants. It's a cleaner." Derpy and Mountain Flower did not share my enthusiasm and watched the cleaner with worried eyes. It moved away from us at a constant speed — a little faster than an average walk. I proposed teleporting passed, but Mountain Flower demurred. She did not want it coming up behind us, and I suppose there's wisdom to such thoughts. The cleaner slowed our pursuit but not unduly. My teleport leaps had disposed of most of the distance, and our enforced pace provided me a magical rest bit. Four hours later we left the tunnel and entered a massive hall. By my very rough calculations, we were directly under the spire, and I stood frozen as I gazed around. Our tunnel and a hundred others ran into a massive circular room. Hunks of machinery lay on the floor, great things which resembled trains but with large parts decayed or oxidised into oblivion. Cyclopean pillars shot high into the sky, joining with a roof thirty meters overhead. It was larger than life. Hundreds of Golden Oak Libraries could've fit in the available space. In terms of sheer volume, even the royal palace would've been a rounding error. Derpy flapped into the sky, while Mountain Flower stayed close to my side. Standing here I truly began to comprehend that this spire was no natural edifice. Nor was it erected by unicorn magic, pegasi artistry, earth pony strength or the directed aims of any extant sophant race. This was the work of the Elder Things — beings of such immense age that when they proclaimed their dominion, no counter-voice existed to oppose them. In stunned awe, I levitated my camera from my pack and took a number of pictures. The device buzzed, and the photographs fell from the back. Even captured in chemical reaction, the chamber persisted in its otherworldly oddness. Looking closer, I saw a cleaner frozen in movement at the far side of the room. Glancing up, I saw its opaque bulk just disappear into a new tunnel. For such odd shaped beasts, they could move with disquieting speed. "I've found a staircase going up," said Derpy as she fluttered back down. Her eyes wandered independently around the room — taking it in, perhaps, but given that such movement was more or less her normal state I couldn't be sure. As we walked, my thoughts congregated on the Elder Things. The silver egg and its occupants dated to the Hoof-Hammer Event, five hundred million years ago. Did the spire pre or post date that geological episode? How long had the Elder Things clung to life within its walls? A thousand years, a million? However long, they were long gone now — everything not made from impossible materials like the silver metal reduced to dust. The stairs Derpy found were odd and clearly sized for the Elder Things' long, bipedal legs. To ascend them as a pony required an uncomfortable gate, at once stilted and hurried. My pegasi companions hovered in the air and left me to climb. The stairs led to an empty door frame, which in turn led to a dense labyrinthine network of corridors. Subtle details on the walls spoke of long decayed fittings, possibly pipes or wiring. Even the longest lived plastic will not last a millennium, and normal metals will suffer their own corrosive or ablative decay. No doubt the cleaners removed the resulting scrap. The walls were of a lighter colour than those found in the underground tunnels but not quite as bright as the surface of the silver egg. Since the corridors represented a maze in all but name, I laid down a path of coloured magic as we travelled. While not the most energy-efficient method to mark our route, experiments showed the walls could not be marked through simple effort, which should come as no surprise. If they were vulnerable to mundane harm, they would not have survived unending ages in this frozen waste as they did. Furthermore, any physical token I might leave to mark our path — such as torn paper — would become food for the cleaners. Possible thaumavoric inclinations weighed heavy on my mind as we travelled. Looking back, I think it likely those corridors represented some kind of service back ways, through which the needed nourishments of civilised industrial life could be pumped. From what little we know of the Elder Things, they breathed, ate and drank. And while they could clearly go without shelter and heat if needs must, I feel evidence shows they desired these things too. The spire would need to provide all that to its alien inhabitants. Through much wandering, we at last broke from our sepulchral prison and exited into a half circle chamber. The room was colossal, and the light from my horn scarcely touched the other side. I paced the long edge, counting steps, and used geometry to calculate the length of the curved wall. It sketched an arc, fully half a mile along the curving edge. Across it ran a crystal mural, into which the Elder Things had written their history. I moved to the closest point and shone my horn light at full strength. The pictures weren't simply carved into the crystal but rather stood inside it — empty voids below a perfectly flat surface. Suspended underneath the pictures were symbols of some kind, repeated glyphs I couldn't begin to translate. The Elder Thing language perhaps? Certainly, the same glyphs repeated time and again, in different orders and combinations. The pictures showed scenes from this forbidden prehistory: cities which touched the sky, great marvels of magic, technology as blasphemous as it was wonderful, ships which sailed the aether on tongues of fire and the Elder Things about their alien activities. One stylized image appeared to show an athletics competition; did the Elder Things enjoy and value such physical contests, much as ponies do? I took pictures of what appeared important and notes on the rest; I would have done more, but my film supply wasn't unlimited and would deplete entirely if I attempted to capture even a tenth of the mural. And then there came a carving which chilled my blood: Discord. He stared out from the crystal wall, his image trapped here as surely as the Elements of Harmony trapped him in stone. Below it were more of the Elder Thing glyphs. Could this be one of his names, recorded here for others to see? If so, might it be the key to the Elder Thing language? At the time, I did not think a return trip to the Uncharted North impossible, and visions filled my head of unlocking the greatest secret the world had ever known. The names of Discord ran through my head, and I compared each against the glyphs. Heart-make, the mordant professor of folklore at Canterlot University, had whispered them to me a decade ago, a single word a day, spoken at the height of true noon when Princess Celestia's power is at its zenith. It is only with greatest caution that I relate my thoughts here, but I feel it must be done. Let it stand as a measure of my commitment to the purpose of this document. Discord was the first name I thought, the title and mask he wears most frequently. Others followed: Draconequus, Spirit of Disharmony, The Faceless God, Howler in the Dark, the Black Pharaoh, the Crawling Chaos, more, a dozen, and finally the most dangerous name of all — Nyarlathotep, soul and messenger of the Outer Gods, whoever or whatever those dread beings might be. Spurred by this discovery, I set to a proper accounting of the history laid before me, forgetting for the moment my rescue mission of life-and-death import. There are a number of ways I might justify my actions. This mural contained the history of the beings I hunted. It might well contain information vital to finding them or a weakness I might exploit. The truth, though, is a bitterer pill. As have many scientists before me, my curiosity overcame my better judgment.