//------------------------------// // Part Four // Story: Velvet Sparkle and the Queen in Stone // by Tundara //------------------------------// Velvet Sparkle and the Queen in Stone By Tundara Part Four Velvet sat with Tyr until the the night grew old and morning began to encroach on the east. She spent the long, lonely hours humming softly, stroking Tyr’s mane and face until her leg cramped. The filly only stirred twice, mumbling and shaking as feverish nightmares plagued her sleep. As the clocks struck the midnight hour, the manor ringing with bells, chimes, and gongs, the bedroom door swung open, permitting Shining Armour inside. He carried with him two steaming cups of coffee and a dinner roll. “How’s she doing?” Shining asked in a hesitant whisper as he passed one of the cups and the dinner roll to his mother. “Not good,” Velvet admitted. “Her fever is getting worse.” “She’s a trooper…” Despite the gravity of the situation, Velvet gave her son a quirky smile. “She’s a Goddess, haven’t you heard?” Stopping on the far side of the bed, Shining gave Velvet a frown. “Not now, mother, this is serious.” He waited a moment to let his admonishment sink in before asking, “Cadence isn’t back yet?” Velvet shook her head, her moment of humour fading. “You should go back to sleep, Shiny.” “Can’t sleep,” Shining said, “I keep thinking that I’m a coward, hiding in my bed while my wife is off trying to protect our…” His voice trailed off again as he shook his head. Laying down on the other side of Tyr, Shining slowly reached out a hoof, gently brushing her mane from her eyes. His face was a stoic mask, one designed to imitate Celestia’s renowned composure. Velvet could see the cracks and through them her sons worry and uncertainty. “I don’t know what to do, mother,” he said, the cracks widening a sliver. “She’s not my filly… and yet…” He shook his head, and cleared a sudden lump wedged deep in his throat. “I loved taking care of Twily, and protecting her. You made it into a game for me. It was the heart of our herd, and I never really questioned it. She was the youngest and your heir. But our mothers were always there in case I did something wrong; you, Glitter, or Whisps. “Now it’s on Cadence and me… And we’re failing. She’s not my filly, yet she is.” Looking up, his eyes rimmed with tears, he asked, “What do I do?” Careful not to disturb Tyr, Velvet reached over and gave her son a gentle hug. Pressing his head against her neck as she had done when he was little and afraid, Velvet said, “You do what you’re doing right now. You be here for this filly when she needs you, even if all you can give her is love.” They were quiet afterwards, the only noise Tyr’s ragged breathing and the ticking of the clock. Both were lost in thoughts; Shining reconciling his inability to help with his desire to act, while Velvet relived memories of a summer long past. As the bottom of the hour approached, Shining asked, “What happened to my sister?” “She’s in Canterlot, Shiny,” Velvet deflected, focusing on Tyr’s face and not daring to glance at Shining. “You know who I mean, mother.” Velvet was silent, berating herself for ever bringing up the story of her past. It had been thirty years since she left the Taiga. Thirty long, sometimes sad, sometimes happy, years. Ancient history. She should have left it alone, made up a different story or read Tyr a Daring Do book, like she used to do when Twilight was sick. It was so much simpler when magic had prevented her from speaking of those missing years of her life. She couldn’t keep the truth from Shining, Velvet knew. A small part of her, buried deep over the long years, screamed for her to tell Shining. Hesitantly, Velvet opened her mouth, but no words came forth. Growling at her failure, Velvet turned away from her son. Why was it so hard, she wondered. She had been able to tell the story with such ease only a few hours earlier, though it had been diverging progressively more and more from reality. Velvet knew, in her heart of hearts, that when it came time for the story to conclude she would lie, spinning a grand ending for those listening. But to do so would only dishonour the memories of those she had sworn to uphold. Pressing her eyes shut, a single tear rippled through her fur. Shining was quiet while Velvet wrestled with her demons. Velvet hardly daring to peak at her son, fearing his reaction to seeing her cry. She had always refused to cry in front of her foals, ever trying to be the strong pillar on which they could rely. When it came, it was not as she expected. Shining simply reached over, and rested his head against hers. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me,” Shining said, “but you’ll have to come up with something before you reach the end of your story.” Velvet gave a wet giggle, lifting a hoofkerchief to dry her eyes. Between the adults, Tyr stirred, her blue eyes flickering open. “What… where...” she mumbled before coughing, “I’m still here.” Tyr pulled herself up a little so she was half sitting, her back supported by pillows. “I dreamt I was back in the Citadel. I was being chased by my… by my mother. She was yelling at me. Demanding to know where her real daughter was and what I did to her.” Tyr began to shake and cry, only stopping as Velvet edged closer, saying, “It was just a bad dream.” “I wish this was all a bad dream,” Tyr waved her small hooves around the room. “I want to go home. I want my mamma! I want my wings back!” A soft hushing sound came from Velvet as she began to rock Tyr. “We know, little one, we know,” holding Tyr close, Velvet placed her chin across the filly’s head, “you’ll see, it’ll all turn out for the best, in the end. That has always been my experience. No matter how bad things can get and seem, the light of the day will shine again.” “Y-you’re sure?” Tyr tried to wipe away the few tears clinging to the edges of her eyes, but was stopped by Velvet, hoofkerchief gently cleaning her face. “I am positive.” “How can you be so certain?” Tyr wilted and looked away from Velvet and Shining, hiding her face in the folds of her thick covers. Pulling the covers back down to give Tyr a playful nuzzle, Velvet said, “I am so certain because I’ve lived through far worse days, and seen things that would chill your bones.” Lifting Tyr so the filly again rested against the goose down pillows, Velvet grew distant and haunted. “I’ve trusted when I shouldn’t have. I’ve turned my back on those that needed me. I’ve looked up to watch the dawn as the blood of those I loved hardened on my hooves. Yet here I am, happy and strong, with two wonderful wives, a loving husband, an accomplished foster-daughter, a strong son, and a precious little granddaughter. “We can’t change the past, Tyr. All we can do is hold the happy memories close, learn from the bad ones, and strive to have a better tomorrow. This is true should you live only a few years, or many thousands.” Tyr considered Velvet’s words for a long while, shifting every now and then, her ears flicking and twitching at times. Eventually she looked up and whispered, “I suppose that’s correct.” She paused a half beat, before asking if Velvet would tell more of her story, to which Velvet gratefully said, “Of course. Now where was I? Ah, yes, Gamla Uppsala.” Our first destination after leaving the Vale was Gamla Uppsala. At least, that was our goal. First, we had to find the location of the ancient burial site. Sylph had a general idea and several signs that could narrow the area further, but we knew the chances of finding Gamla Uppsala were slim. Still, fresh from the vale and with our foals foremost in our thoughts, we clung to the faint hope that it’d prove to be deceptively simple to reach the burial mounds. For three weeks we made hard progress, crisscrossing the region known as the Serpent Valleys, so named for the lake and river dragons that inhabited the area. I didn’t meet any of the fabled wyrms, though I did see one as she swam through the largest lake. Her scales glistened like emeralds, and her eyes were of a pale yellow. She paused as we trudged along the shore, watching us for a time before diving out of sight. Along the way we encountered herds that refused the Queen’s warning. The wailing of their hinds still haunt me. For a time it seemed like the entire forest was screaming in an agony so sharp it had to cut across the rest of the disc. We left the lamenting herds behind, our own hearts heavy with sympathy. They did help narrow our search, and by the start of the fourth week we found ourselves on the grey pebble shore of Lion Lake. Above, heavy, grey clouds threatened a summer storm, the taste of rain on a cool breeze. Here, the forest was bitter, a ponderous, cloying mist clinging to the hemlock and cedar trees. Our ears pressed back and we could feel a stifling weight settle on the base of our horns and antlers as we slowly moved to the lake’s southern side. Even Sylph stopped her near endless stream of conversation. It was the first time her bubbly voice had grown silent since we’d left Cherry Blossom Vale. The quiet was not welcome, only further forcing the impression that we’d stepped onto hallowed ground upon our withers. We’d gone no more than a hundred strides when we were brought to a sharp stop by the distinct sound of steel ringing against steel. A howl, low and hungry, hummed through the trees, followed by a deep roar that had to have come from an equine throat. Again, the clash of steel rang in our ears. “Growley, take the right side. Sylph, stay here,” I ordered, drawing my sword as I slipped through the brush. Moving as fast as I could without making a noise, I approached the battle. I expected to see a Bear from one of the nomad tribes, or perhaps a Wolf. Instead, as I peered out from a scraggly bit of brush, I laid eyes upon the unicorn from the previous summer. He stood, legs planted wide and a vicious grin on his lips, surrounded by three hulking, pale abominations. They were clearly dead, and had been so for some time. In life they’d been Halla, now they were foul and terrible things. Their coats were patchy, with great swathes of dry, mummified, grey skin showing. Bones protruded along their backs, and eyes of small, glowing orange light filled their otherwise empty sockets. I knew the abomination’s name well from my studies with Crisp Winds. Draugen; undead guardians of the ancient Halla tombs from a time when they had buried their dead and not left them to feed the forest. A pair of heavy sabres danced around the unicorn, keeping his opponents back. A black aura of magic held the weapons aloft as the unicorn prepared a spell. The abominations had no intention of letting him complete the matrix. All three charged, their cloven hooves launching them forwards with unnatural speed. Striking the first across the throat, sabre cutting a clean wound that spilled only a few grains of red dust, the unicorn jumped to the side and completed his spell. From his horn blasted a beam of black and green magic, tearing through the draugen with all the ease of sickle through a stalk of grass. Half the abomination was turned instantly to ash, the remainder tumbling across the dew soaked ground before coming to a rest at my hooves. I didn’t remain in my hiding spot, seeing the other two undead about to crush the unicorn between their black, mold covered antlers. A trilling war cry on my tongue, I jumped forward. My blade caught the draugen on the hind right knee, cleanly severing the limb and unbalancing the undead guardian. Seeing the opening I’d made, the unicorn ducked low, sabre driving up through the other draugen’s mouth and into its rotten brain. With a twist and pull, the unicorn decapitated his opponent, the draugen stumbling back before falling to its side, returning to the true death. Yelling for Growler to hurry and join the fray, I fired off a basic telekinetic blast. It struck the hopping draugen, sending it spinning and tumbling across the field, a hissing howl working through the air. Growler emerged from the prickly shrubs, his eyes wild as he charged. Just before he reached the struggling draugen, he raised himself onto his hind hooves. Bringing himself down on the draugen, he crushed the abomination’s head as if it were a ripe melon. Hardly acknowledging our presence, the unicorn slid his sabres into their scabbards upon his baldric with a harsh click. “You fought well,” I said, hoping for some response. “Indeed.” Undeterred by his casual dismissal I nodded to Growler and Sylph, the latter cautiously approaching now the sounds of battle had ended. “We’re looking—” “I don’t care who you are or what it is you seek,” the stranger snapped, casting a garnet toned eye, one slitted like a dragons, on Growler and I. “Your assistance was neither desired nor required. Such petty creations as these are beneath my notice.” “Oh, I’m sorry,” I snapped back, rolling my own eyes as I slid my sword home, “I didn’t realise that I had to assuage your ego while also saving your life.” Ghastly fire burned at the corners of his eyes as the stranger rounded on me, fangs bared and red cloak billowing as if it were wings. “You play games with those beyond your ken, little unicorn,” he spat. Behind him, I could see Growler and Sylph both ready themselves in case the battle was about to begin anew. “‘Little unicorn’? Looked in a mirror-pond lately, you milk drinking, one horned goat?” I felt my face flush with anger, pressing my nose to his, despite his much greater height and bulk. “Bah, I am not unicorn,” the stranger dismissed, bruskly turning away from me and marching towards a low mound and stone. “Though I suppose a filly like you shouldn’t be expected to know more than the horn on her head.” Seething, I marched after him, Growler and Sylph beside me. “Hey, I’m not finished talking with you!” “I, however, am with you,” he snorted, stepping around the tall stone. I halted as I reached the stone; ancient, weathered writing on its face catching my attention and diverting me from my anger. Barely visible, the writing read, ‘Beware: Only the Dead may tread beyond these doors three’. Glancing up, I peered past the infuriating stranger to a low, perfectly round hill. It’s artificial origin could not have been clearer. Devoid of trees, symmetrical, and with a sharp cut in the side leading to a door. “The Wailing Gate,” Sylph said as she approached the cold grey edifice. “It’s open,” she added, surprise clear in her voice and on her face. “And so is the second and third,” sneered the stranger as he pushed passed Sylph and went to a well-lived campsite nestled between the first and second doors. “Is your talent stating the obvious?” “You’ve left them open!?” Sylph covered her mouth with her hooves, eyes wild and panicked. “You can’t leave the doors to Gamla Uppsala open!” “They’ve been open since this summer-past,” the stranger huffed as he went through his possessions. “Keeping them open is actually rather easy.” “No, that isn’t what I mean,” Sylph growled back, pacing in front of the final door. “Don’t you know anything about the old tombs? No wonder the halla of the west are cursed!” The stranger lifted up a set of bags, their contents clinking and rattling, as Sylph rounded on him. “Have you any conception what you’ve done?” she demanded. “Her warning, the foals, it’s because of you!” “What ever are you blathering on about? The only foals I see are you three. Speak quickly, tell me your meaning,” demanded the stranger, but before he could receive a reply, he added in a harsh undertone, “no, moondream, this isn’t our fault. Not our fault. How could we have known?” Snapping his head back as if slapped, he began to pace, distress and confusion clear on his face. “Not our fault, then with whom does it belong? Swore not to become involved again. Leave no hoofprints. Be as a shadow or ghost. End our curse and vanish. But we left the doors open. Ignorance is no defence. Our fault then, must be, moondream.” Stopping his rant, the stranger turned to Sylph. “I acknowledge I erred leaving these doors open. How can it be fixed?” “Fixed?” Sylph screeched. “This isn’t something that can be fixed! Not if you lived a thousand years. Can’t you hear them? The lamentations? Countless foals are dead, and you’re the cause. Nothing can change that!” The stranger looked past me and Growler, peering into the murky woods beyond. A cold wind ruffled his dark mane as a frown played across his muzzle. “In that case, so be it. I will wear that burden as I do so many others.” Leaning over, Growler whispered in my ear, “I don’t like this, not one bit. He’s crazy and dangerous.” “What would you have us do? Kill him?” I retorted, though I felt in my gut that Growler was right. The look I received from him spoke clearly that the idea was prominent among his thoughts. The stranger was a danger, not just to us, but to the Halla. Yet, I could not bring myself to act. Killing beasts and monsters was one thing, but a pony or elk quite another. “You are here to enter the underhalls as well, I gather,” said the stranger as he adjusted his cloak and scabbard. “We are.” “Then you are dead sacks, you just have yet to realise it,” he smiled, showing large, prominent fangs. “Unless we join forces, that is.” Suspicious of his sudden changes in demeanor, I demanded an answer. “You are right to wonder and query. I have been here a year, and in that time I’ve explored many of the tunnels and tombs beneath us. They are rather extensive. Your friend speaks of curses, and I know their touch all too well. To break a curse is why I am here. To amend an ancient mistake and find release. Along the way I mayhaps may find a way to make repayment of the grievous error made.” Striding up to me, the stranger continued, his honeyed words chipping away at doubt and concern. “I will pledge my assistance in your cause if you pledge to help in mine. We may find that our goals are nearer than we think, yes?” Looking me over down the length of his nose, he said, “When I encountered you summer of last year, you were with foal. You have come to Gamla Uppsala, and yet I see no foal among your party. So, something happened to it. Your friend speaks of a curse. Your foal is cursed then, and you seek a means to break it? Yes, I see I am close, but not fully on the mark. A half-blood foal… The gasping. Which means… Oh, you are naughty Halla.” The stranger smiled wider as my eyes went wide at his perception of the truth. “So, you seek to wake her. The Queen in Stone. The Goddess of the Spring, Fertility, Life, and Foals. Your goal is to end Her Majesty’s torment. All to save a single foal. You would risk the return of endless winter; placing one life above how many… Yes, I think we have more in common than you imagine.” “The Queen would—” Sylph began, only to be stopped by a sharp word. “You do not know her. None of you do.” The stranger threw back his head as he let out a deep laugh. “Do not rush blindly to her defence. She is as unredeemable as I.” “And who, exactly, are you?” Growler demanded, stepping forward until his nose almost touched the strangers. “You propose to join us, you speak in riddles and twisted words, and expect us to trust you?” “You’d be utter fools to trust me,” the stranger’s laughter refused to dies. “Yet, we need each other. I have gone as far as I can into the tombs. Together, we may go further. As for who I am; I am General Sombra de la Espanya.” He waited for a reaction, and when he received none, he said around a chuckle, “I see my name means nothing to you. Very well, it is of little concern. Do we have an alliance?” I looked between Sylph and Growler, both giving me stern shakes of their heads. I looked past Sombra into the mouth of Gamla Uppsala. For a long time I considered all my options; forging ahead without his help, or to accept his offer. Had I known what was to come, I would have drawn my blade and plunged it into his throat. I did not, however, and despite the protests of my love and my best friend, I took Sombra’s hoof. “But, he’s the baddie!” Tyr protested loudly. “It’s so painfully obvious!” Little hooves flailed in the air while Velvet chuckled. “Yes, to us sitting here,” Velvet ruffled Tyr’s mane, receiving a pout in response. “But, at the time, things were not so obvious. And appearances can be very deceiving. His more so than any pony.” “Still, he is the villain of the story, right? He cursed the mortals and caused their foals to die,” Tyr reasoned. “Did he, though? The curse was not of his doing, he just unknowingly unleashed it. Even he wouldn’t have caused such heartless cruelty.” “But… He’s responsible! If he hadn’t left the doors open…” “Then the curse wouldn’t have been unleashed and countless innocent lives would not have ended before they could begin,” Velvet agreed, slowly nodding her head. “Why are you defending him?” Shining asked, tilting his head. “A moment ago you said you should’ve killed him outright.” “I do not defend him, but the truth.” Velvet gave her a sad shake of her head. “To place sins that are not his on his back is to take from those who deserve to wear them.” Tyr opened her mouth to argue, stopped, and with a slight shiver mumbled, “I… suppose.” “Also, isn’t this story getting a bit… adult?” Shining winced at his own words, drawing a deadpan stare from both his mother and daughter. “Shining, I love you dearly, but you can be a real block-head,” Velvet smirked. “Have you paid attention to anything Tyr’s said since she joined the family? Or before? About where she’s from?” Jaw set into a firm line, Shining said, “Yes, I am aware. That doesn’t mean we should—” “I’m old enough to be your great-grand dame!” Tyr gave an exasperated cry. “I just look like a foal.” “And you’re so cute, too,” Velvet gave an exaggerated coo, ruffling Tyr’s mane again. “Besides, appearances aren’t deceiving when it comes to alicorns, correct?” “W-Well, yes, sort of. It’s complicated!” Tyr huffed, crossing her hooves while trying to look petulant. It was a look that was ruined by her runny nose and a sharp sneeze. “So, wait, is she or isn’t she a foal?” Shining looked between his mother and daughter. The two shared a wicked grin, and together said, “Yes.” “I hate you both,” Shining grumbled. They all shared a laugh with Tyr, the sound of the filly’s joy lightning both Shining and Velvet’s hearts. As the guffaws and chortles lessened, Velvet returned to her story. Behind us Gamla Uppsala’s doors closed one by one, the earth shaking as locks slid into place and wards activated. Sylph breathed easier as the last was barred, though she knew the damage had already been done. Little was said as we descended into the earth. Sombra lead the way, I behind him, with Sylph following me and Growler guarding the rear. My horn never stopped glowing as I kept a ready grip on my sword and a spell on the tip of my thoughts. From the posture of Growler’s shoulders, I knew him to be as prepared as I for betrayal, or the crypt’s own dangers. The first chamber we entered was the Great Hall. In antiquity, the hall had been painted in sharp black lines highlighted by gold and sapphire tiles. Above our heads in a circle sat the thirteen original spirits of the Halla. The spirits once sat together, watching anypony that entered. Not all were still intact, however, and they were no longer harmonious. Coyote, Orca, and Lion were all shattered, with long cracks running through Otter and Wolverine. The mosaics shifted and clattered, the tiles flowing like water to create a moving image that followed our steps. Raven flapped her wings, alighting on Bear’s back, Wolf at her side. The three turned to the shattered remnants of Lion, now a rotten husk from what little could be discerned beyond the broken fragments. They gave her sad smiles, and seemed to call her name, though no sound could be heard. Beyond them, Eagle and Badger moved in angry circles, while Fox watched Sylph. Ever stoic Owl remained removed from the others, tending to the wounded Otter and Wolverine. Only a few members of the Otter and Wolverine lodges remained, their numbers counted in the dozens, at most. The duties and position of both lodges had fallen to almost unrecoverable lows, and it was common belief that both would be dead lodges within a generation. Only a single Otter had been discovered in all my time in Reinalla, with no new Wolverines. It had been long before my arrival that mention of either had stopped at the Brou’alla. By now, both will have joined Coyote and Orca; living only in history. Beneath the mosiac was an even greater tragedy. Bones, almost all belonging to younglings, covered the ground. They were so numerous that we could not see the stonework for them. Among the bones could be heard a low whispering cry in an endless song lamenting an avoidable crime so great that the walls wept to have witnessed it. Our manes prickled and ears flickered to find the whispers’ source, but it was all around us and nowhere at once. Sombra said nothing, acknowledging neither the haunted song nor the mosaics above. He moved along a well trod path through the bones, one he’d walked I don’t know how many times, until the youngling’s bones were naught but dust. The way out of the mass-grave we found blocked, a spectre barring our path. In life she would have been a beauty to stun the senses; lithe and powerful, with a graceful swan-like neck and antlers of golden-brown. But a neck marked by a terrible wound that traced across her throat. Red armour of molded leather covered her breast, the edges a wavering, hazy fog. It trailed down her back and curved around her flanks, forcing the eye to her mark. On her cream tan coat the black lines seemed to shimmer, forming the image of a sleeping cat. She said little as we approached, her hollow eyes following our movements with a quiet longing. “Have my warnings finally penetrated your armour of arrogance?” she asked Sombra in a voice of shattered hopes. When he refused to so much as look at the spirit, she turned to me. “It has been too long, my friend," the spirit spoke, stepping forward to lay a spectral hoof upon my withers. Her touch was like a calming fire, soothing as it burned. “I expected you long before now, when the Sun and Moon danced in war and the Stars were betrayed,” she continued, a reedy smile on her ghostly lips. “It is impossible for us to have met,” I said, trying to brush off the spectre’s hoof. “But we have. When the crystal wall grew and the winter was warm, we met on the banks of five rivers that meet but do not touch. Though you wear a new face, you are unmistakable.” The spectra slipped her hoof from my side as her smile too drifted away. “You’re best to ignore her,” Sombra snorted as I opened my mouth to argue with the spectre. “The dead do not see as we see and are easily confused.” “Ever blind, my love, ever blind,” the spectre called after Sombra. “When the last of your pride is broken, maybe you’ll begin to see.” The spectre did not follow us as we left the hall, continuing to stand a lonely vigil. I couldn’t help but ruminate on the spectre’s words, and noticed little of the following passages. I remember that we walked for some time, winding through narrow corridors and squat rooms. All had been disturbed and picked over by Sombra, his hoofprints shining clear in the thick dust that swirled about our legs as we moved deeper and deeper into the earth. Of the draugen, we saw no sign. “We are here,” Sombra intoned in a disinterested voice as we reached what had once been a thick set of doors. Both had long since been torn from their hinges and lay in jagged chunks along the wall. Where they had stood, a shimmering silver curtain hung. It was like peering out of a window into a winter storm, thick motes of falling aether blocking our path. “This is as far as I can go,” he continued, even as he moved to the side. “What is this?” I asked, tempted to reach out with a hoof to touch the barrier, but wisely holding back. Stepping around me, Sylph said, “An aether wall, I think. Like in the tale of Red Bow.” “You are correct,” Sombra nodded to Sylph, “I have tried to dispel the enchantments binding it, but it resists my every effort. Given enough time, I would discover its weakness, but since you are here…” Sombra finished his statement with a curved grin sharp as the blades at his side. “If my scrying has been accurate, then beyond lay the vaults. Inside you’ll find all the dirty little secrets and treasures the priestesses were too afraid to let loose. Among them is your little sickle, and the prize I’ve long sought. Take whatever strikes your fancy, all I require as payment is a simple gem. A crystal the size of a pony’s eye, dark as night, with a pink core. Bring that to me, and we’ll be even.” “And, how are we supposed to get past this wall if the mighty Sombra can’t?” Growler snarled. “These walls are meant to keep out those they judge as unworthy,” I stated, moving to Sylph’s side. I had read of the walls while studying with Crisp Winds. Almost unbreakable, they weren’t flawless. “What they see as worthy, however…” I tapped my chin a few times, then, on a whim, I pushed my hoof into the barrier. There was a little tickling sensation, like an early spring breeze, and then nothing. It was as if the curtain wasn’t even there. Taking a guess, I stepped into the wall as Growler and Sylph called my name. After a fleeting instant of resistance not unlike stepping into a lake I passed through the wall. “Velvet, are you alright?” Growler’s voice came through the wall, warbling and distorted. “Whatever it looks for, I have it,” I called back. There was a discussion on the other side. I could make out a few heated words, and then the curtain exploded with an angry, maroon sheen that snapped and hissed. There were a few seconds of silence that filled my heart with dread, followed by the unmistakable sound of Sylph’s laughter. As I was about to ask what had happened, the wall returned to its placid state, Sylph stepping through the enchantment. Her eyes twinkled with mischievous delight as she cantered to me, saying, “He bounced right off, like a stone skipping across water.” Sylph paused to grab her belly as she was wracked by a long bout of giggles that brought tears to the corners of her eyes. “It’s not funny!” Growler shouted to us, his wounded pride clear in his voice. Laughter is infectious, and before long I was shaking as I tried to hold back my guffaws. It proved to be an impossible battle as images of Growler charging the barrier, only to bounce back, his legs cartwheeling, danced in my head. The laughter felt good, needed, and it was some time before Sylph and I calmed enough to progress. Unlike those above, these tunnels were untouched or spoiled by Sombra’s pillaging. Along the walls, faerie torches burnt, casting our faces in a flickering blue glow. The dust was thick about our hooves, and the passages echoed with our breath. No draugen blocked our path, thankfully. With just Sylph at my side, I’m not sure if we’d have managed to defeat the tomb’s guardians. Finding the vaults proved to be rather easy. The portion of Gamla Uppsala that contained the vaults had only the singular purpose. A long corridor, it contained only a single door, behind which sat a trove of almost forgotten treasure. It was made of the thickest steel and covered in glowing runes. A small, round window allowed pony or elk to peek inside and glimpse the wonders within. On the other side, I saw a simple, round room with a dozen altars lining the wall, each with its own alcove. Upon the altars rested artifacts terrible and beautiful. The first I saw was a scroll, one that whispered blackness and despair. There was something wrong about the parchment, but at a distance I could not tell what. My skin crawling, I backed away from the door. While I had been looking through the window, Sylph had been inspecting the runes. “Now what?” I asked Sylph, looking from the door to her. “How should I know?” She protested, waving her hooves at the door. “There aren’t any songs or stories about opening Gamla Uppsala’s vaults! That isn’t the sort of thing that would be recorded, now is it?” “Okay then…” I said, grabbing the vault door’s handle and pushing. Naturally, the door easily ignored my effort to open it. Growling, I hit the door with a magical punch, more to vent frustration than an honest attempt to open it. The door resisted for a few seconds before there was a sharp snap, the entire thing falling inward, hinges and locks disintegrating into showers of rust. With an almighty bang it landed, the wards meant to prevent the door opening dying in haphazard flickers across its broad face. Coughing, Sylph and I backed away, tensing as we listened for any additional noise. When none came, we both breathed and stepped into the vault. The first artefact we went to was the scroll. Up close, I could see now why it was so unnerving, for beneath the ancient runes painted on it in blood were cutie marks. The parchment was infact leather made of tanned ponies. “The Scrolls of Seven Sins,” Sylph hissed, backing away from the vile artefact. I was about to ask what they were, when she turned to me and said, “They belonged to Tirek, or so it is said in the Ballad of Dream Valley.” “Not what we’re looking for, then,” I muttered as we moved along the line of altars. It didn’t take us long to find what we sought: the Golden Sickle and the Dreamer’s Crystal. Like the scrolls, and the other artefacts, they were placed out in the open, as if on display. At the base of the sickle’s altar was the mummified corpse of a halla. His back rested against the rough-hewn stone, watching the door with empty eyes. At his side sat a warmace made from some dark blue metal. “There are probably traps,” Sylph began to warn, but I paid her little attention as I snatched the sickle from it’s resting place. As Sylph predicted, wards began to flash along the ceiling, the entirety of Gamla Uppsala trembling as the earth began to shake. Klaxons sounded down the passage, followed by a low, echoing moan that reverberated throughout the complex. From the wards above our heads, an orange wisp descended, twisting around us before shooting into the dead halla. A ghastly glow took to his eyes, and for the first time in untold ages, the halla stood in all his terrible glory, now as a draugen lord. With ashen faces, Sylph and I looked at each other in disbelief before rushing from the vault. I made it only a few strides before skidding to a stop. Turning, I reached out with my magic and snatched the Dreamer’s Crystal from its resting place. Tossing it and the sickle to Sylph, my friend looking back as she exited the vault, I shouted, “Run!” before being struck side-on by the draugen lord’s warmace. If Sylph protested or attempted to assist me, I do not know. I recall the blow with clarity, followed by the explosion of pain across my entire right side. For what seemed like hours, I floated through the air, rolling and twisting until I slammed into unyielding stone. What little air remained in my lungs gushed forth along with a wet substance. Stars burst like nova across my vision, and my entire head rang like the bells of Notre-Dame de la Chanson had taken residence. As my vision cleared and my breath returned in halting gasps, I looked up to see the draugen lord towering above me, warmace raised to crush what remained of my life. Panic gripped my heart, and in my fear all my spells deserted me. I couldn’t recall any of the dozens of formulae given to me by my masters among the Ravens and Bears. All I could do was draw my blade in a sloppy parry, turning the descending warmace aside at the last instant. In a shower of sparks and broken metal, my sword was shattered, though it had saved my life. The warmace smashed into the floor between the draugen lord and I, cracking the ancient stones and sending us both tumbling into the dark abyss of the catacombs beneath Gamla Uppsala.