//------------------------------// // 9: Peacemaker's Trial, Then... // Story: The Country of Roses // by Dutch Tilt //------------------------------// 9 PEACEMAKER’S TRIAL, THEN… Peacemaker sat alone in an old storage vault deep beneath Ponyville’s town hall. It had a heavy, iron door which was set into the wall at an angle and could only be opened using unicorn magick. Besides himself and a few debris-littered shelves, the room was empty. The festival props were all on the surface now, and many of the other items that had once been locked up within had been transferred to other, newer rooms that were easier to access. There were no windows in the vault because the only things they would look out on were dirt, earthworms and the occasional curious mole. It was big, barren and chilly despite the time of year. He suffered it all without a single complaint. He rested against the wall with the brim of his hat tugged down over his eyes. His guns had been confiscated, but they had not taken everything. He reached beneath his clothes and brought out an old, red harmonica. He flicked away some dust and blew into it. The tune was neither masterful nor consistent. It morphed and digressed frequently, and he often played the wrong notes, but it gave him something to do whilst he waited and contemplated his situation. Sheriff Ramrod, a wayward and forsaken son of Gallowad, sought his destruction. It was a desire born of longstanding hostility towards ponies who reached the clearing at the end of their path years ago. The midwives who aided in this birth had been pride and denial. They put into Ramrod the idea that he had grown beyond his old world because he had outlived it, or rather that he might still do so by executing Peacemaker, thereby removing all traces of it from his new world forever. Peacemaker had never known anypony to deliberately wish him death. It was a worrying thought. More-so was the knowledge that the sheriff had allies. There were the three shadows from the library, not to mention Hammer and Tongs, the former of whom could very well have been one of them. Hammer was surely more level-headed than Tongs even by a cursory examination. Why had he insisted it be the younger deputy who should escort Jack-a-Nape to the cells? It was because his estimation of Hammer was an educated guess, but not a confirmation. He knew for a fact that Tongs had a demon howling away inside his mind, and had been prepared for it. He was wild, unable to control his own actions fully. He would flail and strike at random. Hammer had shown no such weaknesses, but if he had allowed Hammer to be the one to stay, would Tongs have taken his place outside, poised to incinerate Twilight Sparkle and Spike whilst they slept? Once you got down to the nitty-gritty of it, Peacemaker realised he had found no advantage in that situation. He had allowed the light and the happiness which flowed through Ponyville to slow him down. Ramrod had gotten the drop on him because he had let him, and likely it was only his haphazard stalling and the mayhem which followed that had prevented the sheriff from blasting his head into so much shrapnel. He could not picture a single course of action available to him at the time which would have improved his situation. He was sloppy and idiotic and his teacher would have made him run thirty laps around the ancient training grounds on an empty stomach for such a gross lapse in judgement. He heard the old nag’s voice behind his eyes. ‘Hunger sharpens the reflection, maggots,’ it rasped. In the days before he could call himself a gun-pony and wield the sacred irons, that voice had been law. When the guards came to bring him his meal, he would ignore it. ‘Hunger sharpens the reflection, maggots,’ the voice repeated, echoing along the corridors of his mind as if from some great distance and gradually decaying, ‘…sharpens…maggots…’ XXX The world had moved on, and the season of Year’s End with it. Winter followed, bringing with her the most biting cold the kingdom had known for centuries. There were no warm hearths left within the castle town. No diligent mothers to cook hot meals for their families. Good-tasting things were gone, and what little music remained was no longer a signal to commence joyous dancing on Fair Days, but sombre dirges that testified to stolen lives and ruined foalhoods. The last generation of Gallowad rallied together amid the brittle, frozen grass, surrounded by dull buildings that jutted from the earth like broken teeth. The insulating fuzz of their seasonal coats was no longer a comfort, but an inconvenience. They itched and prickled when they came and made them feel puny and vulnerable when they were shed. Comfort, like all those other good things, had been buried by treachery and rubble. There were no foals in Gallowad these days, only survivors. “Hunger sharpens the reflection, maggots. No supper. No breakfast.” A chorus of groans arose from the cluster of would-be gunslingers. Their teacher, the only grown stallion to whom they could turn for help, had been instructing them in the ways of falconry. They were expected to hunt and track their own quarry in the wilderness, and the hawk was an indispensable tool. Their teacher always told them that hawks were gunslingers for the divines and deserved the same respect they would give their own fathers. Their teacher had released a flock of pigeons into the air and the students were commanded to unhood their hunting birds and launch them into the fray. They had all been too slow for their teacher’s tastes, all except for Peacemaker. His hawk, Artemis, had almost swooped out of her hood and into the cold air, easily catching one of the pigeons in her talons before returning to him. She was old, that hawk, and mighty trig. She had returned to the protective saddle on his back and roosted there to enjoy her meal. She had done it all in a single fluid movement. His classmates were not so fortunate. It was not entirely for their slowness that the old nag punished them, Peacemaker observed. It was also for what happened after. “We cry your pardon,” they had stammered, “we just—” Excuses. Their teacher despised excuses. True gun-ponies made no excuses. “Speak the High Speech!” the stallion roared. If only the fire in his belly could shield us from this chill, Peacemaker thought, then mayhap I would join them in their erring. Would be worth it, I reckon. “Speak your act of contrition in the speech of civilisation for which better ponies than you will ever be have died for!” There came a quiet bud of discontent that surely would have blossomed into whines had his classmates not known better. “We grieve,” they said as one. “We have forgotten the faces of our fathers, whose guns we hope someday to bear.” “That’s right, brats,” said their teacher with a sneer, and then delivered his ultimatum so they would better consider what they had done. Peacemaker’s cold, calm eyes glared out through the messy bangs of his black mane. His teacher was an observant cove, mind you, and took less than a split-second to notice. “Problem, my prince? You think me too harsh on your fellow maggots?” he growled. “Anxious to express your displeasure like a stallion?” “Mayhap,” said Peacemaker. His teacher snorted. “Then there’s hope for you,” he said. “We will conclude your lessons for the day now. Reconvene here one hour early tomorrow morning.” He turned and trotted away, cracking the dead grass into tiny showers of crystal. “When you think you can, you come for me, as our tradition demands. Fight me and leave as a gun-pony, or as an exile.” Teacher had gone into his house and locked the door. Peacemaker had joined the other apprentices in their adopted lodgings. There were no hearths, but they could still stoke the fire in what had been the castle’s underground kitchens, so they had set up mats to sleep on in there. Peacemaker and another colt, Blotch, who was the oldest, were able to gather enough supplies to create a meagre and watery stew. Both of them knew a little of cooking, but teacher had educated them on how to do it properly, especially how to make the most of what they had. Most of the orchards and the forests surrounding the dead castle were gone and they were forced to survive on what unspoiled food remained in the pantries. It was not much. “We can’t go on like this, Peace,” said Blotch. They were sitting away from the others, who knew well enough to leave them alone at mealtimes. Peacemaker grunted his agreement and swallowed a spoonful of the tasteless, colourless concoction. He may as well have been sucking down hot seawater. “I think we’ll have to start going abroad soon,” said Blotch. “Mayhap teacher will let us reclaim some of the farms we lost in the battle. If we can survive this Winter and reach Wide-Earth, get everypony involved, we could do it. Grow our own food, lose all this tinned garbage.” Just for emphasis he picked up a discarded metal can and chucked it over his shoulder. It struck the stone panels with a resounding clang. “We have to learn to be self-sufficient now.” “I hear tell windigos live in those lands now,” replied Peacemaker. “Be you brave enough to risk them for your farm, Blotch?” “Not mine. It’d be our farm. All of ours. Besides, Peace, we’re the sons of gun-ponies,” said Blotch steadily. “If we can’t take our own lands back from a pack of roving spirits, then it might be best if we gave up and died here, huddled together like…like…” “Like scared foals,” Peacemaker finished for him. Blotch sighed, then said, “They’re all we have, and they’ve all got what it takes. Ka-tet flows strongly through them all, do you not kennit? Liquid steel runs in their veins.” “Aye, you say true,” said Peacemaker. “I cry your pardon, it’s just that I sense a large ‘but’ coming.” He offered a dry, humourless smile and added, “Only this time I don’t think it’s the old cook’s.” “You shouldn’t joke, Peace,” said Blotch. “You’re not very good at it.” Peacemaker could see the faintest hint of a smile on the older colt’s lips. That was enough for him. “You’re right, however. What they’re missing is an example. Somepony they can all rally behind. Like your father or better yet Gunmetal the Grey himself.” “Tall order,” said Peacemaker. “Unless you’d have them mount the bones on flagstaffs?” “That’s not what I meant and you know it!” snarled Blotch. He was frowning deeply, his heavy brow marring his normally handsome features. Blotch was said to have possessed the most attractive face of any colt in the kingdom. His coat was as yellow as a cornfield and his mane as white as snow, but there was a trail of furious, red splashes travelling down his right foreleg. They terminated at the fetlock, which looked as if it had been dipped in blood. Blotch’s father had been Sharpside the surgeon, so it was an appropriate comparison. Blotch’s nevi had always been something of an embarrassment to his father, who had found no viable way by which to remove them. Eventually they had forgotten that enterprise altogether, and Blotch learned to wear his brand with pride instead of revulsion. Such was the pony known by those familiar with him as ‘the Red Hoof.’ “I cry your pardon, friend,” said Peacemaker. “This example you speak of. One of us would take the role, you say?” Blotch’s indignity abated and he looked a little sad. “I’m the oldest,” he said. “I know the others look up to me, much as I feel I’m wrong for such praise. Tomorrow, for their sakes, I will challenge our teacher to my trial.” “You go in with that attitude, and you have already lost,” said Peacemaker. Blotch shot him a bewildered expression. “I mean that you will go in with weight on your shoulders. You will lose, be sent west, and what good will you be to us then?” Blotch said nothing. “Stay with them, there is no shame in it. When you can go to teacher with a serious purpose—” “You don’t call this serious?” “It is, but it’s also a responsibility you gave yourself. That’s not the same as purpose. When you do have one, I will not stop you, old friend.” He stifled a belch. “Besides, you’re the only one out of any of us smart enough to think of reclaiming the blasted farms. Your brains would be better suited to figuring out how to pull it off.” He set his empty bowl on the floor and stood up. “Where are you going?” asked Blotch. “First to the mews, and then to my bed,” replied Peacemaker. “We are to be up earlier than normal tomorrow. I intend to be earlier still.” XXX The sound of hooves crashing against the wooden door of the house was loud enough to waken not just the old nag who had been asleep within, but everypony left alive in the city. It was still dark out, for the sun was still an hour away from rising. Small birds shrieked as the crashing scared them off. Snow dropped from the rooftop in heavy clumps, dotting Peacemaker’s grey coat with white as they joined the powdery mass covering the ground. Peacemaker kicked the door again and again, over and over, each time shouting out the name of his teacher at the top of his voice. It was only when he heard movement from inside that he finally cut short his assault and turned his face towards the squat building’s withered edifice. The door opened wonkily. Only one iron hinge remained to keep it from collapsing entirely. He saw a glint of something shiny, and then his teacher’s chiselled face emerged from the shadows, as grim and unemotional as ever. Save for the intensity in his eyes. They were eyes that already knew what he had come for and in all likelihood what the outcome would be. “You are early, prince,” said the nag. “Two years so at the very best, I should judge.” “Teach me no more, bondspony,” replied Peacemaker hoarsely. “Today, it is I who shall teach you.” His teacher let out a sigh. “It’s too bad,” he said. “You have been a most promising pupil, the best since your father. I thought you might have the makings of the next Light Lord, but carry on down this path and you will leave broken and blinded.” Peacemaker felt a twinge in his nerves, but he did not back down. He was very good at maintaining his watch-me face. His teacher growled thoughtfully. “You even give me that same look as he did. Is that your reason, boy?” he asked. “Do you wish to follow his example by challenging me at so young an age? He was king of all Gallowad, you realise, and twice the stallion you are. Why not wait half again as long?” Peacemaker said nothing. “No reply? Very well. Let it be so. The gathering field. One hour from now.” “Will you bring your staff?” Peacemaker asked. “I always have,” replied the teacher. “What weapon do you choose?” “That is my business,” said Peacemaker. The teacher chuckled. It was bitter and humourless. “Wise enough to begin, my prince,” he admitted, and turned around to go back inside. After two steps, he stopped, glanced back over his shoulder and asked, “Have you considered the very strong possibility that you will never see your friends or your home ever again?” “I know what exile means, teacher, and my home died in the battle at Jericob Hill,” Peacemaker replied. “I will fight you for the right to see a new one built on its ruins.” “An empire rising like a phoenix,” his teacher said with a snort. “Admirable. Overreaching. Go now, and meditate on your father’s face. Much good will it do you.” They parted ways as master and student for the final time. Aside from the coveted guns, there existed two remnants upon which Peacemaker would meditate. One was his father’s seat in the throne room of Gallowad Castle. It had been forged from the same blued metal as the weapons and cushioned with red. There was a hollow in the head of the seat’s frame, which had once held a magnificent white gemstone found deep in the mines. The jewel was gone now, and the fine fabric of the cushions was charred black. The other item was a photograph of the king and queen together, which Peacemaker placed on the seat. He knelt before the makeshift shrine, and recited the oath of the gun-ponies. “I do not aim with my hoof,” he said, beginning with the words he would later reverse simply as a means of showing off to an even bigger show-off. The present Peacemaker would think to rectify this gross blasphemy later and cry sai Rainbow’s pardon. “He who aims with his hoof has forgotten the face of his father. I aim with my eye. I do not shoot with my hoof. He who shoots with his hoof has forgotten the face of his father. I shoot with my mind. I do not kill with my hoof. He who kills with his hoof has forgotten the face of his father. I kill with my heart.” He had looked upon the photograph. Ponies in those days often remarked that he was the spit of his sire, and by extension that of Gunmetal the Grey himself. Although Peacemaker was not old enough to grow his moustache or develop the deep grooves in his face, they did share the same coat, the same mane and tail as dark as the abyss, and the same ghostly blue eyes. His features were gentler, like the beautiful mare standing beside the king. “Mother,” he whispered softly. He could recall her perfume, for there has never been a more powerful sense for memory than smell, and her sweet voice from when she sang to him when he was tiny. The children of gun-ponies were expected to brave the dark themselves and so he never saw her at night, but naptimes were a different matter entirely. She always came to him then so she could read or sing him to his rest. His favourite had been the Baby-Bunting Rhyme, because even when he knew better there was a part of him that insisted she had come up with it especially for him. “Baby-bunting, darling one, Now another day is done, May your dreams be sweet and merry, May you dream of fields and berries. Baby-bunting, baby-dear, Baby, bring your berries here. Chussit, chissit, chassit! Bring enough to fill your basket.” The flood of childhood images broke through, from looking up at her smiling face from his cradle to looking down at her as her coffin was lowered into the ground when he was nine years of age. His father’s heart had broken that day, and so had his own. Peacemaker bowed his head and let his tears form tiny stains on the floor. There was a brief moment when the Peacemaker who was preparing for his trial, the Peacemaker who had been at the funeral, and the Peacemaker who lived to remember all this were united. He had thought of saying something more, but no words came to him. Instead, he closed his eyes and returned to chanting his mantra. “I do not aim with my hoof, he who aims with his hoof has forgotten the face of his father…” Sunrise came, spilling pale beams through the broken windows of the castle. He went to the gathering field, and found his classmates waiting for him. They were all shuddering in the morning cold but unwilling to miss the momentous duel that was to come. Blotch and one of the younger colts were taking note of the fat, dark clouds swirling above their heads. “Storm coming,” said the younger colt. “That’s an omen.” “I see a worse one,” replied Blotch in a berating tone. He turned to Peacemaker. “Your weapon, Peace! You’ve forgotten your blasted weapon!” Peacemaker said nothing in response. They were all giving him odd looks. He had visited the mews again on his way to the field, and now he stood before them wearing the special saddle. Faithful Artemis perched upon it, wings tucked calmly in. She was not wearing her hood, and her eyes gave off a light of confidence and certainty to match her young master’s. “Is teacher here?” he asked. “He is here,” answered the nag’s voice. He was descending to the field from his house. Across his back he carried a long, wooden pole with an exotic blade at each end. One was shaped like a crescent, the other a teardrop. Dangling from holes along the inner curve of the former blade were big, metal rings that jingle-jangled ominously with his every hoofbeat. “Have you come here for a serious purpose, boy?” “I have come for a serious purpose,” said Peacemaker. “Have you come as an outcast from your father’s house?” asked his teacher. Just like hearths and mothers, there were no houses anymore, but this was a sacred exchange and the honour of the gun-pony line demanded it be maintained. “I have so come,” said Peacemaker, “and will remain so unless I best you.” “Have you come with your chosen weapon?” “I have.” “What is your weapon?” “My weapon is Artemis.” His teacher paused to consider this. The class were silent, confused. Peacemaker and Artemis stood their ground and ignored them. Finally, the grim stallion grunted and said, “This is your last chance to cry off, foal.” “And this is your last chance to surrender, old nag,” said Peacemaker. His teacher sneered. “So then have you at me, boy? In whose name?” Peacemaker held up his head proudly as he made his declaration, “In the name of my father, Peacekeeper. In the name of Gunmetal the Grey, first Light Lord of Gallowad. In the names of all my ancestors who ruled between them.” “Come then, you poor damned thing,” said his teacher, who reared up on his hind legs and twirled his stick between his forelimbs. He lowered the teardrop blade on his opponent. Suddenly, thunder clapped overhead, a flash of lightning filled the sky, and the two warriors charged. The teacher bellowed his challenge. He was a creature to be feared, for when it came to combat he knew everything that had ever been. Peacemaker knew this. A sword, spear, bow or club would have been useless. He was adamant to see a new Gallowad rise, and he would begin this by earning his guns through means which were also new. He loosed the hawk with a command, “At him, Artemis!” The bird spread her powerful wings and streaked towards his teacher with a screech, and Peacemaker saw comprehension dawning in those malicious old eyes. Artemis filled his vision, her flapping feathers boxed his ears and her razor-sharp talons carved hot, scarlet lines down his face. “Hai, Peacemaker!” the spectators cried. “First blood! First blood to our bosom!” He hurled himself forward without hesitation, tackling his teacher roughly to the ground. Artemis flew upwards and the staff bounced away, leaving the two opponents to wrestle in the grass. The frozen blades erupted in a thousand tiny, crystalline supernovas around them, scattering white fragments across their respective fields of vision. A forehoof struck Peacemaker across the face and he rolled away. Teacher regained the staff and straddled the colt’s stomach, ready to plunge the flat of the crescent end down on his head like a mallet. Peacemaker had caught glimpses of the damage Artemis had done, but now he saw it clearly. The right eye was closed, permanently blinded beneath its scarred and weeping lid. “Artemis!” cried Peacemaker. The hawk swooped down to protect her master, battering and scratching and shrieking as she had done before. Once more, the staff became dislodged. Another flash of lightning, and finally Artemis went down, trampled underhoof. The teacher rose shakily, never taking his good eye off the bird’s remains. She had bitten one of his ears off. The pale lump of flesh was still clamped in her beak. “You were a fierce trim, sai hawk,” he panted, “but now you’re done!” “So are you,” said Peacemaker. Teacher looked up, and saw the teardrop end of his own stick primed on him. The boy had escaped him during the skirmish and turned the fight in his favour by picking up the one remaining weapon on the field. It was all so efficient, so calculated, that it genuinely surprised him. “Yield,” said Peacemaker. “Never,” his teacher said, and spat blood into the grass. Peacemaker swung the staff and struck him hard against the temple with the shaft. “Artemis took your eye and your ear,” he said. “Yield, or I’ll finish the job she started!” The storm brewed unnaturally dark, as if sympathetic to the tide of the battle. The thunder grew so loud that the voices of the competitors could barely be heard. Lightning assaulted the gathering field, burning the grass and forcing the onlookers to scatter. The ground beneath the opponents rumbled, and then the side Peacemaker was on began to slither quickly downwards. Trees toppled, breaking their trunks against each other and filling the air with splinters. Artemis disappeared under the earth, and Peacemaker thought he would join her before too long. Soil, grass and stone flowed around him. He saw the root of a dead tree sticking out of the slide and clamped his teeth around it. “The stick, boy!” Peacemaker looked up. He had an impulse to gasp, but doing so would make him release the root. His teacher had found a tree that was tilted but not entirely dislodged. He had clambered up it and was now hanging from a branch by his hind legs. “Hold the stick and give me the end, for your father’s sake! Let me pull you up!” The tree to which Peacemaker’s root was attached became unstable and began to slither into the tumbling dirt. He gingerly passed the crescent end up while simultaneously holding on to the shaft below the teardrop. Teacher hooked his forelimbs around the blunt inner curve and pulled with all his strength, but the fight had sapped much of it from him and he quickly began to lose the tug-o’-war he was playing with the ground. “You’ll kill us both if you hold on!” cried Peacemaker, and now the only thing preventing him from being swept away was the staff. “Just tell me before I go! Did I finish our fight!? Will I die a gun-pony!?” “Nay!” his teacher roared back. “If you want to find out, then you’ll just have to live! Now quit flapping your stupid lips and climb before the pain in my head makes me lose all my strength!” Peacemaker’s mouth curled into a bitter grimace. Even now he was denied acknowledgement for his victory. Fine, then, he thought, I’ll climb just to spite you! So you’ll have to admit who won our duel! He felt the slightest of lapses in the force coming down around him, and started pulling himself along the length of the staff. His teacher pulled at the same time, and when he was in mid-air, he threw his weight forward and swung onto the edge of what was left of the gathering field. Blotch, who had returned to help douse the flames crackling all about them, had seen his friend and raced over in time to steady Peacemaker as he landed. Together they helped their injured teacher down from his branch just as its tree also fell into the avalanche. The nag dropped to his knees in the grass, raking air into his lungs. The bizarre storm changed again, morphing like a caterpillar from thunder and lightning to snow. Teacher and Peacemaker turned their eyes skyward as the frozen drops of water washed away the blood on their faces and extinguished the numerous small fires. They died hissing with quiet despair at the clouds. “At least this was more exciting than the end of your father’s trial,” said the nag in a tired, breathless voice, and they laughed hysterically at that. “You had me dead to rights, and I would forget my father’s face to let an act of divines mar that.” “Then…?” Peacemaker began to ask, but let the sentence hang. “I yield, gun-pony. I yield smiling,” said his teacher. “You have today remembered the face of your father and all those who came before him. Two years younger than he, who was the youngest. What a wonder you have done.” Peacemaker fought down the urge to voice his excitement in the most exuberant manner possible. “Take him inside the castle, Blotch,” he said. “Get him warm and use what we have to bind up his head. Make him some stew.” “I will,” said Blotch. “Will you come with us?” “Soon, old friend,” said Peacemaker, “but first, I’m going to my father’s vault. I’ll get my guns, and fire a shot to salute my hawk.” “You’ll need this,” said his teacher, and produced a large key on a loop of cord. “The hawk was a fine weapon. How long did it take you to train her?” “I did not train Artemis,” replied Peacemaker. He took the key. “I befriended her.” XXX “I befriended her,” Peacemaker whispered. He opened his eyes, and he was back inside the subterranean vault. His guns and belt were still absent. He sighed. It was not the hawk that was his weapon, but his friendship with her. She had been willing to give herself to help him, and this thought made him realise that, had his teacher let him go as he commanded, then he would only have dishonoured her sacrifice. His teacher must have known that was the case, otherwise why would he have fought through the searing agony he was in to save the one who had caused it? He had been selfish. He had spurred himself on with spite, and he had equated purpose with personal gain. He could have easily wound up just like the sheriff who had seen him locked up, had he not been lured from that path. The only difference was that he had won, been able to let the legend go before him and learn from the training which was to come and still ongoing even today. If things had turned out differently and he had lost the duel, he might have taken the humiliation of the loss with him into exile, where it would fester and rot away his soul until the only thing left was a sucking, destroying vortex. And Ramrod’s gang might have one more to its number, he thought. The vault door opened, and two figures in black outfits and rusty red gorgets entered. One of them was carrying his belt across his back. The guns were in the holsters. “Morning, chief,” said the first one. “We’re breaking you out.”