//------------------------------// // Chapter 2: Age of Discord // Story: Prologues // by Broken Phalanx //------------------------------// “Selim, what are you waiting for? I told you no less than an hour ago to retrieve those rations!” Selim knelt, affixing his gaze to the floor in a desperate attempt to avoid locking eyes with his brother: he may have been, via technicality, a ‘Prince’ of sorts, but his status as the societies first (and thus far only) ‘Witch’ more than compensated for whatever favor his other title may have earned him. “Bilgames, brother,” said Selim, half to remind himself of his own right to speak, “I feel concerned at taking Ol’ Coúp’s words with any degree of value; I fear he is simply driving us to-” “Selim, while I bear you no ill will-” a bare faced lie if Selim were to judge, “-I feel as though you are resisting a royal command; kindly indicate this is not the case by doing what I said. Post-haste.” And then, as an afterthought, Bilgames added, “Bring about five men. Due what you feel is necessary.” Bilgames paused for a moment when he realized that his words were falling on deaf ears; somewhere in the midst of the final sentence, Selim had adopted a rigid stance and had begun trembling like a leaf. Bilgames sighed, and waited until his brother had finally relaxed. “Anything useful in this latest vision?” Selim shook his head for a moment, then muttered, in the tone of one experiencing an incredible migraine, “No, my lord. Just. . . seeing some metal spires. And glass. And the god-beings, the ones that look like us, wearing clothing vastly more intricate than ours and using strange objects to do wondrous things.” He shrugged, before reaffirming, “I’m to do what I feel is necessary?” ”Yes, Selim, you are to do what you feel is needed to get the food back to its appropriate granary in, what was it . . . Sargon. Do you have a problem with that?” This response was, to Selim’s ears, barbed in tone. The reply from Selim, of course, was an forced ‘No’, and it was only as he was getting ready to depart from the capital city Akkadia that he allowed himself the pleasure of thinking, rather emphatically, Yeah, actually, I think your statement is frankly idiotic. What kind of fool says, and I quote, “Do what you feel is necessary”? We’re not even close to being prepared for any sort of offensive action beyond skirmishes, and you want me to provoke a full-blown war?! Arguments between populaces are one thing, but to have a leader order such an attack. . . And so Selim found himself with four soldiers looking over the nearest pony-held fortification from the forest, though ‘soldier’ is perhaps an exaggeration; they were really just kids who had been handed poles with gem spearheads. Perhaps, had they all been covered head to toe with armor of some sort, they could’ve passed as a proper force, but metal had always been scarce. Well, damn. Can’t say I’m too surprised, though; Bill’s got a couple of new mines up and running, but finding anything besides gems is hellishly difficult. At least one of the poor bastards has a crossbow; I mean, it’ll be about as effective as a Q-tip if we run into an actual military force, but at least it’ll make them think their safe until such an occasion occurs. “Uh, sir, we’ve been watching the encampment for the last few hours; shouldn’t we attack?” Ah. Damn. Apparently the kids knew what Bilgames’ had said. This is going to complicate matters. “…No, we’re not going to attack.” Selim quickly gave his explanation when he saw the expressions flit across the collective spear-holders: “Think about it like this; it's a big fort, and there are at likely least a dozen and a half of them in that area. Some will probably have armor, and considering that we have to bring back what is estimated to be roughly half a storehouse, we need everyone to live through this.” What Selim didn’t add, but was clearly felt among the collective group, was, “We are not here because we are incredible at our jobs; we’re here because we are all very much expendable. Now, shut up if you want to live.” One of the quieter spearmen, whom Selim concluded to probably be the most intelligent, said, “So. . . do we strike with an ambush? Because that’s the only way we can do that.” Selim shook his head, but it was the first spearmen, the one whom Selim had incorrectly surmised to be the most bloodthirsty, who replied. “No. Won’t work; they might lose three, four tops, but the rest wouldn’t enter like a bunch of buffoons. Right?” “That’s true, but what if we-” Selim interrupted, though he felt somewhat guilty in doing so; they were just now starting to think logically, after all, and in a manner that might be useful to cultivate in the future. “Nope. I’m thinking of something else, a plan where we can get the food without losing anyone.” “How’s that?” Selim patted the speaking spearman on the shoulder and, with a smile that looked more fabricated than some plastic goods, said, “Simple. I’ll talk to them.” And when he saw the expression on their faces, he sheepishly added, “And, uh, if I don’t signal to you guys within a few hours, go back and just tell Bilgames I fell into a trap or something; no point dying over my stupid ass.” And then, because he couldn’t help himself, he pasted a grin on his face that was only definable as an indescribable mixture of utter terror and cheekiness and said, “It wouldn’t be that far from the truth, after all. He’ll, uh, probably understand about the food situation, if you tell him that.” And with that, Selim got up and walked, with barely concealed horror, out of the foliage and towards the encampment. *** Mercy watched as the birds swooped back to their feeders, the sparrows twittering rapidly when they weren’t busy gorging themselves on the seeds; a good sign, if she were to be any judge. Nothing was emerging from the forest, or, at least, nothing that could potentially destroy an entire fort. If something like that were stepping out of that wall of trees, the birds would have begun tweeting Beethooften’s fifth symphony, just as she had trained them. Perhaps, she reflected, she had grown up a bit more cultured than most other Earth ponies. And ever since Cloudbreaker and Spinning Gears had been caught in, ahem, improper circumstances, and thus removed from the fort, there was no one else who appreciated the more refined side of life. Then again, what could she expect? There were only three other ponies with her, and the likelihood of shared interests probably decreases the small the population number becomes. Not that she didn’t have any other friends at the fort; it’s just that the ones still present would more readily engage in a discussion about bawdy campfire songs than discuss the musical nature of great pony composers. But only four ponies? For a fort meant to house an upwards of twenty? Perhaps, Mercy thought to herself, there are a few problems with having three different leaders; left hoof not talking to right hoof, that sort of thing… “Anything going, Sergeant Root?” came a shout that sent every avian within half a mile into flight. Mercy sighed to herself, quietly half-wondering what she had done wrong to deserve this particular assignment; nopony other than Captain Staunch could’ve mixed that particular cocktail of demanding, inquiring, and well-intended gruffness into a package that would unintentionally conflict with whatever needed being done. That must’ve been why he needed the volume; it was the only way to have enough space to fit all of his tonal intentions. “No, Sir, the birds haven’t seen anything,” Mercy replied, in a much more subdued voice; she carefully strangled the urge to shout back, but the stallion was, at most, two yards away, and covering one’s commanding officer in spittle tends to result in unpleasant punishments. Of course, Staunch didn’t have it in his heart to do much worse than making the offending pony forgo dinner for a day, Mercy knew, but it’d still be rather stupid to force his hoof. “How’s Whiskey?” “Whiskey’s… not been doing too well.” Same loudness, but this time tinged with a significant amount of worry. “Remedy’s doing all she can, but we might lose him to whatever bug he’s got. We’ll need to get another Unicorn if he doesn’t pull though… We have to be able to send messages, after all...” What remained unsaid was heard loudest; of the two stallions’ foalhoods spent together, of both of them enlisting deciding to try and defend the border from the human menace together, of training and fights and talking to mare’s together, trying desperately to be the other’s wingpony despite not having a clue they were simultaneously trying to aid each other. It was an entire life spent together, sometimes with vitriolic moments but mostly of good times. The stallion, slowly, sank to his haunches and sighed. Mercy silently trotted over to the captain, sat down beside him, and head-butt his shoulder, gently, like how a human may try to comfort a friend with a hug. They both remained silent for a few minutes; scenes like this were frowned upon in more formal situations, but out on the frontier, with no pony to judge every little exchange, it was common practice. “Ahem,” came a dry, somewhat amused voice from behind them. Mercy and Staunch flinched for a moment, before looking back at the speaker in synchrony. There had been a moment where they had felt the urge to leap away from each other like embarrassed foals, but that had swiftly passed when they realized they had nothing to be ashamed of. Their expressions, Mercy’s bored and Staunch’s worried, had askance written upon them. “Well,” Remedy said, clearly tickled to have elicited even such a tame reaction, “shall I ask when the nuptials will be?” She shook with laughter when Mercy shot her a look of disgust before she continued speaking in a more subdued tone, “Well, I have good and bad news.” “Bad first,” Staunch said in a croak; it had been an unfortunate trait of his, ever since a military prank involving crushed pebbles, twine, and some sort of spicy plant had gone wrong, that, should he say anything in a manner that wasn’t several decibels above the tolerable limit for indoor speaking, his voice would be reminiscent of gravel and sandpaper. “Well, we’re going to need a replacement for Whiskey.” All the air in Staunch’s lungs escaped in the moment Remedy said that. “Hey, I didn’t say he was dead, did I? That’s the good news. Because he isn’t.” There was a pregnant pause as both Mercy and Staunch simply stared at Remedy, before the stallion coughed with a hint of insistence. “What, you want more? Sheesh. I got him to send a letter a few minutes ago, during one of his more lucid moments. His fever is broken, but he needs to be elsewhere, somewhere with real stuff to treat this.” Remedy looked archly at her two listeners, before she continued, “Neither of you better have the flu as well; I gave strict orders of non-visitation.” This time Remedy glared pointedly at Staunch, who, desperately, tried to avoid meeting her eyes. “You’re getting a checkup next, Captain. You too, Sergeant Root, since the Captain can’t seem to follow medical advice!” Remedy’s last three words were delivered with all the force and fury of an exploding meteor, and while most military ponies wouldn’t have escaped some degree of punishment for this insubordination, Remedy and Staunch seemed to have an agreement of sorts; the doctor didn’t tell the captain how to do his job, and the captain would follow, without question, every bit of medical advice Remedy would provide. Except for now, evidently. Mercy, in perhaps one of the wisest acts of her life, carefully backed away from the fuming doctor and silently went back to tending to the birds; she had been present at more than one of Remedy’s tongue lashings (and once been the target of the doctor pony’s ire), and the end result could only be described as akin to being burned. Based on the tone of Remedy’s words, Mercy estimated that the captain was going to undergo a class four; the doctor would leave nothing but ashes once she was done with him. It was for naught, however, as, just on the verge of perception, everypony heard the opening notes to Beethooften’s fifth symphony chirped. Frozen by instinctual, stupid reflex, there was a moment where they did nothing but stare at each other with a great deal of blank terror, before their brains reactivated and they sprinted to their various stations. Mercy bolted up a series of stairs facing the Everfree forest, Staunch clambered atop the makeshift holding pen they had built off the fort’s wall to face the mountains that would, in later years, contain Canterlot, and Remedy flew inside the fort’s medical center to awaken Whiskey, so that in the case of everpony’s unfortunate demise neighboring forts could nevertheless be informed of whatever had arrived. They all felt rather foalish when they only found one human, trudging across from the forest to the fort, his gait betraying the outright dread he must’ve felt. “Strange,” Mercy muttered, eyeing the bird’s that continued belting out the rest of the symphony, “I thought I had trained them to only respond to something dangerous…” “You can’t win them all,” came the bellowed response from Staunch, who had taken a few minutes (along with Remedy) to clamber beside Mercy, viewing the advancing dot with no small degree of confusion. There came a sigh, and then Remedy muttered, “Shall I get a brew going? I think we still have a bit of coffee left. Humans can drink coffee, right?” “I’m not quite certain, little pony. Aren’t you the one who studied medicine?” “Well, yes, but-” and then the realization that there had been a fourth voice hit the collected ponies like a war-hammer. They spun around only to find nothing, and it was as Remedy frantically looked around that a certain mismatched being popped into existence before her, poking her and Staunch’s noses with a swift jab before they could reel back. “Normally I would do this over the course of a day, but I’m rather short on time,” said the grinning Draconequus, a greyish tint spreading from his fingers over the two ponies. He turned towards where the third pony would’ve been, had she not dived off the battlement and begun sprinting away, and chortled as he gave chase. Mercy rammed through the makeshift medical bay’s doors and slowed to a trot next to the only occupied bed. “Whiskey,” she gasped, “you need to send a letter now, now, NOW! Discord’s here and-” Mercy noticed the distinct lack of movement coming from the bed and roughly shook the still figure, wrapped entirely in blankets. “Whiskey! WAKE UP, DAMNIT! Discord is-” The only thing to roll out of the bed was a pony sized chunk of cheese, which Mercy stared at with horror. “I was originally going to turn him into a watermelon, but I feel as if that joke had already been done,” came a voice, drifting nearer and nearer as Mercy desperately looked about the room for something to fend against the Draconequus with, futile though it may be. It must be said, however, that for a being that controls chaos and the forces of anarchy within the palm of his hand, Discord looked remarkably nonplussed when, coming through the door, the first image he saw was a brandished cheese-pony. He caught it with one hand, clearly amused, before turning it to stone with a flick of his wrist. Mercy dropped it with a thud, before slowly backing away. “Now, now, that was hardly nice, was it, little pony? You just tried to use your friend as a, a. . .” he burst into a fit of laughter (Mercy tried to capitalize on this distraction by sneaking through the window, only to realize it was now sealed by bars of iron) before saying, after several minutes of trying to regain control of himself, “. . . an ad-hoc piece of weaponry, if weapons could be sliced and put onto bread and . . . I get the feeling this has suddenly become an over-extended metaphor. If it was one in the first place, which I doubt.” Discord sashayed over to Mercy, casually winking at the trembling pony playfully. “Oh, surely you don’t mind being another actor in this play, do you? I spent a great deal of time waiting for something amusing, and by all rights, I will have entertainment.” He paused before Mercy, and, leaning down so their eyes were equally far from the ground, conspiratorially said, “Besides, this is just a little dabbling of chaos; if I had really wanted to, I could’ve ripped this entire world apart several times by now. But that’s hardly fun; really, it’s more to your lot’s benefit I’m so easily diverted. It’s just that, well, some ponies go through the mill so others can have glue. It’s just your bad luck that today it’s your bones being grinded.” And then, grinning maliciously, Discord poked Mercy on the forehead. *** To be succinct, things became rather dire within a short period of time: a rather musical alarm was raised the instant he was spotted (about three minutes after he had exited his cover), and it only took an additional two minutes or so until he was halted, circled by a pair of Earth Ponies and a single Pegasus, all of whom had evidently taken the time to clad themselves in something resembling bronze horseshoes with cleats. Unbidden, the first thought that rose to Selim’s mind was, Minute-ponies. Huh. Why do I feel the only thing missing are muskets? And then the second thought, What the hell is a musket? “So, uh, how are you chaps doing?” There was a moment of utter silence as Selim digested the fact two of the three surrounding him were, if the shape of their jaws were any indication, female, and then he attempted to rescind his earlier comment with the grace of a socially incompetent lemon. “Er, Chap-ettes? Ladies and Gent? The equine equivalent? …please stop glaring at me…?” The second largest, a dull bluishish mare who appeared to possess, for her particular flank-image, several broken blades, said in a barely restrained tone, “State your business, human.” The stallion, a dulled ruddy sort of color that made the marks on his flank blend in perfectly, spat upon the earth with such perfect timing with the phrase ‘human’ that Selim contemplated, just for a moment, that perhaps this entire situation had been elaborately planned, with stunning theatrical precision. And then Selim remembered how irate the human settlers had been when the foodstuffs had gone missing, and the fantasy of a play evaporated. “One of our storehouses suddenly lost about half its food, and, uh. . .” And here was the tricky part, Selim thought to himself. How does one, with all innocent intentions, declare that, perhaps, one’s food somehow got from ‘point a’ to ‘point b’ without essentially proclaiming the person owning ‘point b’ a thief? Oh dear . . . While his brain was mostly focused on how to continue his sentence, a couple of Selim’s synapses, running around demanding attention but not quite getting any, were noting how strange it was that all three of the ponies had a slightly dull, greyish tint to their coats. ‘I wonder if they’re family’ was the closest those cell got to being a fully realized thought. Unfortunately for Selim, the ponies caught onto the reason for his hesitance faster than he would’ve given them credit for. “Unlike you human,” again, another spit, “we don’t rob others of their work. Now, you can either come with us quietly, or you can try to resist.” There was a pause as she grinned with well calculated malice, and then she continued, “Of course, I hope you resist; it’d be quite a bit more fun.” “Uh, I’d rather-” And then Mercy Root struck him in the face with a horseshoe. *** There was a knock at the door, and then noises of a short scuffle. “What’s the problem?” Bilgames shouted, after a moment passed in silence. His hands lingered, hovering an inch below his work table, where there was a hidden dagger; in a softer, very much unamused tone, he finally added, “. . . If you just assaulted the courier, you may want to excuse yourself before I punish you.” Perhaps half a minute ticked by, quietly, before the door slowly creaked open. The courier, a somewhat svelte man with a serious gaze, entered, his progress encumbered by the box he was carrying. “You’re injured,” Bilgames said with some surprise, once the man set down the box and was in the process of bowing; the man looked up, questioningly, as Bilgames gestured, vaguely directing the man to feel around his eyes. “Nothing to worry about, my lord,” the man replied, shaking his head rather than feel around his new black-eye. “The idiot guard is my nephew; he’s likely still jittery from trainin’, if you don’t mind my observations, lord.” “Are there some intra-family issues?” Bilgames asked, quirking an eyebrow in some amusement. “There sure as hell will be once his mam hears about this,” the courier replied off-handedly. A moment passed before he remembered he was speaking to his ruler, and he hurriedly added, “My lord. Please, I never intended to insult-” “No offense was taken. And perhaps, while family can likely punish him more properly than a King can, it’d do him some good to realize the gravity of the situation. Tell him, once you see him again, that he’s now on potato peeling duty for a month for assaulting a servant of the throne.” The messenger nodded, internally grinning at the thought of the private hell his nephew would go through once the rest of the family realized what had been done. “Now, let’s see what Uruk gave us, shall we?” Bilgames said, clapping his hands together in anticipation. The box was ripped open, and inside was revealed to be- “A tunic. What in the hells is a tunic doing in here?” Bilgames lifted the garment in question and looked at the courier in bemusement. “Erm. . . Lord, he didn’t tell you the contents of the shipment?” “I fail to see how that has any bearing on the current situation.” “He said, Lord, that these were, ahem, flawed magical items-” Bilgames threw the shirt across the room with alarming force, and the box was swiftly kicked into a somewhat charred corner of the room with a degree of urgency rarely seen in people who aren’t disabling bombs. The courier, much to his surprised chagrin, was bodily hauled by Bilgames to the other side of the room. “Lord?!” “Shut up!” A moment passed as Bilgames crouched protectively in front of the courier. A moment passed in utter silence before, finally, Bilgames rose from his hunkered state and carefully walked towards both the tunic and the box. “I thought I told him to never send defective. . . products ever again.” “To be fair, lord, you specified that he was to bury potentially dangerous items. You never included a caveat for flawed, yet non-dangerous, objects.” “Be that as it may. . .” Bilgames muttered, before nudging the box hesitantly with his foot. It appeared to be filled with a variety of shaped stones, the only different one a grey metal and red gemstone amulet of some sort. “What are these?” “I dunno, lord. All he said was that they were made from jewels, but sometime during the actually creation process they turned into granite.” “Well, we can keep them in deep storage. Maybe we’ll find a usage for them as paperweights or something. What about the tunic?” “Erm, he specifically said that donning it might inspire panic amongst viewers. And that you may want a mirror if you do decide to test it, lord.” “He said all that?” “No sire. He, uh, simply grumbled a few words to that effect, lord.” “Ah. Typical. Well, thank you. I suppose I’ll see more of you later if we have need for you. You’re dismissed.” I hope this doesn’t turn out like the flaming sword that ignites the handle. I still have scars from that. . . Bilgames thought, as he slowly withdrew the various rocks from the box. He placed them around his table, glaring at them cautiously, but they remained resolutely granite. The final object withdrawn, the same grey and red amulet he had first seen, however, he spent a further minute simply looking over. It was. . . strange, to say the least. It had some sort of horse figure shaped on the upper half, but it appeared to be some sort of strange winged Unicorn. It couldn’t have been made much more menacing, with its red-eyed, angry looking countenance, but Bilgames continued to fiddle with the object stubbornly, trying to find some sort of switch that would activate. . . whatever it was supposed to do. A few minutes experimentation turned out to be ultimately fruitless, however, and it was with an annoyed grunt he tossed the useless jewelry back into the box. He played around with the other objects for a moment, one by one simply pitching them into the box with rapidly growing abandon. Useless. . . useless. . .What the hell are these supposed to do? These are just worthless rocks. And we can’t just break them, or it might end up killing someone with the backlas- There was a red flash when he tossed the final rock back into the container, which was followed by several seconds of muffled cursing as Bilgames gripped his eyes. “To hell with this. . .” he grumbled, as his vision slowly returned. I’ll have Selim find someplace to bury this nonsense. Damned magic and damnable magic items. Why can’t the world be simpler? Work with obvious rules? Bah. . . Bilgames grabbed the tunic, stumbled over to his personal mirror, glared at his own reflection, and shrugged the shirt on. All he felt, for a moment, was a slight tingling sensation at his fingertips, and suddenly even that ceased. And then he glanced at his likeness. He stumbled back a few steps, looked down at himself, then looked back at the abnormal reflection. Slowly, a grin stretched across his features, even as he touched at his chin and experimented for a moment. Huh. This might be useful. The jaw might be a bit of a problem, same with the sides, but overall a fantastic illusion. Maybe Selim can tinker with some of this stuff; he’s the only one who even has a slight understanding of magic out of the three of us. . . Mood quite improved, Bilgames took off the tunic and tossed it onto his desk, still eyeing the box in the corner with disdain. *** There remained a dream. A basic one, built more from memories than anything truly original, Selim knew. It had been. . . simple, to say the least. There had been four of them, all Unicorns; they had put a blanket sleep spell over a quarter of the city, and it was only Selim’s inherent magical talent that kept him just this side of consciousness. He had confronted them, somewhat nauseated from his body’s valiant efforts to dissipate the Sand-Man (Sand-Pony?) spell. It had been a confusing moment, neither side knowing what the other wanted, and then he was engulfed in magic; a barrier, to be precise. He remembered that moment. He also remembered pushing, using his own magic, fueled by terror and hatred and gods know what else. He remembered the barrier distorting, bending, tendrils extending beyond the hemisphere with a casualness that was utterly in contrast to their user’s own mental state. He remembered his own primal scream of rage. A barrier is a useful thing, true, but there he was, incapable of the ponies’ own formalized magic system, turning the shield into a weapon. Minutes passed as they desperately tried to reform their barrier, and yet one by one they died, their own force field distorted into a potent spear, one that would puncture their faces and then be expanded rapidly. He remembered how they died, terrified to the last. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go, their eyes said, before being gouged out and then violently bursting, along with the rest of their features. And then it was his own dark imagination that was being worked, for no memory of his had gone this way. . . some of the blood vessels in his eyes had burst after that particular show of might . . . blindness for months . . . but the dream didn’t end with darkness . . . And then dream-Selim crept, crawled, into the building they were trying to break into, and what should he find but a couple of foals, no older than a few weeks. . . And then the old words came back, screaming in his mind as if they were bellowed by a wounded banshee. What have I wrought? And then, mercifully, the memories faded and his dream became a vision, this time of some sort of strange construct that had four spinning wings, all separated by ninety degree angles. And Selim’s unconscious mind spent the next few hours memorizing the wonders of windmills.