“Money Shot”
“Wlad fy hynafiaid, tir a bod fy aderyn gwrtw cadw'n rhydd, tir a oedd yn farw I mi, y mae I ti yr wyf yn canu...”
The massed cocks of the Royal Antfwyd Choir were in beautiful voice as they made their way through the national anthem, their deep and bassy tones echoing up through the high and vaulted ceilings of the Pwdfyddych, national seat and long home of Hywell Edda, or as he was now, King Hywell Edda. This familiar place now felt like an alien realm, however. He could not get used to the feeling of his father's throne, no matter how much he rearranged the pillows and cushions. Hywell was beginning to suspect that it was more a matter of rightfulness, that is to say, his lack of it, than anything to do with the construction of the thing itself.
Idwal Foel, always a companion, was watching the choir intently and drinking, of all things, mint tea, a plant which did not grow anywhere within the broodlands and was a specialist import from Equestria. The pleasant and refreshing odour of the stuff drifted over him, a pall of oily refreshment. He clicked his beak very slowly, mulling over the idea of ordering one of the tremulous serving hens who lurked in the shadows around the throne to fetch him a cup too. That thought died shortly thereafter. Ye dratted protocols. Oh, I must, I must be seen when on the throne to have no foibles of a mortal, no needs and appreciations. What a horrid duality of thought! That I am some unflinching creature, a thing that begets nothing but strength, says and speaks for nothing but his own fearsome reputation, but behind closed doors I may devour and vomit and screw, just like all the rest of them. Eyes forward, talons on show, that's the only way to go! Well, rut that, right up the--
“Highness, you're marking the floor again,” Foel whispered, without looking at him.
“What?” Hywell said, glancing down, where surely enough, his right footpaw was scoring five long lines into the marble, adding to a set of others. “Oh, sorry.”
“They've only the Aldwych ayn Fod (OLD-wick aen FHod) to get through, then we can eat dinner and you can take your frustrations out on some deer.”
“Yes, but all this decrepit ceremony, I hate it so,” he said, suddenly aware of his growing hunger as his belly rumbled disquietly. “Take a note for me, dear Foel, to find out who came up with it all and have them fed to hydrae at the next possible opportunity.”
“I fear your father is beyond your reach, Highness,” Foel said, smiling sardonically. “I can see if the fodwycha will bring up his bones from the osscept though, and we can feed those to the hydrae.”
“Wouldn't be much of a meal,” he grumbled, then reached out and suddenly grabbed Foel's cup from where he had left it, on top of the saucer, taking a deep gulp before setting it quickly back, glancing in the other direction.
Foel raised a surprised eyebrow, but said nothing. The choir finished the national anthem, and there was a long round of rapturous applause, hooting and cawing before they launched smoothly into the Aldwych ayn Fod, a hymnal about giving thanks to the ancestors for the bounty of the hunt. It was a four part harmony, with both a male and female section, symbolic of the duality in fertility, and of the two-naturedness of the universe itself. The hens padded in from the invisible entrances between the delineations of the six enclosures of the court's seating, seeming to appear out of nowhere. They were dressed in white linen, with a waxy sheen to them, and red bows around their necks, green and blue smudges on their beaks and claws scribing various benedictions, pleas for intercessions and messages of thanks.
They joined the cocks just as their part kicked in, and they added the essential feminine undertone to proceedings. Hywell vaguely recalled that there was supposed to be a dance involved here somewhere too, but they were stoic and still behind their male colleagues, holding various intimidating, supplicant or reverent poses. Perhaps I am misremembering. There are so many of these blasted things. Fie! Fie on them, and so on.
There was a cheer, and the deer they had hunted were paraded out on carts, or slung over the backs of cocks-in-waiting, depending on how big they were. They had been tied up with green and red bows in the same way as the hens, and painted on with similar symbolism. Eight bucks in total, their necks torn open and bodies long exsanguinated, along with a number of the smaller does and a little collection of fawns, eventually made their way into the centre of the long hall, being laid out for all to see.
Hywell's stomach rumbled again, even as a pang of guilt and disgust came up over him. They fought right up to the end, poor buggers. Fought us, just like we'd do. Wouldn't let go of life. All screaming and scrabbling hooves, kicking and biting. I wonder if they were scared. Bah, of course they were scared! We came down in the middle of them like creatures possessed, claws and beaks moving as a typhoon full with knives, wouldn't you be scared? Hywell placed his talons across each other, tracing the rough scales up his wrists, to where they met with thick feathers, hungry mind imagining what the chefs would soon be doing with those poor buggers. Buck rarebit, haunch of whole buck in sauger sauce, pan seared silverside of doe, whole fawn deep fried and served extra crispy with horsendaise sauce for dipping. Oh, I can't stand it!
He balled his right talon into a fist, and only just resisted slamming it into the onyx arm of the throne. I could do it. I could tell them all to stop. I could... He tensed his neck, the Autumn Crown shifting its centre of mass very slightly, as if tensing itself in response. I could burn them all. Boil out this horrid speck. Cast down these halls, purify everything. There would be so little left over. His heart began to beat faster, and a warmth spread into his skull through his feathers. Something whispered to him, inaudible but somehow intoxicating, promising--
The choir finished the Aldwych, and another round of applause filled the hall, snapping his attention away. The heat subsided, and the lovely whispering ceased, though now Hywell was sure that he had always been able to hear it, and it was only now that he could really tell that it was talking at all. Foel cleared his throat and set down his saucer of tea.
“Well, that's done with,” he said, sighing. “Come then, Highness. Dinner awaits.”
*
“So, what you're saying is, you've made it blow?” Astrapios said, grinning, surveying the empty sky around the Barely Eagle, which was by this point moving along at a fierce pace. “Was this a big job, or only a little one?”
“Oh, well, I think it was quite easy for her actually,” Emboss said, feeling his family pride was on the line. “Yes, very simple, nothing to it all, just a little unicorn magic, solves all ills.” He tapped his horn in emphasis of the point.
“Had a lot of practice then, has she?” Astrapios said, barely stopping himself from collapsing into fits of laughter. “Lucky old you! What a great wife!”
“She is an expert in these sorts of jobs!” Emboss said, haughtily, unable to tell what the hippogryph was finding so amusing. “Why, she only had to watch her mare friend do it once or twice, and she had it down to a tee!”
“Oh, so she likes to watch? That's wicked!” He snorted and stamped his hooves. “Maybe she'd like to work for me!”
“Darling, stop,” Truth mumbled, still groggy, laying her neck over the top of his withers for support.
“I'm defending your honour!”
Astrapios had succumbed to the force of hilarity, and was gasping breathlessly on the deck, having rolled onto his back, kicking his legs in the air.
“I really don't see what's so funny,” Emboss huffed. “All I said is that you were good at--” He blinked twice, then gasped, cheeks going a bright, cherry red. “Oh!”
“Yes, quite,” Truth sighed, smiling and rolling her eyes before slinking off, looking as though she'd just gone ten rounds with a chimera. “I'm going for a lie down. Do try to behave whilst I'm asleep.”
“Y-yes dear, sorry,” Emboss said, removing the tiny pair of spectacles he wore and cleaning them with a pinch of magic.
*
Tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis, Luna thought, descending down the slopes and tiers of Canterlot, the force of her passage ripping slate from roofs and shattering the thick, crystal glass against their wooden frames. A few days hence and this would have been madness, augurs of a Nightmare's trot, but now 'tis vital to the cause. Tempora mutantur indeed, but how far will I be willing to go to match?
The brooding, square shape of the Theatre of the Two Sisters, an abomination in architecture which Luna had considered arranging the obliteration of many times in the years she had been back, hid low against the caldera wall of Mount Avalon, on the edge of the city. In the dying light of the sun the gigantic granite blocks from which it had been so carefully hewn were plain to see. It is not so much a building, but an invading army, with troops of gaudy false imperial chic and fawning generals of too much silver and bronze.
Her eyes swept through the wide, cluttered streets up to the theatre, divine mind processing much of the complex scene at once. There was a band of stallions, charivari in full swing, singing sea shanties and smashing up fast food restaurants, and there were a herd of pink bison raiding a zebric mercantile house. Her attentions were quickly drawn to the largest group, however. They were all wearing red sashes, and the blob of their congregation had just begun to spill in through the big, shiny theatre doors. Luna had seen the signs of enthusiastic entry before; a giant barber's pole, long enough that it had required nine or ten of the mares to carry it, had been been pressed into service as a battering ram, and now lay propped against the entrance.
Suddenly, out of the mass, a kicking, biting and squealing blotch came, a highly distinguishable black and grey patch in the sea of primary colours. The mob had a good hold on Zo Nar and, despite her superior strength, training and biology, numbers were always going to win over. Focusing closely, she saw that the mare had already been badly beaten, and her abusers weren't letting up. Vicious spells, of the sort which Luna usually reserved for creatures whose arrival heralded new chronological eras, exploded in her mind. The local magical field drained in an instant, and the Princess almost let go. The intensity with which the shape in her head begged for power, pleaded to be substantiated into the world, was incredible, and it was this which made her pause.
They are yet civilians. Zo Nar would not survive either. The mare in question suddenly lashed out, jumping through the crowd, screaming wickedly and biting anyone in range. It didn't last long, and the magical impulses of all the unicorns present soon dragged her down again, sweeping her along with the rest of them through the doors. Luna smiled proudly. Dum vita est, spes est.
*
“Are you quite sure we should be adding that much black powder, Pinkie?” Ode said, watching as the mare shovelled what seemed to be a good two-thirds of the entire stock into the flared end of the carronade. “This is just for effect, after all...”
“D'ya trust me, Odey?” Pinkie said, dropping the scoop and staring him down.
“Implicitly; you're a champion of the common earth pony,” Ode said, biting his lip.
“Well, would someone you trust do anything to hurt your interests?” She began scooping the powder into the carronade again.
“No, I guess not,” Ode said, nodding, after a few moments of thought. “But is it entirely necessary that we fill the ball with custard?”
“'Ust 'ust 'ee!” she gurgled, through a mouth of handle.
“Right you are, Pinkie.”
*
Truth and Emboss made love for the first time on their trip on their second night aboard. There was no real build up to it, but the idea of some release of frustration, tension and the need to be physically close, had just come together in one, rather rough, moment. Emboss lay along his wife's back in the post-coital daze, feeling her heart beating quickly through his skin and watching droplets of sweat roll down her neck and further dampen the bed.
Through the porthole, the waves slid by at their enhanced pace. They had actually begun to accelerate a lot faster than before, as the magical construct funneling wind at them was further added to by Emboss' own energies, as well as later reinforced and tinkered with at length by his wife. The whole process had been terribly draining for her, though. The mare was already asleep, satisfied and exhausted, depriving him of the usual cuddling and general boisterousness she displayed after they had sex.
They would reach Noble's Isle shortly, or so Astrapios had said, probably before dawn. They'd already passed a series of small, uninhabited islets and islands, which had appeared and disappeared rapidly from view, but in the meantime showed glimpses of emerald trees and long beaches of jet sand. There had been a long discussion as to why they were going, but it still seemed to be for the same reason. The gryphons were getting ornery, and had been promised their reward there. In the end, Emboss had backed down. They would depart the Isle shortly after lunch on the third day, with a tentative estimate on the evening of the fourth or the morning of the fifth as time of arrival in the broodlands.
Emboss rested his nose in Truth's mane and got lost in the smells of her exertions, and the peachy cinnamon perfume she liked to wear, quietly hoping that they would arrive in time to make a difference, and not merely in time to witness.
*
“Where do curves end and straight lines begin?”
The zezura was a large and noble-looking desert bird, with splendidly broad wings which it kept mantled gracefully when not in use, and a head like a guitar plectrum. With its strikingly white plumage to keep off the worst of the sun's rays, and a span between the needle-fine tips of each wing of nearly eight metres, it had very little to worry about in what was one of Equestria's most extreme biomes, at least, of those places not infested by hydrae, or so far above sea-level one saw only blackness up above.
So, when it had deigned to descend from its scarce and lofty climes to find a crunchy salamander or two, and maybe some water to wash them down with, it was not at all concerned with the idea of running into danger, or any kind of trouble at all for that matter. For although many sorts of animals lived in the wadi, none dared hunt the zezura, perhaps out of respect for the mighty avian's plumage. Therefore, when it alighted neatly on the bank, it was very surprised indeed to see an odd, four-legged creature, which had wings, a horn and was immensely pink.
“No, really, where do curves end? How can you tell if a straight line isn't actually just a really big curve, and you can't tell it's a curve because it's so huge?”
The zezura stared at the animal and blinked both of its sets of eyelids in surprise.
“Imagine a straight line, right? Okay, but then imagine a really slight curve. Like infinitely tiny, curved only a little, little bit. Maybe it would be curved as little as it was possible to be before it became a straight line again. You'd be forgiven for thinking that the curve was actually a straight line, wouldn't you?”
The zezura opened and closed its beak a few times, then cocked its head.
“I'm Whom, by the way,” she said. “Well, actually, my name is A Stupid Pink Pony Whom Nopony Will Ever Love, but about half of the ponies I know just call me Whom, so I guess the choice is up to you, which one you use, that is. Don't worry about that question, I was just trying to start conversation.”
Interest in this strange thing quickly faded, and the zezura promptly strode off into the water, the lure of tiny, slithering treats too tempting to ignore any longer. It made sploshing noises as it waded carefully in, eventually disappearing out into the still, shady and very shallow waters of the wadi's central pond system.
Whom sighed and dropped her head rather melodramatically. Her trip to Equestria hadn't gotten off to a very good start so far, especially the part where she'd arrived by means of magical spaceship, only without any of the fancy hovering and safe entries and parachutes, as they did in the stories she'd read in the magazines. Instead, she'd just sort of appeared here. It was all very anticlimactic, to be honest. The last thing she remembered was watching Twilight operate the gas generator, telling her everything would be okay.
Then she had woken up in a rather large furrow in the middle of a dry and dusty salt flat, which turned out to surround most of the wadi. There was no sign of the spaceship, and no traces of Twilight either. After a while, she'd set off at a trot toward the nearest signs of anything, which ended up being the wadi. At least I saved Twilight's bags. She'll want those back, I'm sure. After all, the Nectars seem pretty important to her.
Whom shifted the weight of them over her spine and withers, and the badly shaken contents clanked and thudded around inside. Her own bags were small enough to fit into the leather panniers, so that had been useful. They're really important, actually. What if she wants to make them now? Before she finds me? She drew in a sharp breath. What if she thinks I'm dead? Oh, no, I have to find her! She broke into a half-canter, half-gallop, contemplating gaining some height. I can't let my friend down!
*
“Okay, here's the plan!” Pinkie said, as they prepared to load the carronade into the stage lift. “Are you listening? I'm only going to say this once!”
“I'm all ears, Pinkie,” Ode said, tension and apprehension rising in his chest, alongside the continual aura of merriment the Element of Laughter seemed to radiate.
“You get the cannon up on stage, then wheel it off the platform so the mares and foals can get on it,” Pinkie said, enthusiastically miming the actions for him. “As soon as you do that, they can come down here. These walls are thick! Those meanies outside won't get in. Then, blammo!” She jumped up and spread all four limbs out wide, as though she were a shooting star. “Just touch the firepaper to the fuse I put in.” She giggled and snorted. “Make sure you get it pointed in the right direction! I hate it when thingies make a mess where they're not supposed to!”
“Yes, yes, it's a penis, I'm rather getting sick of the sight of it really,” Ode said, sighing and peering closely at the mechanism that held the fat, white fuse. “What will you be doing?”
There was no reply. Ode turned around and scanned the room. Pinkie Pie had vanished. Even when he trotted curiously up and down, looking into any spaces where she might have secreted herself, there was no trace that she had ever been there in the first place, apart from the fact that he now knew what to do with the gun. The radiated aura of happiness and euphoria was gone too. Ode bit his lip and huffed. When he looked back at the barrel of the carronade, he saw that someone had written 'Good luck, Odey!' on it, with what appeared to be cake icing. Ode smiled, grinned, then burst out laughing.
Pausing only to wipe a tear from his eye, he climbed into the stage lift with the gun, then pulled out the toggle which would loose the counterweight. With a rattle of cogs and wheels, Ode began to ascend to the stage.
*
Princess Luna forgoed the time honoured tradition of using doors and came in directly. Her shadowy self darted through the spaces between the atoms of granite themselves, before she rematerialized below the glass-domed ceiling of the theatre. Below, the rabble had already penetrated another set of doors and begun to infiltrate further inside, toward the main stage. There was no sign of Nar, though Luna could smell nottlygna blood, mixed in with the awful stink of sweat, anger and too many ponies in the same place. She let herself fall vertically, extending her wings only at the last moment to stop her descent.
The ensuing sharp blast of air, helped on and focused by careful manipulations of her flight surfaces and the intense force her muscles could put out, picked up all those who had the misfortune of being in Silver Stream's way and flung them bodily outwards. The shiny, marble flooring, speckled with little black inclusions, had a sense of the dramatic mood strong enough to shatter, with a very satisfying crack.
Luna didn't bother speaking to the hundreds of stunned ponies who now turned to look at her. There was nothing that she could say, at least in any language they'd understand, to change their Nectars-addled minds. Already, shock and awe were turning to violent anger. The Princess scooped up a fraction of her magic and, targeting the first fifty who happened to catch her eye, let it go. The raw and unfocused energy of the blast, having no specific instructions, went off to find its own trouble to get into. Currents were induced in central nervous systems left, right and centre, sending their unfortunate owners into smoking, seizing heaps.
In some of them, specifically the unicorns, things went a little differently. Bunches of roses sprouted under their skin, bursting through superficial but painful rips. Doves and pigeons spontaneously appeared around heads and immediately set to scrabbling and scratching. Rolls of streamers and sprays of confetti, all coloured black and silver with streaks of dark purple, exploded out of nostrils, ears, mouths and less comfortable orifices entirely. Carrots and various other root vegetables, equally chromed, spilled in huge piles, torn from nearby storehouses, flung through wormholes and tipped in great numbers on those who had survived the birds, flowers and miscellaneous party goods and come out still in the mood for a fight.
This is a much better idea than whatever it is my sister does to manipulate their thoughts. Why I didn't think of this before now is unknown to me. Largely unharmed, yet incapable of, or unwilling to, cause trouble. Excellent.
That was when she noticed all the blood on the floor, leading through the large double doors. It was very strongly nottlygna, and stung in the back of her throat, the magical potential of the stuff discharging as it met the simulated interior parts of a divine being. Luna growled and took off, floating over the rest of the crowd mostly via aggressive pushes against the ground with her telekinesis, flinging and tugging herself through. There was the occasional squeak or whinny of pain as she caught something equine with the edge, but she disregarded them.
And I was so harsh on Zo Nar for less! Fie on me! If she lives through this, I'll permanently assign her to the Hidden Delight, by the stars themselves I swear it.
The doors themselves would have splintered to nothing at her passing, had they not already been reduced to that state by the crowd. Through them was the main theatre itself, an imposing and grand space, flush with soft, red cotton benches, arranged in a big circle around the stage, which was like an island in the middle of a sea of chaos. Ponies fell and were pushed over the benches, screaming and shouting. The remnants of a sign, reading Outrages Against Public Decency on one side and Dams Unite Down with the Filth on the other, was being paraded about, though it had been badly abused and was, at this point, barely legible.
Luna noticed that the stage had a giant penis on it a few seconds after she flew in over the heads of the baying mob. It was very lifelike indeed, and even had a pair of testicles shrouding the base, completely smooth and with a black sheen. The tip was flared as if it were in the middle of the culmination of its intended role in life, and indeed, had an appropriate hole. She was briefly rather pleased with it, and only realized that it was actually a cannon when a dusky-brown earth pony, who was quite a bit fatter than the norm, popped up from behind it and slammed his left hoof on the barrel, sending up a shower of sparks and igniting the firepaper he had glued to the bottom.
Whomever had set up the weapon, they had not cut enough fuse for it to be safely and appropriately operated. Just two seconds after the flame that engulfed his hoof touched the fuse, it had burned down entirely in a gratuitous spray of sparks, and the cannon had discharged. There was a tooth-rattling boom, focused to ear splitting volumes by the shape of the theatre and the relatively enclosed space.
Luna's instincts had made the decision before she really consciously thought about it. The cannon was pointed in the direction of the mob, very squarely so. Despite the fact that they were completely out of control and threatened to kill one of her beloved nottlygna, if they hadn't done so already, they had not done anything that was worthy of sanctioning their outright murder. She had seen what unrestrained, close-range cannon fire did to ponies, and had no wish to do so again. There was only one possible choice, a single course of action that could be carried out in the vanishingly small time she had left.
With a thrust of magic as large as she dared, Luna accelerated toward the empty point in space where her divine brain told her the ball would be once she herself arrived. Time seemed to slow down. There was an awful period in which she thought she had not given herself enough of a push, and would not make it. The Princess intersected the cannon ball travelling at almost the speed of sound. She'd prepared for there to be a lot of pain, then a period of somewhat awkward personal reconstruction as bits of her returned from wherever they'd been propelled around the room.
Instead, when the fragile shot impacted her face, the force of it was enough to override the antifragmentation enchantments that had been placed on it. The thin-shelled cannonball immediately splintered into thousands of pieces, dumping its load of warm, sticky custard, only recently drawn from the Royal Kitchens and therefore freshly made, all over her head, muzzle, neck and generally everywhere else, too. Globs of the stuff, still carrying the high velocity that the firing had imparted on them, rapidly turned into an airy foam as they were forcibly mixed with air.
Luna managed to stop herself, then hung in the air just above the pit where the musicians were usually placed. Dozens of terrified looking mares, most with foals hiding behind their legs, or in various stages of pregnancy and therefore somewhat immobile and rotund, gazed up at her. The rest of the mob, who apparently hadn't noticed those souls taking refuge in the pit, had all been shocked into silence. They stared, first at her, then at the cannon, then back to her again. On the stage itself, the earth pony who had lit the fuse looked as though he had just eaten Zeus' prized marigolds, rod-rigid with fright.
A drop of custard rolled down Luna's stunned features and off her muzzle, falling away into darkness. As though they'd been waiting for this cue, the mob erupted into wild laughter, which eventually became louder than the cannon shot had been.
*
Rescuing Zo Nar had been very straightforward after that. There had been nobody who wasn't absolutely paralyzed with mirth to stop her. She'd grabbed the battered mare very carefully with her magic and lifted her away, quickly exfiltrating the theatre before the crowd had a chance to recover. Though her external motions had stilled, Luna could feel a tremulous pulse of life that yet remained inside Nar's chest. Her legs were at funny angles, and dozens upon pained dozens of cuts, abrasions, angry bruises and other injuries crowded her body. She would need a great deal of healing, and probably wouldn't walk straight again, but she would be okay.
Hoping that Nar still had enough of the plant drug in her blood that she could feel no pain, Luna headed for the Palace again. Time for a bath, methinks, and a new plan. There can be no solution to this found in the streets of the city. We must take whom we can and leave. Evacuate the city! What a strange notion. Hm. All the airships were burned with the liftgas. They must have been, for little nearby survived. I wonder, if Mytheme will still be there?