//------------------------------// // Monica // Story: Crystal heart // by A pensive Squirrel //------------------------------// The training programme of the Imperial army was nothing less than unadulterated torture. The kempt stallion wasn’t subject to sloth; neither had he opted out of any physical activity in his life. This however was a guideline, not a rule, and his outgoing attitude was catching its breath abaft the changing rooms. It was gruelling. Hour followed hour of unforgiving physical challenge, calisthenics from the break of dawn, running drills till noon and no breakfast, assault course till the sun was setting in the west, until they were finally given grace to cook a meal. Pretorias had only been enlisted in the guard for fewer days than he had feet, but the fallout was as severe for him as it was for the seasoned veterans of Empyrean’s march of malpractice. It was a cool evening where he shuddered in the icy stare of the commander and chief. Empyrean clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he entered the common tents of the outfield encampment. The stallions were ruined and bullied by the day, their only respite in the form of the slurry stewing in rusted old caldrons. The spryer studs of the bunch had already eaten and were busy getting their bunks in order. The camp was an ascetic locale, running water, working latrines and even the basic sundries of razor and soaps a joke among most. Each of these camps was overseen by an appointed quartermaster, a trusted corporal or private commissary with what the officers would call ‘the right stuff’. This duty had been assigned to the newest greenhorn in the camp, the jaded old paladin with the piercing laminitis. He hid his malady well but when push came to shove, he could do neither. He was dressed accordingly. His fatigues matched the sad monochrome drabs of his compeers, only his had hastily embroidered accolades up one sleeve and a rather nifty beret. Empyrean sniffed the stagnant air of the irrigation ditch and tugged the ear of the quartermaster for attention. “You’re a promising asset to my forces, you know that?” Pretorias uttered no words. He pawed the brownish ooze and splashed it in his face to cool it. It had been a taxing day. “There is threat of rebellion in our new conquest. I know who leads them. My sister tonight will be ensuring his sleep is short, and his dream portentous. I am to visit soon and my reason is for the extirpation of this ridiculous uprising. The demagogue wishes to compensate for his backwards methodology. Let him grovel I say.” Empyrean hoofed a flask of something strong, something warming, a brandy perhaps, to the mute swan before him. He parked his rump in the grime and dirt of the fen and moved closer to his soldier. “Things are heading south already. I need a sensible stallion to manage a small bisection of my army when the once king throws a royal tizzy. We are in principle there to make official the armistice of our true, thoroughbred brothers at arms, and the savagely sprawl of the griffon. There will be no such declaration. You will operate along with a quintet of my finest, of your choosing of course. You will move with the shadows and secretly control the situation in Salem’s state. Be they disciplinary measures to thwart misdemeanour or righteous acts of heroism to derail Salem’s sortie, you will be my…” “Your spy, is that what you’re implying?” “Sharp as a tack, I knew I had a winner when I handpicked you.” “Am I supposed to be flattered? Sorry to dash your fool proof endeavour, but I think you’ve settled for the wrong guy. I make a good scapegoat, is that your angle?” “I don’t much care for your tone, maggot. I chose you for this because of your determination, your unflappable drive for retribution. Spies report a certain stallion spending far too long in the state’s compendium. There have also been unexplained absentees from jury, and missing from the workplaces. Even soldiers have been going AWOL, no sense to say why, or to where.” “You are mistaken. That gelding is so far engrossed in his own body odour and reflection that I doubt he’s had the time to read, or the other sketchy things you accuse him of. What else do your informants observe? Sounds to me that they’re investigations have led them to the tavern. Sounds like the pickled prose of Martingale to me.” Empyrean fondled his woolly chin forest and looped his foreleg around Pretorias’s shoulders, leading him towards his half star accommodation. “I’ve heard a fine yarn or two about the salt. He is of no consequence. We knew the ex-king was his chum, and we couldn’t leave his allegiance to chance. We have his estranged lineage in shackles. We’ve promised them freedom for his compliance. He has no influence in the critical parameters of the paramilitary therein, but he’s wonderfully charming. We let his forsaken sprogs free years back.” The emperor and his lackey interrupted a riveting tourney of backgammon, the players infused with peevishness. Pretorias respectfully removed his cap and made for his bunk, duking under Empyrean’s foreleg. “Before I begin my routine inspection, you flock of fillies, I would like you all fully dressed and armed for my associate here.” A sea of laughter accosted the stallion. His comrades were none too concordant with the call to arms. Pretorias gripped the post of his bunk as his brain did a full somersault. Dehydration left him a wrinkly husk, a vacuous vanguard. He received further heckling from the partially dressed majority as they fell off of their bunks and began tightening and righting their neoteric costumes. Empyrean plucked a soldier from the ground and snapped the fastenings of his garb. “You will be undercover. Open conflict is not expected. Leave your panoplies in your trunks. Leave your uniform too. I have enough eyes in the forces. I want to see what the common pony sees. This is who that firebrand will isolate, and in time cannibalise. Take humble posts, in the paper mill, join the Samaritans, work as a teacher and become part of a quango. Detect his bedfellows before he can gain any sort of leverage, and he will have no choice but to be acquiescent when I offer him an exit.” One saluted reluctantly and scratched the fleas from his forelock. “You think he’s up to something then?” “I am unsure. What would he call them, the yeomanry? That is the caste he would galvanise. The executioner here will elect a small subsidiary of five competent and loyal stallions. You will route out the festering underbelly of that diseased stump of an orchard, and bring the agitators to justice!” “You didn’t actually answer my question…” The dull gunmetal stallion began. “Did I ask for an opinion? Now, I have to prepare for my scheduled neutral visit. I mustn’t be cranky. The quartermaster will clue you in on the finer details.” Empyrean flung open the tent door and spread his wings so fast they nearly uprooted the stakes. He turned and winked to the cobalt blue stallion and vanished from sight. Left alone, Pretorias summited his bunk and buried his head in the synthetic pillow. Nothing but the finest for the servicemen… Not before long he felt a warm breeze on his eyelid; it was one of the woken privates. “I don’t fancy being court marshalled, sir. I was just wondering. Well, we was just wondering… What I’m trying to get at…” “FNG, you will be the death of me. Let me get my faculties straight. I’ll be right back with you.” He yawned and stuffed his muzzle back into the foam cloud. “Are you a hundred percent sir? W… We’re meant to be planning, yah know, for the incognito hoojamaflip?” Pretorias tore his maw from the pillow and rubbed his eyes in dismay. The dismay only doubled as he realised the incoherent newbie was a little too close for comfort, his knee fast pressed against the paladin’s groin. “Were you recruited? Did you sign up?” As the blur of Pretorias’s vision lessened, a blotchy, ginger haired colt came into view. “Runs in the family actually, can’t you tell?” The colt pointed to the similarly coloured corporals and privates of the tent. They had the same slightly plaited scheme to their manes and tails, and their faces were just as gormless and vacant. “I’m sure your parents are ever so proud. Have you seen a mare, about my height, a Pegasus, and a radiant one at that?” “I can’t say I have, boss man.” The closer of the inbred pack replied. He screwed around and patted the bunk railing curry the limited attentions of his brothers. “Any of you happened on this mare he’s clucking about?” An unsettling cavalcade of shaking heads made the quartermaster flop back on to his back and strangle the pillow for comfort. “Never mind then. How many of you can read? No hoofs? How many can write? Not so many either. Is anyone of you multilingual? No? You twits would be outwitted by diamond dogs, how did you pass the exams?” “Exam, what’s that?” Pretorias released the pillow; its sides permanently dented by his crushing embrace, and flipped over the side of the bunk, landing in a fashion demanding of scoring and kudos. “Oh, I see his game.” “Game, you think it’s a betting one? I love those!” “Reinforcing my point effectively, more constructive noises could be gleaned from a sack of potatoes. You aren’t his best, are you? You clearly haven’t the cognition to open a stubborn jar, let alone legitimately pull off this caper. You’re expendable. Do you understand? You don’t matter.” “My ma says I’m a special flower. I can do ice sculpting with chainsaws and no pony looks down on me when it comes to skiing.” Pretorias held his head as though the growing whirlwind of stupidity was decapitating him. He shoved the closest red-faced, red haired colt backwards before grasping the nametag and peering closely at the insufficient stitching. “Backfire, that’s your name? Well at least they had a sense of humour. In downhill skiing you only win when every other racer is looking down at you. Interesting titbit about the chainsaws though, that might prove handy in a pinch. Hey, the foul picking his nose, come over here.” The smallest of the lads careered through the tent, upending his own footlocker as he went. He shoved his brother out of the way and crimped the material around his sigil. “Path funder… That’s an unusual name. I don’t think it’s mine. Yo decoy, what’s my damn name?!” “How am I sposed to know, you freaking loon?” “Pathfinder, your name is pathfinder. Actually, you five could possibly be so inept that you’ve inadvertently switched clothing. You could be anyone. You’re certainly all stupid.” The scrawny colt reached his rear hoof to his face and scratched as if he were a midge-ridden animal. He gargled and spat some left over broth from his tea and gazed fixatedly at his nametag again for clarity. “What did sis say I’m good at? Wait, I remember. They say I got a nose for this stuff, say I can find anything so long as I get a nose full first.” “Much like a dog, that could be useful. Having a bloodhound on the team might tip the odds when rifling through the litter of Salem’s state.” Pretorias gently keelhauled the dancing monkeys from his feet and magically dragged the remaining cronies to his bunk. “You two are very quiet, is that your special skill? How do I identify you? Ah, I know. Which of you owns the bunk literally spangled in suggestive posters?” One of the two, indistinguishable from his identical twin, giggled and gave himself away. “I’m your man, sir.” “Excellent, Master Clay Turner… What’s the jig? I thought you were all of military pedigree…” “Cousin Steeplechase and I never quite fit in with the family profession. But, we got drafted, so thank your lucky stars we’re sober as vicars.” “Speak for yourself.” The other hiccupped. Pretorias composed himself and whistled shrilly. The five maladroit blockheads, only three being true jarheads, assembled and saluted, one ripping a suspender strap as he did so. “It appears this is a foal’s errand so I guess it’s fitting that we send the toddler brigade in arse first pissed as sailors. Steeple and Clay can ply their trades. They have proven acumen. We will have to look into roles for the rest of you. It looks as if my pickings are slim and you are the only ones I have to choose from. You have quite a broad range of talents, English enunciation not being one of them, so we’ll just see how this pans out shall we?”