//------------------------------// // The Empty Town // Story: Sword and Song // by Sharaloth //------------------------------// Sword and Song By Sharaloth Part One: The Empty Town At the northern edge of the vast tract of bare stone and weathered canyons that the locals called the Granite Playground, the land became one of rolling hills and thick forests. Dotting the trackless miles of wilderness were small towns connected by the rudest of dirt paths. It was said that only the desperate, the mad, and the insanely bold ventured between those points of light in the cold North. For those travelling out of the south, the town of Dust-Devil Valley was one of the first they would find beyond the Granite Playground, and so it saw more traffic than any other town in the North. It stood as a waystation for those foolish enough to travel in the Madmare’s domain, and was relatively wealthy as a result. It was also abandoned, and recently so. Clothing flapped untended from laundry lines, wagons stood unhitched or overturned, and food was left out to rot where it lay. Somewhere, a door stood open and slapping in the dry wind. Its unsteady beat and the sighing breeze the only sound to be heard in the dead town. Songbird looked to her companion, giving him a tilted glance that conveyed caution and curiosity. He returned it with a slow shrug before starting down the hill and into the town. Compared to the walled villages of the Heartland, Dust-Devil Valley could barely be called a hamlet. It was comprised of a cluster of only a dozen buildings to either side of the wide dirt path that led out of the Granite Playground and deeper into the North. It had no wall, tower, or stockade, no defensive structures at all. Whatever happened here, it was entirely possible that the residents hadn’t even put up a fight. They said nothing as they took in the state of the town. They took their time, wary of hidden attackers or traps. Songbird pointed at a window that had a spiderweb of cracks running through it, a dark stain at the point of impact. The stallion narrowed his eyes and nodded, and together they moved on. Even in the Heartland, they would have made a strange pair, and not just because they were among the few willing to brave the dangers of the North. Her companion called himself the Blademaster, and the truth of the name was easy to see. He was a white and brown pinto earth pony, his coat stained by sun and dirt and a hard life on the road. Built lean and small, he was tight with corded muscle and moved with a stalking, predatory grace. His cutie mark, hidden for now behind a pair of saddlebags, was a pair of crossed swords. A wide-brimmed black hat sat on his head, and a strange metal contraption clearly designed to fit over his teeth dangled from a chain around his neck. He wore a harness of thick, sweat-stained cloth which sheathed a dozen throwing daggers. A pair of swords hung at his sides, bouncing a bit as he walked, and a third, much larger blade was strapped across his back. This third sword was strange compared to the others, thicker and wider, with a hilt that was a ring of bare steel. It didn’t shine in the light, its surfaces dull and cold. Songbird was a contrast. She was a beautiful mare, and while she had some thinness of hard living to her, she was still soft enough to have fit in among the ballrooms of the Heartland. Her coat was a gray-tinged white that seemed barely touched by dirt or sun, her horn clean enough to gleam in the light. Her mane was a swirl of pink and purple curls that streamed and snapped when caught in the wind. She wore a fluttering cloak of fine silk with silver trim, clasped by a shimmering opal. A pair of saddlebags were accompanied by a heavy satchel that hung at her side, the neck of a lute sticking out. As different as they were in looks and dress, their eyes were still the same. Hers were green and his were brown, but they were both eyes that had seen the terrible heart of the fallen world and come away not entirely whole, but stronger nonetheless. Like most of the towns clinging to life in the North, Dust-Devil Valley was built on stilts. Every building was supported by thick wooden pillars, then surrounded by a wide porch that was connected by stair or a ramp to a boardwalk that ran through the town. Nowhere was stone used in construction. In fact, the ground all around had been piled with loose earth until no bare rock could be seen within a hundred paces. The place would have been one big mud-pit when it rained, but it would have kept the residents safe. It should have kept the residents safe. They split up, each going to a different side of the road to check the buildings there. The Blademaster passed by a couple silent houses and came to the building with the flapping door. He stilled it with a hoof, and saw a small metal hook dangling from the wall that met with a simple notch in the door, holding it open against the wind. He set the hook in place. It wouldn’t hold forever, but it would at least still the banging while they were passing through. The building itself was a small house, little more than a cottage. One story, one room. Barely large enough for a pair of ponies to live in comfortably. The exterior showed no signs of violence, but plenty of habitation. A pair of vases flanked the stairs leading from the boardwalk, the wildflowers inside only beginning to wilt. A long-stemmed pipe sat on the arm of a chair; a quick sniff confirmed that it was filled and ready for a smoke, but hadn’t been lit. Satisfied with the exterior, he eased his way through the open door. He placed his hooves with care, but the floorboards still creaked with every step. That was all the sound he made, his swords and daggers as silent as his breath. He examined the interior with slow care, his hard eyes scanning for signs of danger and clues to the townsfolk's fate. Dishes sat in a sink full of dirty water, half-done. The table was empty, save a couple candles that had burned down to wax puddles and gone out. The bed was made, and a glass of water sat on the nightstand, full. He walked further in, taking his time. There was blood, but not much of it. A single, small splatter of brown on the kitchen counter, a day or two old. Not enough to come from a knife or sword wound. He stood silently in the center of the empty house and let his senses guide him to the reason he felt so unsettled there. The answer came as he noticed what he wasn’t seeing. There were no flies, no insects, no sign of vermin at all, not even on the plates crusted with the remains of these ponies’ last meal. There should have been at least a few, and their absence told him that something dark and unnatural had happened here. Something that would make even flies avoid this town. None of the stories of the Madmare described anything like this. He withdrew from the house as quietly as he had entered, disturbing nothing. Then he continued to the next building, looking supplies more than clues, now. He’d seen enough to know he wanted no part of whatever had befallen Dust-Devil Valley. As he was looking into the house, Songbird was across the road examining her own chosen building, the one with the broken window. It didn't take her long to decide that this place wasn’t a house. It was built with more solidity than the other structures. The walls were thicker, and the windows along the back of the building were barred. A sheriff's jail, she decided. In the Heartland, such jails were larger places, since they often had to serve as barracks for the town guard as well. For a town as small and open as this, she wondered why they bothered. Then again, in the North every town would need somewhere to put those who succumbed to the Madmare’s influence. She walked up to the front door, sniffing at the air. There was the scent of decay and the sharp, unpleasant odor of offal. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she pushed at the door. It opened easily, but she nearly gagged on the stench that rolled out. Taking shallow breaths through her mouth, she went inside. Hoping to be done quickly, she took a quick glance around the room. There was a desk with a few papers on it where the sheriff would have sat. The window beside the desk was the one that was cracked. The blood on that window was more visible inside, a splash and a short smear down to the windowsill. More blood had dried on the back of the desk chair, staining already dark wood an ugly hue. She looked away from the messy scene and took in the rest of the room. It was an open space, divided in two by a long row of iron bars. The space beyond the bars was further sectioned into three cells. The middle of which, upon closer inspection, was occupied. The pony in the cell was curled against the wall as if asleep. Heavy chains led from iron rings in the floor to manacles around each of his legs. He was lying in his own filth, the source of the disgusting smell. He was so dirty that the original color of his coat was impossible to tell, though his ragged mane and tail still showed some of its natural vibrant orange. He was gaunt, almost skeletal, but his sides moved with his breath and as she approached the one eye facing her opened and trained on her. The look he gave her with his green eye, fever-bright and full of unholy intensity, only confirmed her suspicions. This was one taken by the Madmare. A cursed prophet of the North. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a long, ragged croak came out. His gaze shifted to the waterskin that hung opposite her satchel. He shifted slightly to point a hoof at it, barely able to get his leg off the ground for more than a second. “You want this?” she asked. He nodded slowly. “Do you promise to play nice?” He nodded again, though she didn’t expect anything less. Still, she looked around until she found where the keys to the cells were hanging on the wall. She reached out with mint-green magic and plucked a likely key from its hook, then brought it to the door and slowly turned the lock without taking her eyes off the pony in the cage. The door opened with a metal squeal that cut through the silence of the dead town. She winced at the sound, but the pony in the cage didn’t so much as flinch. With an annoyed frown she levitated her waterskin over to him. He opened his mouth, though he carefully kept the right half of his face turned away from her, and eagerly swallowed as she began to dribble the lukewarm water down his throat. She took her time, knowing that going too fast risked him throwing up, which would only make the smell in there worse. Finally, he signalled that he’d had enough, and she brought the skin back to her side. “You,” he said, his voice still sounding like gravel. “You came from the south. Through the Granite Playground.” “I did,” she said. “What of it?” “She sees all stone,” the pony mumbled. “She felt your hooves. You–” he descended into a fit of coughing. She waited for him to continue. “You must leave. Run! Back to the soft Heartland or the comfort of the Tyrant’s rule. Far from here. Far from the stone and the party unending.” “So you’re not fully her creature, after all,” she mused, thinking on his warning. “No. Not completely. I am… I was a merchant.” As he spoke his pupil suddenly dilated so wide she was worried he was having a stroke. “Bright and brave, with rubber shoes and rubber wheels to hide me from the stone. Bouncer, they called me. Bouncer Bold, to travel from town to town through the paths of the North. Years and years I roamed, and one mistake was all it took.” His breath hitched, and she thought that if he could have cried he would have. “A stumble, a trip. A brush of stone and there she was.” He stopped, staring into the far distance, mouth working silently. “The Madmare?” she prompted. “Beautiful as blood and happier than hatred should be. She knew my name. She knew my name! She knew my name!” He let out a low, mournful wail that hitched higher and higher until he was shaking with laughter. “She made me a seat to sit in as she flayed my soul from my body and cooked it for my dinner!” The words came between wracking guffaws, and he rolled onto his back to kick his legs feebly in the air. This only revealed the ruin that had become the other side of his face. She recoiled from it, feeling her gorge rise at the naked bone and tangled muscle. “You! She’ll do it to you, too! She’s got the chair prepared, oh yes! A place for everypony at her party!” His mad laughter drifted away, and she could see a measure of sanity return in his remaining eye. “How long?” she asked. “How long did she… have you?” “Hours?” he replied with a weak shrug. “Days? There is no time under the stone. Enough to make me this.” He gestured at himself, and the destroyed right half of his face. “Bouncer Bold no more. Bouncing Mad, perhaps.” “You escaped?” He nodded, shivering. “She… there is something that resists her rule. A power in the North that she hasn’t been able to crush. It… something happened and she had to go fight it. I was left alone. I ran and ran, but I can’t ever get away.” He sobbed again. “She’s in me now. Forever. Forever.” His voice weakened to a whisper as he continued in a high-pitched sing-song. “Friends together now and forever, I’m never going to let you go. Friends to dance with and to prance with, the party never ends you know.” “Hey, 'Bird,” the Blademaster said, startling her. She turned to find him leaning against the doorframe, silhouetted against the light from outside. “I’ve checked the other houses. Not a soul left but this poor bastard.” His accent was an exaggerated version of the classic Trottingham dialect. She knew that it was more affectation than truth, but it rolled off his tongue with such insouciant ease that it sounded perfectly natural on him. He stepped into the room and leaned into Bouncer’s cell. “Ouch. Have an accident with a cheese grater there, mate?” Bouncer responded with a grin so wide it looked painful. “Did you get the supplies?” she asked him. “Most of what we need,” he said with a curt nod. “Ready to go and now free of charge. You get out of him what happened yet?” “Not yet,” she said. She turned to Bouncer with an expectant look. “I don’t know,” he said to the silent question. “The sheriff, he was here. Maybe she got him. Maybe… I see her everywhere now. I don’t know. I don’t know.” “You’re certainly a useful sort,” the stallion said with a cocky smile. “Pip,” she warned. He gave her a hurt look. “I told you, love, call me ‘Blademaster’.” She sighed, but relented. “Blade, then. Don’t insult him. He’s trying.” “It was dark,” Bouncer said. “I saw… I saw a shadow move like a pony, but with no-one to cast it.“ He shook his head. “It could have been her. I don’t know.” “That’s okay, Bouncer,” she said, giving him as comforting a smile as she could manage amidst the smell and the way her nerves were on edge. “If the Madmare’s distracted, you could still make it out of the North. I can’t help you get there, but I can let you out of here.” She brandished the key, but he shied back from it, shaking his head. “No. no-no-no. Hooves on stone. She’d see, she’d know. And… and she knows my name. If she calls… I can’t not go to her. Locked up, I’m safe. I’m safe.” “You’ll die,” she told him. He shook his head. “Dying here is better than dying there. I can’t… I don’t want to go back to the party.” She paused, looking to her companion for advice. He shrugged, his smile faded and his expression hard. “The bloke don’t want to go, he don’t want to go. But we should, and soon.” She hissed in anger at the choice forced on her, but nodded. “I’ll be right out,” she told him, and he tipped his hat at Bouncer before stalking out of the room. She turned to the prisoner, who watched her with his one, mad eye. “I’m sorry. I wish I could do more for you, but I can’t.” She turned to go. “She’s touched you too,” he said. She paused, looking over her shoulder at him. “I can feel it. Like a mark on your heart. Every beat a cry of pain. She knows your name.” “That’s alright,” she said, replacing the key on its hook and giving him a sad smile. “I know hers, too.” *** They left Dust-Devil Valley behind with their bags full of food and their minds full of worries. They had been lucky thus far, and they both knew it. The Granite Playground was often where travellers got their first, and usually last, taste of the Madmare. Even when they made it through without meeting the ruler of the North, they spoke of pathways that shifted like sand in the wind, and entire labyrinths appearing and disappearing in moments. No one knew when or where the Madmare would strike within it, and many who braved the journey never returned. It was one of the reasons they had rushed, moving day and night with only a few short breaks to rest or eat. Nothing had happened, though. It had been a hard hike, with no discernible road or path, but hardly the confusing maze of terror that had been described to them. For now they took their good luck and ran with it, though Bouncer’s words about a new power in the North worried at the back of Songbird’s mind. They walked along the rough path for miles before stopping to consult the map they had bought at great expense before making their journey. The traveller they had spoken to had given them a good overview of where they would need to go, and Dust-Devil Valley had been an absolute must for rest, supplies and aid in getting to their next destination. The supplies they had, but there was no way either of them was going to spend the night in the dead town, and any aid the villagers could have provided had vanished along with them. They had to think about their next move. “We should stick to the paths,” she said, frowning as Blade shook his head. “That’s just asking for trouble,” he said. “Whatever took the ponies back there, it might be attacking towns. We’d be walking right into it, or at least be easy pickings on the road. Look, we’ve got enough supplies on us, let’s cut through the forest.” He poked at the area on the map that showed a large green blotch. It was, indeed, a much shorter route than taking the meandering paths would be. “The Forest of Lost Voices,” she read. “That does not sound like a fun trot through the woods.” “No, it sounds exciting,” he said with a saucy smile. “Makes me want to find out why it’s called that.” “It’s too dangerous.” “And your plan isn’t?” He gestured back towards the distant town. “Face it, love, we left ‘safe’ behind in Trottingham.” She frowned and stared at the map. The worst part of it all was that he was right. “There’s probably animals in there,” she said. “Hungry ones. And unlike the Heartland, pony is definitely on the menu.” “That’s why you’ve got me along, love,” he said, tapping a sword. “Monster hunter extraordinaire, remember?” She sighed, folding the map back up and tucking it away. “Fine. We’ll take your shortcut. But if you get us lost, oh mighty Blademaster, so help me I will never let you live it down. I will put it into a song and make sure everypony from here to the the Grove of Truth hears it.” “Fair trade, love,” he said, grinning. “So long as they all know who I am.” She snorted and started off the road. He let out a triumphant laugh, and rushed to join her. Together they walked towards the dark forest that stretched out north of them. *** The forest was still many miles away, and the storm had rolled in fast. The field they’d stopped in had a few small copses of trees on hills that were little more than lumps on the ground, and it was there that they had decided to make their camp. The Blademaster worked furiously on a lean-to while Songbird cooked as much food as she could before they lost their chance. Thunder cracked overhead, making them pause in their duties. Clouds roiled in the sky and the smell of rain was heavy in the air. The small fire they’d laid wouldn’t survive the downpour. “Looks like we’re in for a wet night,” Blade said as he wove more hastily-cut branches into their shelter. Songbird didn’t reply immediately, thinking on how quickly the temperature was dropping. Her breath was beginning to mist, and she could practically feel the cold misery already settling into her bones. She reached for her satchel, putting her hoof in and feeling the static tingle of electricity as she found what she was looking for. She froze, thinking hard about what she was considering doing. “What’s on your mind, love?” he asked as he saw her pensive expression. “I’ve got something that will help,” she said. “But it will probably draw attention.” He looked at the oncoming storm and then back to her. “Well then, what do you want less? Some unsavory-type taking a look in our direction, or being soaking wet and miserable?” “Considering who that unsavory-type might be?” she asked, then reluctantly took her hoof out of the bag. “No.” He gave a sage nod. “You’re right. Best not. Come on, if we sacrifice a blanket for the roof, I can get this thing done before we needn’t bother.” “Which means we’d only have one blanket to keep warm with,” she said, giving him a nonplussed look. He just grinned back at her. “Didn’t say there weren’t perks.” He held one hoof to his chest. “I’ll be the perfect gentlecolt. On my honor.” She sighed, but nodded. He pulled out his own blanket and threw it over the roof of the lean-to, securing it against the wind. Soon the rain started coming down hard. She packed up the cookpot and shoved all her bags to the back of the lean-to before crowding under its roof with the Blademaster. They shared some of the food she had prepared, watching as the rain turned their little hill into an island and the lightning danced across the sky. After they had eaten, she pulled out her blanket and draped it over both of them, and they huddled together under its dubious warmth. She shivered, and he wrapped his forelegs around her. His earth pony constitution fought the chill, and she soon stilled as his heat soothed her. True to his word, he didn’t try anything, just held her as the storm went on. Eventually, the lightning passed and all that was left was the soft rain falling on the drowned field. She pulled away from him then and dragged her bag close. She shuffled through the contents, feeling her instruments, the tools of her trade. She didn't take them out, though, feeling around for the item she had touched earlier. When she felt that electric snap again she pulled out something that wasn’t part of her show: a long blue feather. “What’s that, then?” Blade asked, his voice a murmur in her ear. “Something I got just before I met you,” she replied, chuckling. The feather was bright even in the darkness, practically glowing with the power it held. “I nearly died for it. It’s powerful, I could use it to turn this storm to clear skies if I wanted to. If I was willing to let everyone in the North know what I was doing and where I was.” “There’s a tale there,” he said. “Care to share it, love?” She looked at the blue feather for a long time, turning it this way and that, feeling how the air crackled with electric life as it moved. It was a dangerous thing to have. Dangerous to talk about, even. Yet no more dangerous than simply being where she was. So, as the distant thunder rumbled and the rain poured down through the cold night, she told him a story.