//------------------------------// // Chapter 15 // Story: The Rise and Fall of the Dark Lord Sassaflash // by Dromicosuchus //------------------------------// Feeble sunbeams stretched through the dusty air, slipping through thin crevices in the shuttered windows and past weighty stacks of books and papers. Here and there they fell upon this or that object, bringing a sliver of it into lighted existence: a gleaming slice of a shuttered glass cabinet, the spine of an ancient grimoire, a long, narrow fragment of a worn hardwood floor. All else was invisible. Something stirred the space of the room. The sunbeams twitched, angling away from where they had fallen and sliding over paper and bindings and close-written blackletter leaves. Dust swirled across the floor and pages fluttered in a sudden draught. Then, with an anticlimactic little crack of displaced air, the breeze stilled and the light unskewed as a disheveled pegasus popped into existence, stumbling forward out of nothing on to the wooden floorboards. Sassaflash stood still for a moment, panting, with her legs trembling and braced against the floor. She had the peculiar impression that she had just been turned inside out, meticulously disassembled, and then pieced together again, and she wasn’t entirely sure that everything had been put back in the right place. The pegasus took an unsteady step forward, then drew a deep breath and willed the tensed muscles in her neck to relax. It had worked. Nothing had gone wrong. She raised her head. “Mr. Mule?” Her voice came out as almost a whisper, vanishing into the soft darkness of the book-filled chamber. She cleared her throat, and more loudly, repeated, “Mr. Mule! Where are you?” “Over here.” The words were oddly strained. There was a faint rustle of attempted movement, and then a sharp, shuddering gasp. “I can’t—it hurts to breathe…” A crawling chill flashed through Sassaflash‘s skin, her breath catching in her mouth. No. “Mr. Mule! Just a moment, I am coming. Just a moment.” Cthugha take this darkness! Letting her bulging saddlebag slip to the floor with a careless shrug of her shoulders, she scrambled over to where she knew her little scroll-encumbered writing desk was, knocking several stacks of books to the floor in the process, and fumbled for the switch of the glass cathode light on the desk, hooves shaking. Nothing. She muttered a curse, unhooked the bulky, long-since-depleted homemade battery from its holster, and grabbed one of the replacements and slotted it into place. With a click and a dull hum, a chalky, heatless light flooded the room. Finally. The Dark Lord whipped around, scanning the room. “Where are you?” “Here.” Sassaflash shoved aside a pile of treatises on Mǎ dynasty qilin alchemy and scrambled around a bookcase. There, lying half-shadowed on the wooden floor, was the Mule, his ribs rising in shallow, shaking motions with each breath and his legs sprawled out to the side. He tilted his head as the Dark Lord came into view, his skin a bloodless white under his dark fur, and murmured, “You got through fine, then. That’s good.” The Dark Lord swallowed, and the knot of horrified guilt building in her throat sank down into the pit of her stomach and sat there like a lump of lead. “This shouldn’t have happened...N’ghftngn’gha. What hurts?” “My right front leg. And right side. I can’t tell if they’s anything else that’s busted up.” “Right. Don’t—don’t move. I’ll—I have some acetylated willow bark extract, it’ll relieve the pain. Just don’t move.” She disappeared into the stacks of books, only to reappear almost instantly, a scowl on her face. Muttering something about stupidity, she put her shoulder to the bookcase standing between the Mule and the cathode lantern and pushed it out of the way, straining as her hooves scraped against the thick wooden boards of the floor. Pallid light washed feebly over the Mule, and Sassaflash trotted to his side. “I’m an idiot. Need to examine you first. Which foreleg was it? This one? Try to move it, if you please—slightly.” After several minutes of gentle prodding and questioning and a few hissed exclamations of pain from the Mule, Sassaflash rose to her hooves. “A broken radius, I think—and probably several broken ribs. Maybe damage to soft tissues, as well; the swelling from the broken bones makes it difficult to tell, and I have no idea how the teleportation defects affect flesh. A matter for future experimentation, I suppose. I’ll need to get some fresh corpses from Angel.” She paused, marshalling her thoughts, and then whirled around and vanished amongst the books again, muttering “Willow bark” repeatedly and leaving the Mule to struggle with the problem of coming up with an innocent interpretation of the phrase “I’ll need to get some fresh corpses from Angel.” There was a period of distant rattlings, clatterings, and the echoed hints of expletives in forbidden languages. These sounds were followed by a muffled exclamation, a dull thud as if something heavy had been dropped on the floor, and then an interval of almost-silence with, the Mule thought, the hint of whispered words in Aklo, and then a sound like some animal scratching or digging through loose soil. At length the Dark Lord reappeared, a tiny silver spoon and a dusty glass bottle filled with a dark liquid pinned between her wing and her flank. Kneeling by the Mule’s side, she balanced the spoon on one hoof and filled it halfway with the liquid. Turning to her wounded minion, she said, “Laudanum, not the willow bark extract. It’s a much stronger analgesic, and in any case the willow bark extract is a blood thinner, which might well have been harmful, given that we don’t know the extent of your internal injuries.” She tipped the spoon to the Mule’s mouth, and the old creature swallowed the tincture with a shiver and a horrible grimace. At his reaction, Sassaflash murmured, “I, ah, should probably have mentioned that it’s very bitter.” “That’s—that’s alright. It don’t signify,” responded the Mule, staring vaguely ahead as he opened and closed his mouth several times, smacking his lips together as though trying to suck the taste off his palate. Drawing a shuddering, pained breath, he asked, “So, do you need to splint me up now?” “Yes. I mean, no.” Sassaflash shook her head. “I’m good at field medicine, but I can’t risk—you need to be cared for by professionals. I sent Crowded Parchment to get some paramedics, they should be here soon—Azathoth take it, I forgot to make certain that Parchment knows this address. He doesn’t usually come by the streets.” She gave a small, nervous stamp of her hoof and continued muttering, more to herself than to the Mule, “Idiot! I should have thought of that. Perhaps Angel—no, he’s too far off, and Sweetie Belle is likely at her school at this hour. I could go myself, of course, just to make sure…” She eyed her minion, her face pinched with worry. The Mule managed a smile. “I’ll be fine by myself, if’n you reckon you should go. It don’t even hurt so bad, no more.” “Of course it doesn’t; you’ve just taken laudanum. It is, as I said, quite a potent analgesic.” “Oh. Right.” The Mule blinked, and then inquired, “You mentioned a pony named Crowded Parchment…?” “Pony? He’s—ah, yes, you have not made his acquaintance.” Sassaflash made an apologetic little gesture with her forehoof, and said, “He prefers not to be known, and I honor his wishes. I’m afraid I cannot tell you any more concerning him.” She hesitated, eyeing the Mule speculatively, and then concluded, “He can, at least, be trusted to find his way to the hospital and back again, I think. He’s quite competent in his way. I will remain, then.” “Much obliged, I’m sure,” was the Mule’s equable response. The next half hour passed in a quiet haze of dulled pain for the Mule, and frustrated, tense activity for Sassaflash. Bookcases and books were shoved out of the way in order to make a clear path between the Mule and the door, cloths were draped over some of the more disturbing tomes lying within view, the lock on the iron-barred cabinet holding several peculiarly dangerous works was triple-checked, and various incriminating or unnerving objects were quietly tucked away into corners where, the Dark Lord hoped, they would be unlikely to attract attention. She was contemplating the giant squid eyeball floating placidly in a jug of formaldehyde on top of a stack of texts she had stolen from a Nightmare Moon cult five years earlier, and trying to remember whether that was the kind of thing that normal ponies found concerning, when she heard the sound of hooves against cobbles outside and, shortly thereafter, a knock upon the door. Finally. With one last glance around the room to make sure that she hadn’t left anything too obviously necromantic out in the open, the pegasus trotted over to the door, slid the numerous bolts and latches holding it shut, and cracked it open, peering suspiciously out. Old habits died hard. Three ponies stood before Sassaflash‘s cottage. Two stood a bit away from the looming house, dressed in hospital uniforms and accompanied by a wheeled stretcher, while the third waited on the steps in front of the door. This last, a stunted, hunched figure draped in a rough cloak that hid his face from sight, gave a short nod of greeting at Sassaflash‘s appearance and asked, in a throaty voice like the whine of a hungry dog, “Is there aught of thy art in sight? Belike, those yonder would be frighted by the uncanny craft.” The Dark Lord let out a breath that she hadn’t realized she had been holding. “Thank goodness! Come in, hurry; all of you. He’s over here. I’ve given him ten minims of laudanum for the pain. Yes, yes, Parchment, it’s fine. I’ve cleaned things up. Come in!” Opening the door wide, she gestured for the three visitors to come inside, surreptitiously motioning Crowded Parchment over to one side to stand in front of the skull of a thing that was not quite a pony and not quite a fish. The hospital orderlies, a pair of unicorns, shot a nervous look at their guide as they passed under the lintel, and gave him as wide a berth as possible as they maneuvered the stretcher through the cramped open space Sassaflash had cleared within her bookish lair. Evidently he had made something of an impression on them during the journey over. They made no comment, though, and beyond a few wide-eyed, disturbed stares when the stretcher accidentally knocked the shrouding cloth partially off a wire cage and a slender, glistening tentacle emerged from between the bars to pull the cloth back into place, they seemed mostly focused on getting the Mule safely on to the stretcher and out of Sassaflash‘s home as soon as possible. He was levitated up without any problems, and after somewhat blearily reassuring his employer that he would make certain that the hospital staff knew to admit her for visits, he was trundled out the door and down the street. The Dark Lord remained for some moments on the stairs in front of her home, watching them go, and then with a small sigh she turned and went back inside, locking and bolting the door behind her. “Thank you, Parchment. Thank you so much. I couldn’t have borne—I do not wish for him to be damaged.” A shadow detached itself from the shadows, and the cloaked figure of Crowded Parchment glided forward with a faint clack of hooves against the hardwood floor. Sassaflash gave a small nod, and in answer to the unasked question, said, “Yes, they’re gone. It’s safe.” There was a rustle of fabric among the stacks of books as Crowded Parchment doffed his cloak, and then the Dark Lord’s associate stepped forward into the light. His body was gray and hairless, his naked skin lined with rubbery creases, while his hooves had split open into heavy splayed claws. He raised an earless half-equine and half-canine head, his eyes sunk deep into the sockets of his skull, and grinned a grin that was far wider than should have been possible. “I wit not why thou sent for the leeches. I could have dealt with him in my own way.” Huge, strong carnassials, built for crushing bone and shearing meat, gleamed dully in his mouth. Sassaflash frowned. “I don’t abandon my own, ghoul.” “Aye, aye. ‘Twas but a jest. Fresh meat is not to my liking, in any case.” The ghoul gave another cadaverous grin, and then shuffled over to the Dark Lord’s side, hoof-claws scraping on the floor. “Wilt thou spring thy trap this e’en, or on the morrow? How much time have I to dig my shelter?” “As I’ve said, a shelter shouldn’t be necessary. I don’t anticipate the Princesses allowing the battle to range widely. Regardless, the point is moot; it will be some weeks, at least, before I’m able to open the conduits to the Canterhorn basin.” Trotting over to her saddlebag, lying on the floor where she had dropped it in her worry for the Mule, the Dark Lord slung it on to her back and picked her way over and around several bookcases to the stairs leading up to the house’s second story. “Weeks?” Crowded Parchment followed her up the creaking stairs, squinting in the light as she swung the door at the top open to reveal a glass-roofed room, its humid air rich with the spice of strange flowers and herbs and the scent of black, fertile soil. He tilted back on to his haunches, claws crossed across his belly, as Sassaflash laid her saddlebag on the floor and began to extract several bundles of fresh worrywort cuttings from within. “Is thy work still undone, then? I had thought…” “No, no.” The Dark Lord laid down the sachet of powder she had been pouring into several small jars of water, and shook her head. “All is in readiness. But, well...Mr. Mule felt that I was being hasty, and we came to an agreement of sorts. He is to attempt to determine Celestia’s motives for her actions, and based on that, I will...consider whether it is wise to move forward. And,” she added, throwing a stern glance at the creature at her side, “I do not wish to hear any wise remarks from you on that subject.” “From me? Why would I have aught to say? It matters not to me who made thee see sense, so long as thou hast seen it. I am content.” “Yes. Well.” Sassaflash placed the last of the cuttings in the nutrient solutions she had prepared, and headed for the stairs. “I confess I had hoped, when I had consented to his plan, that I would only be facing a delay of a day or two. Several weeks, or months, or however long it will take for him to be well enough to travel to Canterlot, was a bit more than I had expected.” “Aye, ‘twas hardly considerate of him to break his leg. Very selfish, to be sure.” “You know I didn’t mean it like that.” Trotting down the warped stairs and making her way to the front door, she called over her shoulder, “My thanks to you, incidentally, for tending to the garden in my absence; it would have been in an utterly impossible state without your care. Now, I have business to attend to with Sweetie Belle and Angel. There is a sealed funerary urn in my saddlebag; would you mind placing it with the rest of the essential salts in the second dungeon? Among the mages, I think—next to Pegacelsus would be appropriate.” “Aye,” said the ghoul. Sassaflash gave a curt nod of satisfaction, and then swept out the door, leaving her associate standing there in the pallid corpselight of the cathode lantern, a pensive expression on his hyena-like face. At length he murmured, “Such concern for this mule of hers...and all these ‘would ye mind’s and ‘thank ye’s! Thou’rt changed, necromancer. Thou’rt changed.” He gave a lopsided shrug, and shuffled over to the Dark Lord’s saddlebag, lying in the shadow of a stack of grimoires. ----- The shadows falling on Haybale Lane had grown long and deep when the stillness of the narrow side street was disturbed by a dark-clad pony, slinking past one crooked building after another. She came to a halt in front of number 108, and with with a series of metallic clicks and creaks undid the door’s multiple locks. She stepped into a chamber dark as the caverns beneath Voormithadreth; evidently Crowded Parchment had taken his leave. Letting her cloak slide to the dusty floor, Sassaflash felt her way around the books to the lantern. She turned it on, and for several seconds stared into the phosphorescent tube, her face a tired blank. Then a small frown flitted across her face, and raising a hoof she turned the light off again and headed for the spiraling wooden stairs leading down to the tunneled chambers beneath her home. The heavy padlocked door creaked open, carrying the faint but stinging odor of preservative chemicals, the fire of foreign herbs, and other less identifiable scents with it as it swung wide. Sassaflash closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Amber and formaldehyde, brimstone and rue, rosemary and rotting flesh (presumably Crowded Parchment had gotten at the chipmunks again)...The smells of home. The smells of her foalhood too, for that matter. Half-forgotten scenes swam through the darkness, their faded colors brightening and their smells, sounds, and sensations sharpening to new life, free at last to be recalled and revisited now that the stifling blanket of worrywort had been lifted. Whether it was the scent of the rosemary or the deceased chipmunk that brought the thought back, she couldn’t say, but she found herself suddenly remembering an early spring morning, when languid ropes of mist drifted among the dark and silent pines clustering in the gorge of the Hollow Shades. Her hooves had been moist with dew as she stumbled through the woods, following the slender grey figure of her mother, soft and shadowless in the twilight. The pegasus mare turned to look back at her daughter, a familiar half-smile on her aquiline face. The filly had been scurrying to her side when her nose had wrinkled at a subtle hint of decay. She had paused and looked around her. There. Hidden from scent and sight beneath a clump of wild rosemary lay the stiff body of a red squirrel, staring into nothingness with sightless eyes. As she watched, a black burying beetle, its elytra splashed with vivid cardinal patches, whirred down from out of the mist and landed beside the little corpse. She had found a body. She had found a body! This would be perfect for the revival of that ancient Kesmetian cat mummy. “Mama! Mama! Come see, Mama! I found a body! A real, live body!” “It doesn’t look very ‘live,’ my little ghoul,” smiled her mother, stepping over to her side. She had shaken her head in exasperation. “You know what I meant. Is it a good one, Mama?” The grey mare had knelt beside the little carcass and given it a cautious sniff, before bestowing a warm, proud smile on her daughter. “A very good one. We might even be able to use this without balancing the ratios. You’ve got a wonderful nose; I can hardly smell it at all!” Turning, she had withdrawn a thick cloth from an exterior pocket on her saddlebag, and with it held like an oven grip in her mouth, she scooped the prize up by one stiff leg and tossed it into her saddlebag. Tucking the cloth away again, she had continued, “Now, let’s keep looking. We need to find more than just raw materials, you know.” “I know, Mama.” She trotted after the graceful mare, excited and shivering in the pre-dawn chill. “Like hemlock! Can we get hemlock next? I know we don’t really need it, but I’ve been practicing how to harvest it right with Princess Platinum’s Lace, and I really want to try it on the real thing.” “We’ll see, little ghoul.” Sassaflash blinked in the darkness of her home, an unaccountable stinging sensation in her eyes. The memory itself wasn’t new; she’d always known that that had happened. But before it had been...grayed out. A series of emotionless events, a dull goodness buried in her mind alongside the dull pain of her mother’s death. Now, though, it was—now was different. The mare stumbled forward, edging down the steps to the stone flags of the dungeon in uncertain fits and starts. It had just been pain when she had first run out of worrywort, pure, senseless, mindless pain—but now the reasons for the pain were unfolding one by one in her mind, burning like orchids and birds of paradise among the leaves of a southern jungle. It hurt her, yes—but it was a sweet, melodious pain. Holding her hoof beneath a sconce driven into the wall, the Dark Lord muttered, “fm’latgh,” and a burst of fire erupted upwards into the scorched chunks of wood resting in the iron brazier, setting them alight. Warm, flickering light rushed out into the room, swatting back the shadows and revealing a small stone chamber, tidy except for the layer of dust and cobwebs that had accumulated in the months of her absence. The writing desk and washbasin, the simple brown Nippony bed roll in a corner, and of course the small stack of books beside it—a dog-eared copy of the Hieron Kesmaion, the Book of the Climbing Lights, and the Liber Ivanner, among others. Nothing too heavy, just bedside reading—were all where she had left them. Even the little teacup perched atop the books was still there, crusted with dried worrywort dregs. The Dark Lord stared at the teacup, its rim stained with forgetfulness. She started to turn, as if to make her way back to the stairs coiling up to the library and the adjacent kitchen, but hesitated. Then, moving with the slow uncertainty of a waking dreamer, she turned away from the door. The scent of rosemary and carrion drifted on the air.